Author: Wil

“Please could you stay awhile to share my grief,
For it’s such a lovely day.”
— Portishead

The sun just began its slow drop beneath the mountains to the West. It’s hot on my shoulder and bits of light skip off my watch and dance on the walls. My window is open, and a scirocco-like wind occasionally billows against the sheer curtains. Sade is singing “By Your Side,” and I really miss my wife right now.
The Sun and I are currenty secret friends, because I’ve seen both ends of his journey today — I played 3-6 with Paul Phillips and Lee Jones from 10 last night until 6:30 this morning. I had a few cinematic moments during the session . . . but I have to leave them for another time.
I went to the Wynn for brunch this afternoon. It’s a beautiful hotel, and I was surprised at how small the poker room is. Unless there’s a large area I missed, it’s not much bigger than the room at the Mirage. I had a great people watching moment when a woman who was old enough to be my mother stumbled into me, sunglasses askew, clutching a twenty-four inch plastic tumbler of some libation or other. She wore a dirty t-shirt that said “Kaptain Kegger” on the front, and sported a lovely butch haircut. I’ve noticed that drunk adults tend to use the same stomping motion favored by infants who are just learning to walk, and it’s equal parts pathetic and hilarious to watch.
After brunch (which was outstanding, but inexplicably did not come with the expected slice of cantaloupe at the end) I came back to my home base, and spent a few hours down by the pool. (The Writer woke up a couple of days ago, and I’ve been doing everything I can to stay out of His way. I find that sitting down by the pool with a couple of beers, some iced teas, and a notebook keeps Him very happy.)
On my way to find a lounge, I stopped by my regular bar to get an Anchor Steam. (In Vegas, hitting the same bar three days in a row officially qualifies you as a regular.) The bartender was someone I hadn’t seen before today: an absolutely beautiful girl in her mid-twenties, jet black hair pulled back into a ponytail, gold eyes and olive skin. Freckles dusted across her shoulders matched the ones across her nose.
I approached, and saw her reading my “Shrödinger’s Cat Is Dead” shirt.
“What does that mean?” She said.
“It’s a very nerdy physics joke,” I said.
“So it’s not being cruel to animals?” She said.
“Well, there’s a lot of Uncertainty about that,” I said.
She frowned. “What?”
“That was also a very nerdy physics joke,” I said, and explained Shrödinger’s Cat to her.
” . . . so until you observe the results, the cat is both dead and alive,” I said. “Which, I’m sure, is just thrilling to you.”
She reached into the cooler and pulled a beer out of the bottom. Chunks of ice clung to the sides, and she wiped them off. As she opened it, she said, “Actually, I was listening to you because I think nerds are incredibly sexy.” She bit down on her lower lip.
Gulp.
I’m sure I blushed, and said, “Well, on behalf of nerds everywhere, I’d like to thank you for that.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, as she set my bottle on the bar. I paid her and got the hell out of there before my wit and charm started writing checks my body couldn’t cash.
Moving on . . .
fifty-one hours earlier
I hung up the phone and made my way to the bathroom. For the first time since I got there, I didn’t feel the need to shove my way past the throngs of tourists meandering through the too-narrow walkways.
After a quick piss, I called Doctor Pauly, and told him the news.
“Oh man, I’m sorry.” He said.
“Thanks,” I said. “Where are you?”
“I’m paying too much for a chicken sandwich,” he said.
I laughed, because I knew that meant he could only be in one place.
“I’ll be right there,” I said. Ninety seconds later, I was.
I hardly know Pauly at all, but I like him. We have poker, writing, blogging and getting busted out early in common, so he was the best friend I had in the room. It closed a circle to see him after I busted, because he was the last person to wish me well before the tournament began.
I stood behind my seat, and set my shit down. Darwin took his seat on the rail, my notebook and card protectors sat on the felt next to him. The dealer looked at my player’s card and gave me my starting stack. Before I could count it, I saw Pauly walking up the aisle.
“Hey Doc,” I said.
“How are you feeling?” He said.
“You know, I was really nervous, but as soon as I got here,” I tapped the table, “it was like my feet locked into the ground, and I feel . . . solid, if that makes sense.” I said.
He smiled. “Yeah, it does. You’re going to be fine.”
A few other players arrived at the table and took their seats. Pauly leaned close to me and lowered his voice.
“I don’t mean to get you down, but did you hear about London?” He said.
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s fucking terrible, man.”
“It sort of puts this whole thing into perspective, doesn’t it?”
I nodded my head. “Yeah, it sure does.”
“I mean, this is cool and all, but it’s really just poker, you know?” He said.
He stepped back, and spoke loud enough for the rest of the table to hear him. “Now don’t play like a pussy.”
The table laughed, and I smiled. He shook my hand, clapped me on the back, and vanished into the sea of spectators.
I sat down, and counted out my checks.
We turned toward the tournament area, but I couldn’t bring myself to walk back in. I already felt like a loser, and walking right back in there would only magnify that feeling.
Pauly must have picked up on my hesitance, because he hung back with me.
“So . . . how’d you go out?” He said.
I looked through the doors and into the tournament area. I took a breath, told him about the crippling hand against Darden, and the disaster on table 148.
” . . . Ace-Jack of Spades versus pocket sevens, and he flopped a set.” I said.
“Did you play smart?” He said.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I did. But I’m going to do a whole lot of second guessing for the next few days.”
“Did you play like a pussy?”
We both know that these are two different things.
“I think I may have when I played the tens against Darden,” I said. “But that’s why I’m not a pro, you know?”
“Do you want to do an exit interview?” He said.
“Sure.”
We talked for a few more minutes. When we were done, we walked across the tournament area to see Otis. On the way, we passed Chris “Jesus” Ferguson, who was talking with a couple of fans. I waved as we passed.
“Hey, Wil!” He said, “How many chips do you have?”
“Zero,” I said.
“Oh, sorry man.”
“Thanks.” I pointed to his huge stack. “You’re doing well, I presume?”
“So far,” he said, “I got very lucky with aces, when I rivered a higher two-pair to double up.”
“Goddam, man,” I said, “If you need the river to help aces . . .”
He nodded. “Yep.”
“Have you met Pauly?”
“I don’t think so, ” he said, so I introduced them. The three of us talked for a second, and I realized something: here I was, on the field of play, talking with a world champion, just like I was talking to a guy in a bar. Is there any other sport in the world where I could do this? How likely is it that I could walk right onto the infield at Yankee Stadium, and talk with Derek Jeter? Not fucking likely at all. And that’s one of the things that I love about poker at this level: sure, there are players who are epic dickheads, but most of them are kind, gracious, and generous with their time . . . unless you’re in a hand with them. If that’s the case, you’re just another target.
After a minute or two, Pauly said, “Well, we’ll let you enjoy what’s left of your break.”
“Oh, yeah,” I thought, “He’s still playing in this thing, and he just spent half of his break bullshitting with a couple of knuckleheads.”
“Good luck,” I said.
He shook my hand. “Thanks, man. Good to meet you, Pauly.”
“You too,” Pauly said, “good luck.” He turned to me, “You want to find Otis?”
“Yeah,” I said.
We headed back toward media row, right past table 148. I stared at the empty 8 seat as we passed.
to be continued . . .

“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 . . .