“I don’t look at results. Poker is about decisions. And I am happy with the decisions I made this year.”
— Greg Raymer, to ESPN shortly after busting out of the 2005 WSOP
I wanted Raymer to win it all, not only because it would be such an incredible achievement, but because he is such a kind person, and such a perfect ambassador for the game. It should be cold comfort to all poker players that on the hand which crippled him, Greg got his money in over an 80% favorite. That, as they say, is poker. Congratulations to Austraila’s Joe Hachem, who has some very big shoes to fill, if he chooses to put them on.
On Friday, Anne and I had the following exchange:
Anne: “Nolan’s friend is in the little league all-star tournament, and Nolan’s going to watch him tonight.”
Me: “Uh-huh.”
Anne: “Depending on what happens in tonight’s game, his friend’s team may be playing tomorrow —”
Me: “Is it a round robin, or something?”
Anne: “It’s not like a poker tournament, where you get eliminated on the first day and then you’re out.”
Me: *silence*
Anne: “Oh, wait. I mean, not you, like you, Wil, my husband . . .”
Me: ” . . . who can’t make it past the first day of a tournament . . . ”
Anne: “No! That’s not what I mean. I just meant that it’s not single-elimination, and . . . poker . . . baseball . . . one . . . tournament . . .”
At this point I started laughing so hard I had to stop and compose myself.
Me: “I know what you mean. That was awesome.”
Anne: “This is going on your blog, isn’t it?”
Me: “Yes. Yes it is.”
On Sunday, I finished 22nd in the charity tourney, when I made a move that unfortunately involved bluffing into the nuts. Oops. It was a lot of fun, though, and the players who signed up contributed almost $3000 in Charlie Tuttle’s memory, which is what the whole thing was about, anyway. Thanks to everyone who came out and participated. I’ll put together some other charity tourneys in the future.
Moving on . . .
two hundred sixty-six hours earlier
On my way out of the Rio parking lot, I called my mother to update her on my status.
Or, more accurately, I called my mommy, so she could make me feel better.
She picked up on the first ring. “Hey Willow! How’s the World Series?”
“I busted, mom.” I stopped to let a car with Utah plates pull in front of me. A little ceramic dog sanguinely bounced its head in the back window.
“Is that good?” She said.
I smiled to myself. “No, Mom. That’s bad. I got knocked out.”
“Oh no! What happened?”
My mom doesn’t play or watch Texas Hold’Em, so I translated as best as I could: “I played my best, but it wasn’t good enough to make it very far,” I said. The car in front of me stopped short, and the little dog’s head bounced like he was at a Metallica concert.
“Well, as long as you did your best,” she said, “ever since you were little, we’ve always told you to just be the best you that you can be. So if you did your best, I’m proud of you.”
“This is exactly why I called you, mom.” I thought.
“Thanks, Mom.” I said.
“So are you coming home, or staying there to write another book?”
“I was going to come home, but PokerStars is buying me into a tournament at the Palms that starts at 7:30, so maybe I can redeem myself there.” I turned right onto Flamingo, and noted how far The Palms actually was from The Rio. I was glad I didn’t try to walk it.
“Well, see?” She said, “they believe in you, so you should believe in you, too.”
“You’re right, Mom. I will.”
“Call me if you win, okay?” She said.
“If I win, it will be the middle of the night,” I said.
“Oh. Then call us tomorrow,” she said.
I laughed. “Okay, I will.” I turned left, and drive into the parking garage at The Palms.
“Your dad just walked in. He says he loves you.” She said.
“Tell him I love him too, and I love you.” I pulled into a parking spot and turned off my car. “I have to go register for the tournament.”
“Good luck,” she said.
“Thanks, Mom,” I said. “Bye.”
I pulled my keys out of the ignition, and headed into the casino.
I’d never been to the Palms before, so I didn’t know what to expect. I understand that it’s where all the hot young celebrites and wanna-bes hang out, but they were outnumbered 1:0 by typical Vegas tourists. I imagine that it’s different on the weekends.
I walked through the casino, which reminded me of The Hard Rock, but with higher ceilings, past a huge bar, which reminded me of a lost weekend in the late 90s, but without the empty promises to whatever deity happened to be listening at the time, and made my way to the poker room. It was much smaller than I expected, with just four tables, and I wondered how they were going to fit a tournament in it. A middle-aged man stood behind a podium and looked at a list.
“Doug K, 20-40 Hold’em,” he said into a microphone. “Doug K, 20-40 Hold’Em.”
“Is this where I sign up for the 7pm tournament?” I said.
Without looking up, he pointed to his right. “Two rooms down. Doug K, 20-40 Hold’Em. Last call for Doug K.”
“Thanks,” I said, and walked out of what I realized was the high-stakes room.
“Someday,” I thought to myself. “Someday . . .”
A few moments later I walked out of the cacophony of the casino and into the familiar quiet of the tournament room, which was a smaller version of the tournament area at the Rio: an impossibly high ceiling, about five or six hundred people scattered around fifty or sixty tables, the soothing click-click-click-click-click of shuffling poker chips, and a quiet reverence that just doesn’t exist anywhere else in the casino.
I was early, so I looked at a bulletin board with the results from previous tournaments. The average field was just over one hundred people, and the average first place finisher was taking home between ten and twenty thousand dollars.
I’ll get into the details if I ever put this into a book, but I played my guts out. This time the cards fell my way a bit more than they had at the Rio, there was no Paul Darden to trap me with a set of jacks, and just after one in the morning, I finished 22nd out of over 300 entries. I took down a huge pot with AJ, doubled up with KK vs. 99, flopped the nut flush and got action all the way from a pair of tens, and even pushed around a couple of players who I correctly pegged as tight/weak. In other words, I played the way I thought I would play at the World Series, and for the first time in my life, I actually cashed out a tournament win at a real casino cage — I took home $430 (which would have been just my buy-in and rebuy, but because I was put into the tournament by PokerStars, it was a 100% win for me. Awesome 🙂
When I got back to the Mirage, it was almost three in the morning, and even though my day had been an emotional and financial roller coaster, I was too wound up to sleep. I finally fell asleep shortly before dawn.
When I rolled out of bed at the crack of noon, I threw on a PokerStars cap and my bathing suit, covered myself with two pounds of SPF 9000 sunscreen, and traded the cool, smoke-filled casino air and gaming tables for hot, dry desert air and sunshine. I spent the afternoon on a lounge chair, listening to podcasts and trying to drown my World Series sorrows with Anchor Steams . . .
to be concluded . . .
