50,000 Monkeys at 50,000 Typewriters Can't Be Wrong
Tonight’s Family Guy was the best thing to hit television since they added Plinko to The Price Is Right.
I offer the following as evidence:
Discuss.
The final table of the 2005 World Series of Poker started at 4pm yesterday afternoon, and wasn’t finished until just after 7am today. I’m not sure, but I think that’s a record. I’d call Pauly to be sure, but something tells me he’s crashed out until at least Sunday.
Two qualifiers from PokerStars made the final table, and one guy, who qualified using free play points, made it to the final two tables, finished in 13th place, and won $400,000. Not bad for a freeroll!
Speaking of Pauly and PokerStars, we’re doing a charity tournament on Sunday in memory of Pauly’s friend Charlie Tuttle:
Charlie is from Clarksville, Tennessee and he’s a twenty-six year old music enthusiast who loves hanging out and playing poker with his friends. Charlie was dealt a bad hand in life when he was diagnosed with terminal cancer, which he has been battling this past year. A couple of weekends ago, he was hospitalized because two tumors in his chest pressed up against his lungs, causing him breathing problems. I don’t have to tell you how serious his condition was.
Felicia Lee, who is fighting her own battle with cancer, knows several top professional poker players, so she got several of her friends to call Charlie: John Juanda, Marcel Luske, Max Pescatori, and Barry Greenstein to name a few. In fact, when Barry Greenstein won his bracelet in the $1,500 Pot-Limit Omaha event, he dedicated it to Charlie.
As Pauly wrote:
Situations like this one make you reassess what’s really important in life. Las Vegas is a city built on greed. Poker is a game that often attracts some of the lowest forms of life. However, in the past two weeks, there has been a small group of professional poker players who have earned my respect and admiration. Amidst all the darkness and debauchery, I have caught a few glimpses of the bright side of humanity. The hearts of some of the biggest sharks in Las Vegas are filled with compassion.
Thank you, Charlie, for inspiring us all. We’ll never forget you.
Charlie passed away on June 22 and his friends have organized a charity poker tournament this Sunday at PokerStars. It’s going to be a lot of fun, and I hope to see lots of WWdN readers there.
Details:
SUNDAY, JULY 17th
18:00 EDT (15:00 PDT)
PokerStars
Buy-in is $20 — all of it goes to charity.
“WPBT Charlie Tournament” under Tourneys -> Private tab in the lobby
Dear Senator Clinton:
I’m just a writer from California, and I hate to tell you how to do your job . . . but perhaps your time and energy would be better spent investigating Karl Rove, than Carl Johnson.
Your transparent pandering to the morality squad is cute and all, but let’s face it: you’re no Bill Frist.
Sincerely,
Wil Wheaton
About 18 hours before I started and 21 hours before I finished my 2005 World Series of Poker Main Event, there was a knock at my door.
“Bellman,” a deep voice said.
I put down the pizza I would later regret eating, and looked through the peep hole. A bored face looked back at me in fabulous peephole-o-vision. It was, in fact, the bellman. He had a cart with him, and there were several identical large red bags on it.
I opened the door.
“Yes?”
“I have this for you, Mister Wheaton,” he said. In his hand, just outside the peephole’s field of view, was a large red bag he’d presumably separated from its brothers before he knocked.
“Thank you,” I said, as I took it from him. I reached into my pocket and slipped the bellhop a fin, mostly so I could later write, I reached into my pocket and slipped the bellhop a fin.
I let the door close behind me, and put the large red bag on my bed. On one side it said PokerStars.com. On the other, 2005 World Series of Poker. W. WHEATON was embroidered on the back in large black letters. Even though I had been an “official” member of Team PokerStars for weeks, when I saw my name on that bag, I felt it for the first time.
I carefully unzipped it, and pulled out all sorts of cool schwag: T-shirts, Custom shirts (designed just for me because I like the long sleeves!), polo shirts, baseball caps, even a CD wallet. I stood there, my stomach already beginning to rebel against the invading pizza, and smiled. This was very, very cool.
