In a field of 6,000 entrants, the best player in the world might generously be a 1,000-1 dog to win. After 40 years against those odds, that player would have a mere 4 percent chance of having won the tournament once, and it would take 700 years before the best player would have a 50 percent chance to have won.
— Paul Phillips, in Slate.

I just got busted from the 1500 NLHE event at the WSOP today. I know that we want guys to play K-4o when we’ve got pocket jacks, especially when the flop misses him and gives us a straight draw . . . but we really don’t want him to river a king to suck out on us, and leave us so short-stacked that we push on the button with AQ and get called by AK in the Big Blind. (As a side note, I can’t fucking believe that I’ve lost to K-4o twice in two tournaments, when I got my money in when I was ahead.)
So I’m back at my hotel, looking down onto the pool area where I’ve spent so much of the last few days. Even from the 24th floor, I can see the be-thonged beauties floating in the pool, inches away from children splashing in waterfalls. Cocktail waitresses walk around, doing a job that is probably much harder and less fun than their customers think. The longer I look down there, the more I’m tempted to put on a Think Geek T-shirt and head down for a beer . . . but simply tilting my head up a few degrees puts the Rio squarely in my field of vision, and I can’t help but feel like a complete loser.
I’m ready to go home.
seventy-two hours earlier
Pauly and I found Otis and told him the bad news.
“Did you play smart?” Otis said.
“I think so,” I said. The numbness of busting out began to wear off, and I started to feel sick to my stomach.
“That’s all you can do, man,” he said.
“I know.”
“But knowing that doesn’t make it feel any better, right?” Pauly said.
I shrugged my shoulders. I didn’t want to be a baby — I did my best, and I wasn’t going to cry about it. But, I felt sick to my stomach because I felt like I let PokerStars down. They put me into the tournament, and I couldn’t even make it past the third level.
The three of us talked for a minute, until my cell phone rang. I saw Anne on the caller ID.
“That’s my wife, you guys. I’m going to talk to her and get out of here.”
“Okay, are you going to stick around?” Pauly said.
I picked up my phone. “Hold on,” I said, and turned back to Pauly and Otis. “I don’t think so. If I stay, I’ll call you guys and maybe we can have a beer . . . or you can have a beer and I’ll have a hundred.”
I shook their hands, and made my way through the tables.
“Hi,” I said.
“So what happened?” She said.
I told her. We didn’t talk about it, but just making it past the bubble would have been a big deal for us. Money is still very short in our life right now, and I’m thinking about giving up poker for a while until I can figure out if I truly am getting unlucky, or if I’m just a mediocre player who catches enough good cards to overestimate his abilities . . . in other words: A Fish.
” . . . and I’m coming home tonight,” I said. I’d made it out of the tournament area, and walked back into an alcove where other busted players talked on their phones. One guy looked like he was choking back tears. Maybe that guy was me.
Anne sounded surprised. “Why? Don’t you want to stay and watch? You’ve talked about this for months.”
“No,” I said. “I feel like such a total fucking loser, I just want to get home.”
“Okay,” she said. “If that’s what you want to do.”
My cellphone beeped. It was Dan Goldman from PokerStars.
“Honey, I have to go, it’s Dan on the other line.”
“Okay, puss,” she said. “I love you huge.”
She really does, and she knows that for the next several days — possibly weeks — she’s going to have to deal with me replaying every hand, every round of betting, every decision I made during the tournament. I wasn’t a serious poker player when we got married, so she didn’t sign up for this . . . but she endures it very well. Come to think of it, she endures a whole lot of things to be married to me.
“Okay. I love you too. I’ll do my best to not talk endlessly about this for the next month.” We both know that my best effort in this endeavor will yield success approximately equal to my success in surviving past Level Three.
The phone beeped again. I clicked over, before it could go to voice mail.
“Hi Dan,” I said.
“Brad [that’s Otis’ real name] told me what happened,” he said. “I just wanted to see how you were doing.”
I told him.
“That’s understandable,” he said, “but don’t sweat it so much. There will be lots of other tournaments.”
I know that this is true, but I can’t find a way to let the comfort which should lie in this fact penetrate the thick blanket of gloom I’ve wrapped around myself.
“In fact,” Dan continued, “If you’d like, we’ll buy you into the 7pm tournament at The Palms tonight, and we’ll put you into the 1500 No Limit event on Monday back at the World Series.”
“Seriously?” I said.
“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s get you right back on the horse.”
I looked at my watch: It was just about 5:30pm. The blanket fell from my shoulders.
“Okay,” I said. “I would love to do that. Let me just call my wife and tell her that I’m staying.”
“Great.” He said. “We’ll see you over there in about an hour.”
I hung up and called Anne. “You’ll have a great time,” she said, “and I just know that you’ll be able to redeem yourself.”
“I’ll call you later and let you know how I’m doing,” I said. “Thanks for putting up with me.”
“Shut up.” She said. “I love you.”
“I love you too. Watch for cars . . .”
” . . . and don’t get into any fights,” she said.
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
I hung up my phone, and left the alcove. As I walked away, I man in a Bluff Magazine T-shirt passed me. His hands trembled as he pulled his phone from his pocket. He picked up my blanket, wrapped it tightly around himself, and dialed.
to be continued . . .