Author: Wil

“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 . . .

I’m not a huge fan of country music, but I absolutely adore Johnny Cash.
Wait. “Adore” is a little wussy when talking about the Man in Black. Maybe I should go with “love”?
No.
How about I just reword the whole thing: For the most part, I think country music is teh sucks, but Johnny Cash fucking rocks.
Yeah, that’s a little bit tougher. My mom’s not going to be happy about the language, though. Sorry, mom.
So I’m listening to Live at Folsom Prison right now, and when he sings

When I was just a baby, my mama told me, “Son,
Always be a good boy; don’t ever play with guns.”
But I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die.

There’s this huge cheer that goes up from the crowd, just like you’d expect in a prison. Whenever I hear it, I imagine inmate A39879 turning to inmate 88419 and saying, “Hey! I did that too! He’s singing about me! Wooo!”

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 . . .

“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 . . .