When I got home and unpacked, Anne had to endure a familiar post-trip ritual we call The Displaying of the Schwag. I held up golf shirts in three different colors, showed off my caps, my custom long sleeves, and my ultra-tight baseball jacket. (I checked with Ryan, and “ultra-tight” is the correct term.)
“Hey,” I said, “you want me to wear this like the Mister Plow jacket?”
“Uhh . . . no.” She said.
I put on my best Homer-Simpson-as-Barry-White voice: “I’m Mister Plow, that’s my name . . .”
She put on her best Stewie Griffin voice: “Yes, yes, Mister Plow. Everybody knows that song. You’re sooo clever.”
“Woah,” I said. “Nice Stewie.”
I casually put the jacket on a hanger, and moved it to my closet. “I’ll see you again, Mr. Jacket,” I hoped thought.
I continued my display, and eventually got to the CD wallet.
“Hey, that’s cool,” she said.
“Yeah,” I said, “but I hardly ever use CDs anymore. Do you think one of the kids would like it?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Ask them.”
I turned to holler down the hall, and felt something heavy shift around inside.
“Hey,” I said, “there’s something heavy in here.”
“Maybe it’s a dead body,” she said.
“Or a greased-up deaf guy,” I said, as I unzipped it, and watched a shiny piece of silver tumble out, bounce off the corner of my bed, and land on the floor near my feet.
“What the hell —” I said, as crouched down.
It gleamed in the soft bedroom light, and I knew exactly what it was: a solid silver card protector.
“Holy shit!” I yelled. “Anne! I got a PokerStars card protector!”
I picked it up. I was very heavy for its size, and so beautifully, wonderfully, shiny. It was encased in thick plastic, and said PokerStars.com on one side. I flipped it over with my fingers, and saw that it said 2005 WSOP on the other.
“That is very cool,” she said.
“I know!” I said. I felt like it was 1983, and I’d just opened a birthday gift that revealed an unexpected Optimus Prime.
“I want to go use it in a sit and go right now to celebrate!” I said.
“Wait.” She said. “How, exactly, are you going to use that in online play?”
“Well . . . uh . . .” I said, “I’m gonna . . . um . . . I could . . because it’s cool?”
She smiled and shook her head. “You are such a nerd.”
It could mean I love you, the way she says it.
“Well,” I said, “maybe I could just play tomorrow, and come to bed early instead . . . ” I eyed the Mister PlowPokerStars jacket, its bright red satin clearly visible through the half-open closet door.
“I’m exhausted,” she said. “Go play, and just be quiet when you get into bed.” She picked up her eye mask and ear plugs — we call it her sleep cocoon — and blew me a kiss.
I pointed to the small pile of clothes on my corner of the bed. “What about all this stuff? I need to finish putting all this stuff away.”
She shoved her feet underneath it, and launched it onto the floor.
“What stuff?” she said.
I laughed. “I love you.”
“I love you too. I’m glad you’re home.”
“Me too,” I said.
“Good luck.”
I walked over and kissed her goodnight, shut off her light, and headed down the hallway to my office. I set my card protector on my desk, next to my mouse, and logged on.
Three minutes later, I was in a 10 +1 SNG. I drew the button, which is great, because it gives me a chance to get some information on my opponents before I have to put money into the pot.
It’s also great when I get a AdTs on the first hand.
shawnster77, under the gun, opened for a raise, and made it 60 to go. nickyt folded, champ14 called, then it was folded to me. In online play, there are lots of players who will take a big risk on the first hand, and go to another game if they get busted or crippled. It seems like such a -EV move, but I see it all the time. Though I am usually a tight player (especially in SNGs, where it’s easy to fold your way through half the field) I’ll loosen up a bit if I see one of these moves, so when I saw that I had the ATo, I raised it to 100. LibrarianAA, in the Small Blind, called. The Big Blind folded, and everyone else called.
The flop was Tc-Th-As.
“Did I just flop the stone-cold, mortal, I-can’t-lose-this-hand-nuts?” I thought. While I double-checked to be sure, the Small Blind checked, and the original raiser bet 200.
