About forty minutes after I landed back in Vegas yesterday morning, my kitty Sketch had a heart attack. He was in “His Spot” on my bedroom floor, and Anne held him while he died.
He looked fine when I left, so I didn’t even scratch his chest like I always do. I just told him, “I love you, Fat Boy. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Anne said that it happened so fast, it was over before she had a chance to freak out.
I had to stay in Vegas and write about the final table of the championship, so my psyche just sort of put me into shock until I got home this afternoon. Since I walked into my house, I’ve been moving between the hysterical sobbing and the weird numbness.
I think I’m going to take a few days off, meet my deadlines, and cry a whole, whole bunch.

The only thing worse than having pocket kings busted twice (by AQo, then AKo) in three hands, moving me to the other side of the rail and out of the money, was my goddamn iBook crashing so hard it wouldn’t even boot, leaving me with no way to blog about the last few days. Five times in two years (across two different machines — this most recent time just a couple days after I got the damn thing back from the Apple Hospital) is just about my limit, so I think I’m done with it, and now I’m shopping for a new laptop. I’ll look at the Powerbook if I can convince Apple’s Customer Service to help me out, otherwise I think I’m giong to break down and get one of those Dark Side laptops, so I can play ultimatebet, or partypoker, or pokerstars while I’m on the road.
Or in my bedroom. Or in my living room, kitchen, or just about anywhere else, because if I liked poker before, I am madly, passionately, stupidly in love with it now.
My friend Chris wrote in his blog a month or so ago about this moment when his game suddenly changed; when all the books, homegames, the online and live tournaments, the WPT and WSOP on TV, and everything else all combined to kick his game up to a new level. That happened to me while I was nearing the end of the first day at Bellagio. It never would have happened if I hadn’t sat with Lee Jones at Aladdin on Monday night, but somehow everything he told me, plus the little bit of reviewing I did, then putting that into action against some amazing players . . . I may not have much money to show for it (though I did kill a guy at Flamingo late last night in the 1-2 NLHE game with . . . wait for it . . . Kings) but my game is better, I’ve made great new friends, and I proved to myself that I actually can compete at a higher level than I could ten days ago.
I didn’t make the money, but I played the best poker of my life. I sat there with the best, and I played with them. They made plays at me and I played right back. I took down a few good pots from some great players, and I can take some comfort in knowing that I was finally knocked out by one of the best players in the world. I always got my money in good, and I only needed to get lucky twice. Once I did, and once I didn’t. Hell, that’s poker. I wouldn’t change a thing.
I made some great new friends in Vegas. John Vorhaus, who is blogging the tournament for Ultimate Bet, and Jen Creason, who updates for PokerWire.com cheered for me when I was a player, and welcomed me into their world when I traded my chips for a notebook.
I’m home for another ten minutes, then off to ACME for the show tonight, then back to Vegas tomorrow morning to cover the final table.
In the past, whenever I’ve had the good fortune to experience anything great, writing about it has always been as much fun (and sometimes more fun) than the original experience itself. I’m so excited to start writing this story . . . I have a feeling that the story that eventually comes out of this week is going to fucking rock. (Well, for me, at least 😉

Hooray for computer issues. My iBook is acting up, (details, including lots of NSFW language in the audioblog) but I took a chance on making it go this morning . . . so far, so good. I’m using Safari, so I wonder if the problem is with an older version of Firefox, because Thunderbird does the same thing. Maybe something’s corrupt in some library or something.
Well, I’m not going to worry about it right now, because I need to focus on the tournament.
I’m still alive, but barely. Yesterday I played pretty well, other than two huge fucking stupid dipshit rookie idiot mistakes that cost me 30K in chips, tilted me, and took about an hour of play before I recovered, mentally. Details on that stuff will come later on, as I understand some of my possible competition here is reading my blog.
Cool note: Andy Bloch told a writer for Pokerwire yesterday that my blog was really cool, and very well-written. Sweet!
So I was all the way down to about 25K in chips near the end of the day, when I finally got a hand I could play. On the button, or in the cutoff (can’t remember and my notes are messy) UTG raised it to 1800. With the blinds at 300-600, this was a standard steal-raise, but I had decided that this was my Moment iof Truth: I was all-in on this hand no matter what . . . I just wanted to play it right so I could get some action from at least one of the players, probably the raiser, who was this guy Victor (pro player, I forget his last name. Very nice guy, though.) I re-raised to 6000. He thought about it for a long, long time, asked me how many chips I had, all that stuff. Since I had decided I was going to move on this hand no matter what, I wanted a call, so if he was looking for weakness, he wasn’t going to find it. Eventually, he called. The flop was 9-7-x, all different suits. He checked, I moved in immediately.
He thought about it again, and eventually said to one of the other guys, “He hasn’t played a hand in four hours.” I just looked at the flop, and hoped he called. I loved this flop.
“Do you have Kings?” He said.
“It’ll only cost you about 20,000 to find out, Victor,” I said.
“I worked hard for these chips, man,” he said.
“You sure did.”
He tapped his cards, fiddled with his chips, rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses, and folded.
I nodded and raked the pot.
Next hand I got was also a monster. Two playable hands in a row took a little bit of the sting off of the relentless string of K-2o, 5-3o, and J-7o bullshit I’d been looking at all day.
I raised it up to 6000, got one caller. The flop was a Jack and two baby cards. The caller bet half the pot, I moved in, he folded quickly.
I gave about 1800 back in blinds and antes, and ended the day around with 37375 in chips. That puts me around 272 in a field of about 314 or so, and it means that if I don’t double through before the end of the first or second level today, it’s only a matter of time before I’m out.
I talked with Travis from ACME last night, and if I’m still alive in this thing this afternoon, we’re cancelling the Dancing Barefoot performance tonight, and moving it to next week.
I only have to make it to 100th place to get $30,000! That would pay for all my kitties, and the knee surgery Ferris has to have on Monday. (Can I get an “Oy vey,” please?)
Time for breakfast, then a quick shower. I’ve got Darwin with me, so he’s channeling all the Monkey Mojo I can get.

