“Q: I understand Wil Wheaton is going to play the main event at the World Series this year. You know, from Star Trek: The Next Generation.
A: (Laughs) I hope he’s at my table.”
— Thomas “Thunder” Keller, to the Arizona Republic

Translation: “That Hollywood Donkey is dead money, and I want to take it all from him.” Contrary to what you may think, this is exactly what I want people to think about me. I want them to underestimate me, because it usually allows me to get an extra bet or two out of them before they realize that I actually know what I’m doing, and they pick on some other Donkey. But it’s also why I wanted to play well in the World Series. I want to kill Prove To Everyone That I Deserve To Be On Team PokerStars before he gets a chance to hatch. And believe me, that egg is in the nest.
I don’t know why, but whenever I come to Las Vegas, I can’t get to sleep before 2:30 or 3:00 in the morning. Even when I get back to my room before midnight, I somehow end up watching TV, or reading TotalFark, or standing at the window taking time-lapse photos of the cars streaming across Flamingo and Interstate 15. As a result, I end up on “Vegas Time,” and it’s rare for me to get out of bed before 10, which is much later than my usual 7.
I made myself get up at 10:45 today, so I could work on Games of Our Lives before I start playing again tomorrow. I called room service, found out it was between 90 minutes and two hours, and decided to head down to the cafe instead. It was a good call: I ended up eating about 30 minutes later.
Again, I spent much of the day around the pool. I thought about taking a book with me, but I needed to spend some time doing something a bit more passive than reading, so I just took my iPod, grabbed a beer and a bottle of water, tuned into Red Bar Radio, and did what the damn kids today call “kicking it.”
The pool area was as crowded as you’d expect it to be on a Saturday in July when it’s 650 degrees outside, so I grabbed the first lounge I found, which was on on the edge of a long row, next to a heavily-trafficked walkway. I laid out my towel, kicked off my flip flops, exposed my body-by-guinness, tuned-in and tuned-out. I guess I was there for about forty minutes or so when I noticed that just about every guy who walked up the walkway was seriously checking me out. I mean, totally staring right at me. It was awfully weird, and I wondered if I had something on my face, so I sat up and turned around to wipe my face off with my towel . . . and saw that the guys weren’t looking at me, they were looking at the be-thonged Keyra-esque ass on the lounge behind me. Nice.
Anyway, as Pauly says, “Moving on . . . ”
twenty-seven hours earlier
I picked up my checks, notebook, and monkey. I shook hands with the remaining players at my table, wished Avy luck, and headed out toward table 148. I pushed my way through a throng of railbirds who were watching Chris Ferguson (who had just doubled up with Aces against K-4. Must be nice.)
I found my table, set my chips on the felt in front of me, and sat into the Big Blind. Awesome.
While the cards came out, I looked around the table: no recognizable pros. That’s good. Every single stack is well over 10,000. That’s bad. Everyone at the table just painted a huge target on me. That’s really bad.
The first hand was raised in early position, and was folded to the cutoff who re-raised. Throwing away my Q-3o was a no-brainer.
I got rags for several orbits, but had to laugh when I put out my last chip — a lavender 5000 — for my ante when the Big Blind came around again. Everyone at the table could see blood in the water, and it was mine.
Finally, down to about 3200, I found a hand just before the blinds went up, and antes were added. I was on the button, in an unopened pot. I cupped my hands over my cards, and lifted up the corners. The first card was the Ace of Spades. “That’s a good start.” I slid my thumb up, and let it fall to the felt. It revealed the Jack of Spades. Not the best hand in the world, but certainly worth a raise in this situation. “Thank you, Poker gods!”
“I raise,” I said, expecting to win it right there, but prepared to come over the top if the Big Blind played back at me. I put out 600, leaving myself with 2600. Looking back on it now, I think I was prepared to go all the way with this hand, even if I wasn’t entirely aware of it at the time.
The Small Blind folded. The Big Blind said, “I put you all-in.” The clock chimed. This would be the last hand of the level.
So it was decision time again. “Do I want to put my tournament at stake with what is a coinflip at best? If I fold, will I be able to do anything with 2600 against stacks that are three and four times mine? If I fold, I will only have enough for two orbits before my only play is all-in, anyway. Oh, and the BB could be on a bluff, and this could double me up if I win. I really need to double up now, and this may be the best hand I get. I wonder if Paul Darden is ever going to call me?”
“I call,” I said, and turned up my cards. The Big Blind turned over two red sevens.
“Hi, Poker gods? It’s me, Wil. Listen, my ass is still kind of sore from table 93, so I’d like to ask you to please not give me any more miracles today, okay? Maybe I could just catch something on the flop? Thanks.”
The dealer pulled my checks into the pot, lifted a card off the top of the deck, and slid it under them. He pulled three cards into his right hand, and flipped them over: the nine of diamonds, the four of spades, and the seven of clubs.
“Fuck.” I said, certain that a ten minute penalty was the least of my concerns.
The turn was a red queen, and I didn’t even look at the river.
I know that I shook the Big Blind’s hand, but I can’t remember a single thing about him. I think he had a mustache. Oh, and all my remaining chips.
The next thing I remember, I was leaving a message on Anne’s Cell phone: “Hey, it’s me. I’m out. I’m coming home. Call me when you get this. I love you.”
to be continued . . .

