“I don’t want to fuck up the drama . . . but this story is far from over. I’m not thinking about quitting, and I’m not staring into an abyss, at all. . . just try to hold on and enjoy the ride . . . We’re still in the first act.”

— Wil, in comments on yesterday’s post.

My body is in my dining room, but my mind is spread out along 220 miles of I-15. It should catch up with me in a day or so.
A long, lonely drive across the desert as afternoon slowly moved through dusk and into night gave me a lot of time to replay every hand I saw in Vegas. Where other drivers saw the giant thermometer at the Bun Boy, I saw a Jack-high flop that cost me a lot of checks. The click-thump-click-thump-click-thump of seams in the pavement blurred into the click-click click-click click-click of shuffling and stacking chips. The smiling face of an old prospector directing tourists to the Calico Ghost Town turned into the smiling face of a suckout artist directing my chips into his stack, two hands before he spewed them across the table to the one guy who I was trying to avoid playing against without the nuts.
I walked with Greg Raymer on my way into the 1500 event yesterday. Greg is a fellow member of Team PokerStars, the 2004 World Series Champion, and one of the kindest people I’ve ever met in my life. If ever there was a perfect ambassador for the game, it’s Greg.
About every fifteen steps, someone would stop him and ask for a picture or autograph. Though he was scheduled to start in under twenty minutes, Greg obliged every single person, and I marveled at how he made each of them feel like they were the only person in the world when he talked to them.
“I bet this is what it’s like for you at a Star Trek convention, huh?” He said to me as we neared the entrance to the tournament area.
“Sort of.” I said. “Fifteen years ago, maybe.”
We passed Gavin Smith. Greg playfully pushed him into the wall.
“I swear to fucking god, Greg, if you win again, I’m going to kick your ass!” Gavin said.
They both laughed, and Greg wished him good luck.
“Can I bother you for some advice?” I asked him. “I’m playing in the 1500 today.”
“Play smart.” He said.
It’s good, solid advice, but wasn’t exactly the deep insight I was hoping to divine from the world champion. I think my shoulders involuntarily slumped a little bit.
“Thanks,” I said, and extended my hand. “You don’t need it, but good luck today.”
He took my hand, and pulled me close to him. “Just remember that you’ve got to be happy with your decisions,” he said. “Even if you get unlucky, you can leave here with your head up, because you’re happy with your decisions.”
I felt like I was the only person in the world when he talked to me. I squeezed his hand, and thanked him. We parted company, and headed to our respective tables.
He started today as the chip leader with just over a million. Phil Ivey, who started yesterday with 89K ( Paul Phillips: “Of course. 90K is par and Ivey with par is like a normal person with the chip lead.”) has 722K. Amazing.
ninety-eight hours earlier
I walked out of the alcove of despair and back into the teeming throng of spectators. I second-hand smoked two packs of unfiltered cigarettes as I made my way past them, and through the Poker Lifestyle Expo. Before I walked out into the blast furnace that is a Las Vegas parking lot in July, I stopped to call Paul Phillips. We’d been talking about getting together while I was in town, and since I’d just found myself with a few days worth of free time, I figured our odds of hanging out had increased.
He answered and said, “I hope you’re calling me because you’re on a break.”
“Yes, I’m on a very long break,” I said.
“A 363 day break?” He said.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Did you go out tough, or did you go out hating yourself?”
I’ve learned that poker players don’t tell their bad beat stories to each other (they just repeat them endlessly on their blogs), so I just said, “I lost a race with a short stack. Do you want to call off the trade?”
A couple of weeks earlier, Paul had offered to trade 1% of each other. This is common among top pros: unless they’re playing at the same table, in which case the trade is called off for ethical reasons, they’ll trade small percentages of their winnings, mostly for amusement — 1% of 7 million isn’t going to make much of a difference in these guys’ lives. When Paul offered the trade, I will admit that I felt like a superstar, but I offered 2% of myself in return: “I think you’re taking the worst of it with an even trade,” I said.
He laughed. “I don’t think so, and I’m happy to have a horse in the race, especially if this World Series is anything like the last two.”
“Okay, so 1% it is.”
A few of the bodog girls walked by. I tried my best to look at anything else, and failed.
“No, we already agreed.”
“Well, then I’m going to give you 30% of my nothing, as a gesture of goodwill and tribute.”
He laughed. “So what’s your schedule like? Do you want to join us for dinner tonight?” He said.
“I’m going to The Palms to play in the 7pm tournament tonight, but I’m free all day tomorrow.”
A few of the Absolute girls walked by. The conventional wisdom was that they’d hired strippers and porn stars. I don’t know if that was true or not, but they all had the lower back tattoo, and wore high-heels, so you can draw your own conclusion.