“Unless one of these guys has aces . . . yeah, I’m pretty sure I did.” I considered talking to the poker gods . . . then wisely clammed up. I looked down at my cool new card protector instead.
“Because it’s so cool!” I said to the empty room.
It was folded around to me, so I called. The Big Blind also called.
The turn was the 5s. Now I hoped someone had picked up a flush draw.
The Big Blind checked, and the original raiser bet 260. I called, the Big Blind called. There was now 1900 in the pot — 400 more than my starting stack, and I’d only seen five total cards
The Kh came off, so the board was [Th Tc As 5s Kh]. It was checked to me, and I was left with the poker player’s dream dilemma: “How do I get the most money from these guys?” They each had just over 900 left. Could I push and get a call from one of them? Maybe . . . “but if I bet a smaller amount that gives them odds to call, maybe I can win another bet from both of them, or even induce a push from a set.”
I thought for a moment, and bet 500, giving them just over 3:1. The Big Blind quickly called, and the original raiser just as quickly folded.
I showed my AT, and raked 2900, 100 short of a first-hand double up.
“Nice”
(I later found out, when reviewing the hand history, that the Big Blind was playing Ah-9d. Wow.)
My victory prompted the following exchange
shawnster77 said, “nh”
Wil Wheaton said, “ty”
drscorp said, “space nerd wil wheaton just owned you”
If I’d been drinking Corona, it would have been my very first Men the Master spit-take moment, but it wasn’t my favorite exchange of the game, which is awarded thusly:
dweezil220 [observer] said, “anyway. how do you go from a 10K buyin WSOP to a $10 buyin SNG at pokerstars?”
dweezil220 [observer] said, “hehe”
Wil Wheaton said, “about 225 miles on the 15 south”
I used my chip advantage to play a more aggressive game than usual. It cost me dearly when I picked up 6-9c in the SB (a hand I will almost always throw away — but with several limpers, I was getting huge odds so it was almost a mandatory call) and saw the all-club flop for cheap. I stupidly bet it all the way, and lost about 1200 to the BB, who held K4c. What is it with me and the goddamn K4? Well, at least this time it was sooooooted.
At one point, I got crushed down to something horrible like 220 in chips, but I eventually battled my way back, and got heads-up against nickyt. We went back and forth, but whenever one of us would take a significant chip lead, the other would suckout and get right back in it. It was sick.
After a long (by SNG standards) heads-up battle, we found ourselves just about even in chips:
Seat 1: Wil Wheaton (6072 in chips)
Seat 5: nicky t (7428 in chips)
The blinds were 300 and 600, with 50 antes. In the Big Blind, I had Ad4h, and he raised it to 2400 — I was really pushing him around, and five or six hands earlier, while having entirely too much fun, I’d stupidly shown The Hammer . . . suddenly he didn’t fear my raises so much . . . so I popped him back for another 3600. He pushed, I called.
I turn up my A4o, and he shows . . . 9c-Tc. The way this tournament has gone, I know I’m dead. I typed, “Here come the clubs,” as the flop came down [Jc 2h 8c].
Well, I was still ahead . . . but just barely. (in comments, tshak pointed out that I was actually a 2.5:1 dog. That is how I got to the 10 +1 from the WSOP, dweezil220 ;), When the turn was another 8, I stupidly thought I was ahead (actually a coin-flip, barely) and I wondered if he’d catch one of his six 23 (?) remaining outs (Math is hard. This is why I don’t dare post at 2+2) . . . and had my answer when the Th spiked on the river, giving him two pair against my pair of eights. Serves me right for getting in there with a loose call, I guess.
MaybeIt’s probably just variance, but I took second place, and won $27.00 for my efforts. More importantly, though, I had a lot of fun (the chat transcript is hilarious) and I shook off some of the doubts that had built up during the WSOP. I found that, by playing with much more (intelligent and selective) aggression, and using my chip advantage (when I had it) I was happy with all my decisions but one. Next time I see Greg Raymer, I’m going to thank him for his advice.
This entry is much longer than I intended when I started it, and I’m out of gas. My Vegas story will be continued tomorrow . . .
“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.”
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 . . .