I’m still in Vegas, probably until Tuesday or Wednesday. Even though I’m out of the Main Event, I’m playing in a different tournament on Sunday, and at least one more WSOP event on Monday. I went downtown tonight for a late dinner at Four Queens with several of my friends from PokerStars (I’m without wife and kids in Vegas, if I didn’t make that clear before).
As I often do, I told my cabbie that if he got me there quickly, I’d make it worth his while . . . and seven terrifying minutes later, he dropped me off at Freemont Street. I had about 15 minutes before we were set to meet, so I went into Binion’s to walk through the poker room, and maybe soak up some history. I paused at the wall of champions, and kept my mouth shut when two frat guys came up behind me, and one declared that he could “beat the shit out of” every player on that wall, because he was so good online. “Yeah, you do that,” I thought. I wondered if I’ll see them at the pool tomorrow.
I walked around the satellite area, toyed with the idea of signing up for the 2am tournament, came to my senses, and turned around to go to dinner. On my way out of the casino, I saw a man and a woman in a lounge. A half-empty bottle of wine sat on the table between them. A common scene in any hotel, except . . . he was an Elvis impersonator, dressed in the jumpsuit. She was a bleached-blonde in a spaghetti string top that was having a hard time containing her rather large breasts. Her hair was teased up almost a full twelve inches above her head. They smoked cigarettes while they drank their wine. They were both in their late fifties, and she was in a motorized wheelchair. I am not making this up.
I made a pistol with the thumb and forefinger on my right hand, and shot them a wink as I passed. They smiled and raised their glasses.
It could have been my imagination, but I’m pretty sure I heard the man say, “Thank you. Thankyouverymuch” as I walked out of the casino, and into the sweltering July night.
Only in Vegas, baby. Only in Vegas.