“I’m playing tomorrow,” he said. “How long are you here?”
“Until at least Monday,” I said.
“Okay. We’ll figure something out.”
A few of the — no, wait, those are just hookers.
I wished him luck, and hung up the phone. The battery was getting hot from all the talking, so I stood there for a minute and spun it around in my hands.
A teenager in a Linkin Park cap walked up to me.
He pointed at my shirt and said, “Did you qualify on PokerStars?”
I stopped spinning the phone and said, “No, I’m actually part of Team PokerStars.”
His eyes got huge. “Really?!”
If he only knew . . .
“Yeah,” I said.
“Do you know Chris Moneymaker?”
I nodded my head. “A little bit. I’ve only talked to him a couple of times.”
“Is he cool?”
“Yes. He’s very cool.” I said.
“Do you know Fossilman?”
“Yep.”
“Is he cool?”
“Yes,” I said. “He’s one of the coolest people I know, actually.”
“Do you think he’s going to win again?”
I wanted to tell him that Greg was a lock, because I know that’s what he wanted to hear, but I said, “I don’t know. The field is so large, it’s unlikely that we’ll ever see a repeat champion, much less back-to-back . . . but if anyone can do it, it’s Fossilman.”
An older woman with the same eyes as the kid walked over to us. She looked at me warily.
“Lucas? We need to go.” Her thick accent matched his, too. I placed them in West Texas . . . maybe Odessa.
“Okay, mom.” He pointed to me. “He knows Fossilman and Moneymaker!”
She looked at me again, with the same mother wolf gaze I’ve seen my wife use when strangers talk to our kids.
“Are you a professional poker player, too?” She said.
“No, Ma’am,” I said. “I’m just a writer who likes to play cards.”
I extended my hand. “My name’s Wil,” I said.
She shook it politely, but the gaze did not waver. “My son worships those men,” she said. “It’s always World Poker Tour this and Howard something that!”
Lucas said, “It’s Howard Lederer, mom. He’s the professor, and his sister is Annie Duke.”
I smiled.
“Annie busted me in a tournament earlier this year,” I said.
“Really?!” He said. “That’s so cool!” Then, “No, I mean, it’s not cool, but . . . I mean . . .”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I know what you mean. It was cool to play with her, but not so cool to lose to her on the River.”
It must have been like we were talking in code. His mother said, “He thinks he’s going to be a pro some day. Do you have any advice for him?”
I looked at the kid: teenage acne ravaged his cheeks. He was tall and gangly, just like me when I was his age. He seemed to hide beneath his Linkin Park cap, the same way I hid beneath my Dodgers cap. He looked back at me, expectantly.
“How old are you?” I said.
“Sixteen.”
“Okay, the most important thing you can do is . . .”
“Yeah?” He said.
“The most important thing is to work as hard as you can in school, because the choices you make now will affect your life more seriously than you think. And if you want to be a poker player, pay attention in math — especially statistics.”
His shoulders slumped. I knew this isn’t what he wanted to hear, so I continued, “It’s also not like the games you see on TV. Until you’re Gus Hansen, if you raise with King Nine off suit under the gun, you’re going to go broke.”
Behind him, another crowd of booth babes walked by. “Too bad your mom is right here, dude,” I thought.
“Study Winning Low Limit Hold’Em, and when you’re ready, read Both of Dan Harrington’s books. ” I said. “And even if you don’t respect the player, always respect the game.”
He nodded his head. “Okay.”
“And when you’re in the World Series, don’t ever play pocket tens out of position against Paul Darden.”
He cocked his head to one side. “Why?”
“Because if you’re me, it’ll be the beginning of the end of your Tournament.” I said. “That’s why you’ve got to stay in school, so you’ve got something to fall back on when the cards don’t fall your way.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” I said. I shook his hand, and pointed toward the tournament area. “I hope to see you in there some day.”
His face was devoured by a huge grin. “Me too, man!”
His mother patted him on the shoulder and shooed him away. “Your daddy’s in the restaurant,” she said.
She looked at me while he walked up the walkway toward the cafe. “Thank you,” she said. “You just made his day.”
“I’ve got two of my own,”I said, “about his age.”
She frowned. “Aren’t you a little young for teenagers?”
Raise.
“Yes, I am.” I looked back at her and waited.
Re-raise.
She looked at me for a long time and said, “Well, thank you for talking with my son. And thank you for telling him how important school is.”
Fold.
“Well, I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true.” I said. “Nice talking with you.”
I walked out to my car, and drove to The Palms. I had a tournament to win.
to be continued . . .