Eating antacids like they’re Skittles. Taste the rainbow of anxiety.
Spent about an hour with Lee Jones yesterday afternoon, got some excellent coaching on NLHE strategy. I like Lee. He’s a good guy and knows poker. Nerves settled a little bit, traded antacids for a Zantac.
Had dinner with Greg Raymer last night, (he ate real food, I ate pickled ginger, steamed tofu and rice) before heading to Aladdin to play the hundred dollar 1-2 NLHE game with Lee. Fossilman is the nicest guy in the world, but I hope I don’t ever have to play against him. I hear that he was the chip leader for much of yesterday afternoon.
Wind nearly blew me off my feet getting to Aladdin, finally walked into the Poker Room around 10:30. Sat down and played with people from the WPT crew and production staff. Only opened a few pots: early on with pocket tens. The flop came 10-6-7, guy ahead of me makes it 75, I call all-in, he shows 8-9h for the straight. Misread him. Thought he was over-betting to push me out. Luckily, he liked to tell everyone why he did what he did, so I figured him out pretty quickly and he only got five bucks from me the rest of the night. Still tilted from the huge loss early on, though, and never fully recovered.
Bought back in, played the tightest I’ve ever played in my life. Eventually made it 10 to go UTG when I found pocket kings, no callers except the button. Flop is A-A-x. I check, he checks. Turn is another baby card, I check, he checks. River is also a blank, he bets 10. I rase it to 25, he folds. I want so badly to show my cowboys but I don’t. That’s proably the most I was going to get on that hand, because I would have folded to a set of aces if he’d played back on fourth street. Only made about 30 bucks on the hand.
Folded for two hours, made a little stab with A-10 of Diamonds in the BB, threw it away when the flop paired, completely missed me, and UTG made it 20 to go. Good fold: he had a set. Nerves finally relaxed. Though I didn’t make lots of money, my bets were appropriate, and my instincts proved to be right on every hand until the last I played.
Eventually got all my money in with KJ. I hate KJ. For whatever reason, it just never holds up for me. I almost threw it away when my pre-flop 10 was called, but it was late, I was tired, and Bad Wil (with apologies to McManus) said, “Come on, man, double up or go home broke. Who loves you, baby?” Moved in for about 80, called by AJ, jack on the flop, no king. Went home broke.
Finally got into bed around 2, stared at the ceiling for what felt like an hour, but was probably about ten minutes. Woke up on my own around 9:30.
Waiting for room service to bring breakfast. Need coffee and a waffle. Sitting down in seat 4 at table 37 in two hours.
Holy Shit. Taste the rainbow.

After breakfast, I came back upstairs to work on Games of our Lives.
I got into the elevator, and held the door open for about a half-dozen people. When they were all in, I was closest to the buttons.
“Where y’all going?” I said. Normally, I don’t say “y’all,” (and in this case, the proper conjugation would have been “all y’alls,”) but I’ve got The Nerves, and sometimes that makes me say weird things.
They all said the same number, which happens to be the same floor as me.
“Oh, I hear all the cool kids are staying on that floor,” I said. (Longtime WWdN readers will understand why I didn’t say, “It’s the floor that’s sweeping the nation.”)
“Yeah, I hear it’s the floor where all the winners are staying,” this businessman with an NAB badge around his neck said.
“You mean it’s where the losers are staying!” This forty-something woman said. In one hand she held one of those plastic footballs, presumably filled with something scandalous like Sex on the Beach.
“Hey! Speak for yourself, lady!” I said with a laugh. I’m normally not this chatty in elevators.
She looked at me, and her eyes focused (eventually) on my WPT badge.
“Oh!” She said, “You’re in the poker tournament?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“How are you doing?”
“Well, I’m still alive,” I said. Somehow, it sounded cooler than, “I start tomorrow, and I’m scared out of my fucking shit right now,” while still technically true.
She extended her left hand toward me. Liver spots, huge gold bracelet, 790 carat diamond ring on her middle finger. No wedding ring. Loud, pinkish-orange polish on otherwise tasteful acrylic nails.
“Give me some of your luck, kid!” She said. I tried, but failed to identify an accent.
Okay, how much do I love that this woman just called me “kid?”
“No way,” I said. “I don’t want to get any of your ‘loser luck’ on me.”
The whole elevator laughed, including The Football Lady.
“I tell you what,” I said, as we arrived at our floor, and the doors opened, “If I’m still in the tournament on Sunday, you can touch me then.”
“It’s a deal!” She said.
I walked out of the elevators and turned to the right. They went to the left. As the distance between us grew, I heard her friend say, “He’s right, Melissa. Keep your loser luck to yourself.”
Their laughter echoed down the hall as I put the key into my door.