Sorry, kid. You’re just not ready for me yet.”
-The Cincinnati Kid
Half of the pool area is populated by beautiful twenty-something girls in tiny bikinis that make me wonder why they bothered to put anything on in the first place.The other half is populated with middle-aged men and their unfortunate wives who may as well be wearing housecoats. Throw in a few frat guys unsuccessfully trying to put the moves on the aforementioned beauties, and it makes for great people watching.
When I rolled out of bed at the crack of noon today, 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. I had about as much success as the frat guys.
fourteen hours earlier
My cards were hot as hell in the first two levels, but they didn’t help me build much of a stack. I got pocket kings twice, and they held up both times, but only won me very little pots. I peaked with 11000 near the end of level 2. I lost about 3000 of that when I made a couple of second-best hands against my new nemesis, Paul Darden, who had position on me and made me his bitch.
The hand that killed me came halfway through the third level, when I was in the Big Blind with pocket tens. One or two players limped, and Darden made it 600 to go. I think the gap concept says that I should probably fold there, but he’d been picking on my blinds since he sat down, so I defended with a re-raise of 1200. The limpers folded, and he called.
I begged the poker gods for baby cards, or a miracle flop, which was a mistake, because in pokergodspeak, “miracle” apparently means “Fuck Wil in the ass.” The flop came out A-K-x.
My heart sank. “Of course. The poker gods hate me today. Pocket nines see a flop of A-K-Q, so I have to fold to any bet. AQ sees a flop of K-x-x and loses to King-fucking-four, and AJ catches a Jack on the flop and loses to a set.”
I looked at the board for a minute, and thought this through. “If he called my re-raise, that flop must have hit him. Shit! Unless he’s bluffing, every hand he could have called with beats me. Even if he’s got Jacks, I’m dead. If he’s got a Queen, a straight beats me. Unless he’s on a total bluff, which can only be 20% or so, I’m probably drawing dead to two tens. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Forty-fucking-seven cards that can come off, and it’s got to be overs to my pair. Goddammit!”
I had 7100 in chips, and the pot was 3500. Darden had the big stack at the table with close to 17000, so if I was right about the flop hitting him at all, it’s not like I could even make him seriously think about folding with anything less than a pot-sized bet, which would commit me. I didn’t think this was the best time to take a chance and push, either.
I decided that I was done with this hand. I took my shot, and I missed. It’s time to minimize my losses and hope for better luck later on.
I looked at the dealer and tapped my hand on the felt. “Check,” I said.
Darden unexpectedly checked behind me, so I held my breath and I prayed for a lucky ten on the turn, which didn’t come.
I checked again, and Darden checked behind me a second time. For the first time in the hand, I wondered if he actually was on a bluff. He’s certainly capable of doing that, and I did not have an aggressive table image, so a big trap was also unlikely. I put the chances of him bluffing at about 20%.
The river was another brick.
“If I bet at this, can I push him out? Only if I move all-in, and I don’t think I can risk my tournament on this hand.”
I checked it again. This time, Darden bet 1100. Now there was 4600 in the pot, so I was getting just over 4:1 if I called. “This is the moment that separates the pros from the amateurs,” I thought. “Is he pulling a post-oak bluff? Do I make a great call, or a great laydown here?”
There was no way I was raising, so I needed to figure out if I could call. I did something I never do: I talked through the hand.
“This is going to be a huge laydown,” I said to nobody in particular. “If I call you and lose, I’m crippled. If I call and win, I’m in great shape.”
A floorman came over, and told the dealer that our table would break in ten minutes.
I drummed my fingers on the felt, and counted 1100 off my already-pathetic stack. It left me with one lavender and a few black chips. I picked up Darwin and chewed on his head. I sighed, sat back in my chair, interlocked my fingers around my neck, and looked up at the poker gods. “Why have you forsaken me!?” I thought, and smiled at the thought of those words coming out of Chris Ferguson.
I leaned around the back of Avy Freedman and said, “Did the flop help you, Paul? It would really make my decision easier if you could tell me that.”
The guy behind me, who had doubled up when he moved all-in on the second hand and rivered an unprobable boat over boat laughed, and a pro who I’ve seen on TV countless times but don’t know by name said, “You can’t ask him that. If you talk about the hand, your cards could be dead.”
“Dead like me?”
“Oh,” I said. “I didn’t know that.” I turned to the dealer, who had long ago finished counting off the cards remaining in the deck, and now sat with his hands folded in front of him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know that.”
“It’s okay, sir.” He said.
A guy in the 8 seat with about 14000 said. “Hey, are we going to get to play another hand before we break this table, or what?”
My back shot up. “Excuse me, sir,” I snapped, “but this is an incredibly important decision for me, and you’re not in this hand.”
His eyes widened and his pupils dialated. His cheeks flushed and he opened and closed his mouth two times. I don’t know why I remember those details, but I can see them as clearly as I can see two queens hit the flop at Bellagio. “Sorry,” he said. “Take your time.”
“Time? Oh shit. Someone’s going to call the clock on me. I have to just make a decision and go with it.”
I counted the pot again, to make sure I had it straight. “Okay, I’m going to hate myself either way, so I think I’ll take the 4:1 odds and the chance to get some of my chips back from you.”
I picked up 1100, and hoped they’d be coming back into my stack.
“I call you, Paul Darden.” I said.
He flipped over a red ace and a black ten. Disgusted, I mucked my worthless tens. The dealer pushed the pot to Paul Darden, who traded me for a pack of smokes and a case of beer to Humble Pie.
“Did you have queens?” Avy asked. “I put you on queens.”
I didn’t answer. I felt like I’d been kicked in the gut, which had been telling me I was beat from the fucking flop. Why do we work so hard to develop instincts, just to ignore them when they do their job? Instead, I asked him, “Did I at least make the right call?”
“You were getting the right odds to call,” he said. The other pro at the table agreed, and Avy added that there was a very good chance Darden was bluffing me. “In fact,” he said, “I was going to e-mail you later tonight that you should have called if you’d folded.”
The floorman dealt out table assignments, and dropped a stack of chip racks in front of me. “I’m pretty sure I can handle my three chips on my own,” I said.
“Don’t put them in your pocket, sir.” He said. He looked at my card and pointed across the room. “You are at table 148.” I hoped against hope that I wouldn’t be the short stack when I arrived.
I thanked him, and looked up to shake hands with Paul Darden, but he was on his way to his new table. He didn’t even leave a rose on my pillow when he left.
to be continued . . .

A couple of years ago, in the acknowledgements to Dancing Barefoot, I wrote

My wife, Anne, patiently supports everything I want to do, whether it’s writing a book or playing in the World Series of Poker

To be entirely honest, I never thought it would happen. I never thought I’d be good enough to earn my way in (via satellite, online qualifier, or as a member of Team PokerStars) and I wrote that mostly as an example of how my wife is awesome, and loves me no matter what. But my mom, who has told me that thoughts are things since I was a little kid, insists that I created this reality when I wrote that . . . so I wish I’d written something about winning the World Series instead!
Just kidding. Like I learned in Just A Geek, and just like Geocaching, to focus only on the goal and not enjoy the ride would be to waste The Journey. And this is going to be a hell of a ride.
I’ve spent the last two weeks doing everything I can to prepare for the WSOP. I’ve played countless tournaments online, I’ve highlighted, underlined, post-it-noted, read, re-read and reviewed Dan Harrington’s first book (and done everything I can to cram his second book, which is about playing the Endgame, when you’re down to the last couple of tables — I should be so lucky to cross that bridge when I come to it!)
I am so excited, and so nervous, I don’t even know what to do with myself. I’ve done everything I can to prepare for this tournament, and now that it’s finally here, I have to let go. Once I start playing, all I can do is get my money in when I have the best hand, hope that I make fewer (and less costly) mistakes than my opponents, and play as smart as possible.
I start at 11am on Thursday the 7th. If any WWdN readers can spare some Monkey Mojo, I’ve left a subspace port open, so you can just ssh ~/mojo to wil@wsop. I’ll take whatever you can spare. 🙂
I’m taking my Powerbook with me, and I’ll do my best to update my blog at least once a day. You’ll probably be able to hear how I’m doing from Otis, The Poker Prof, PokerWire, or Dr. Pauly, too.
This is a dream come true for me, and I know that — like all my dreams recently, it seems — it wouldn’t have happened without WWdN, and all you guys who read my stuff. Thank you all for helping to create this amazing opportunity.
Now, I have to somehow convince my brain to slow down enough to let me sleep until 6am.
Until Vegas . . .

I’m doing a million things today so I can leave tomorrow morning for the World Series of Poker . . . so this will have to be a very brief entry.
As promised yesterday, the pre-release of Just A Geek: Teh Audiobook is now available. This is exactly like a performance of the material, rather than a boring reading, so it includes the complete text of the book, as well as tons of the asides (audio footnotes probably sounds better, right?) that audiences hear at performances, and a bonus “making-of” CD with outtakes (how many times can I say “Fucking shitass crap! Let’s pick that up.” in the course of a year? The answer will shock and surprise nobody who knows me.) Until Sean Bonner and I finish the artwork, it’s available at a discount, because Uncle Willie loves you.