My foot-stink assails my senses. I'm trying to focus on the screen in front of me, but I'm finding it difficult to concentrate with the stinging in my nostrils. My feet aren't that bad today, it's more that hours and days and weeks of foot-stink have permeated every fibre of the couch - the poker couch. The strategic throne from whence I send my chips into battle.
So it sit, cross legged on the poker couch, at the end of another 12 hour session at the tables, inhaling stale foot-stink and wondering why I persist with online poker. The money is nice I guess. It’s been a good year for me on the virtual felt. But by god I hate playing online. My current country of residence – Lao PDR – doesn’t have any live poker, so I’m reduced to playing the demoralising simulacrum of the real version of the game.
Online poker is demoralising for a number of reasons - it's tedious and repetitive; it gives you even less motivation to leave the house, bathe, or develop any kind of social skills; pieces of perfectly good computer equipment – mouses, keyboards and occasionally screens – get damaged in tilt-fuelled rages; and it keeps you cooped up indoors vegetating during beautiful summer days while stinking up perfectly good couches. And in the end, it just isn't as interesting as live poker.
It's a different game for starters. It has the same science as real poker – perhaps even moreso - but less art. It lacks the psychological depth, the human side of the real game, which for mine really makes poker worth playing in the first place.
It takes skill - yes of course - some of the brightest and best play almost exclusively online. It's tough - no one will deny that - even some of the low buy-in tournaments and cash games have quality opposition slowly working their way through the monetary ranks. But let’s face it - it's dull. It’s lifeless. It lacks the verve, the colour and excitement of live play. And by excitement I mean it lacks the heart pumping, ball shrinking, sheer terror of live play.
Online poker has a relative vacuum of information. You can't see the way someone handles their chips, verbalises a bet, or respond to the scrutiny of nine pairs of eyes watching them as they try to calmly bet the nuts on the river. You can't observe how someone responds to pressure - the pressure of a long tournament day; the pressure of the bubble; the pressure of pushing out a big bluff. It’s the last in particular that really gets the heart pumping. When sitting in the comfort and anonymity of your lounge room, a simple click of the mouse button makes the big bluff easy. I can do that without blinking. But live play? The big bluff at the final table of a big tournament? That gets the blood pounding in the ears, the hands shaking, the sweat beading on the brow.
Yeah baby, live play can be a rush.
Online poker, on the other hand, is a bunch of 16 year-old mathematicians practicing optimal play while surfing for black-on-white porn and writing grammatically retarded pseudo-sentences on the two-plus-two forums. You don't need heart to play online, you need a calculator. It's not a game about humans; it’s a game of equity and numbers.
So why even play? Easy - I love poker. If I didn’t have online poker, I’d be begging my girlfriend to play heads-up for match-sticks; if she wasn’t around I’d be dealing cards to imaginary opponents and trying to ‘play out’ different hands according to the ‘tendencies’ of the imaginary players. If I didn’t have a deck of cards, I’d cut rectangles out of pieces of paper and make my own deck.
And I want to tell you something right now so there’s no doubt in your mind – I’ve done all of these things and worse. I’m a true poker desperado. Once I made a pair of Kings out of post-it notes during a particularly long and boring meeting, so while the speaker droned on interminably about fiduciary systems or the new pair of pants he just bought or whatever crap it was, I would occasionally peek down at the post-its and feel a sliver of that short-sharp thrill of looking down and seeing pocket Kings in a live game.
So I play online because I’m a poker tragic. I endure that lingering foot-stink so I can keep my technical skills sharp and to make some money. But I’m not kidding myself. It’s not real and doesn’t feel real. It’s virtual. The real game is what the November Nine have just shaped up to, or what several hundred players will be doing in the Main Event of the Aussie Millions come January.
And that is what it is about - a room echoing with the sound of a million riffling chips at the beginning of a major tournament, the atmosphere electric with anticipation; a thousand poker tragics in the same room chasing the Moneymaker dream, and the announcer taking up the mike and telling the dealers to ‘Shuffle Up and Deal!’
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
More Ladies, Less Arsecrack
So the World Series has a day for the ladies: a 1000 dollar buy-in, ‘women only’ no-limit hold ‘em event. In the past I had mild indifference to this. I sort of felt like it I was a throwback to the 60’s and should be canned, but I didn’t really care either way. However, after the controversy of the last week my thinking on this has turned completely.
In case you hadn’t heard the story, this is what happened - a half-dozen men decided to enter the ladies event this year. Some of them dressed up as women, one used a tampon as a card protector. Pure hilarity. As you may have guessed, these were mainly very young men; Internet kids egged on by other Internet kids.
Their reasoning? Not clear. There was an explanation by one of them (Sean Deeb - a very young online player who wore a dress to the event), who said he did it because he lost a prop bet. Later he belatedly claimed he was fighting for men’s equality. Yeah, right. It was probably just some random youthful stupidity, or the early onset of life-long douchebaggery. No one really knows. The only thing that was clear is that he looked horrible in a dress.
So everyone has been pissed off by these clowns turning up and spoiling the day for many of the players. Indeed, quite a number of professionals have spoken up over the past couple of days in favour of a women-only event, and the main argument they have put forward has been this: the women’s event is good for poker. Over 1000 ladies turned up for this event. That’s right, over a thousand. So if a thousand women are willing to go to a card room to play cards against other women, then good for them. If they feel more comfortable in that format, then why stop them?
Some of the top female pros don’t like to play in it (like Jen Harman) – they only play in the open events, rightly assuming that they are good enough to play against anyone, and gender shouldn’t count. That’s their right too. One doesn’t preclude the other.
For me, if the women want it (and the numbers suggest they do) and it’s good for poker, then why fuck it up with some half-assed protest? But anyway, these arguments are all sort of obvious. The event will keep going and hopefully it will be an avenue for more women to enter the poker mainstream. And I’m all for that.
This leads me to a less obvious, though even more persuasive argument. I’d like to see more women in poker for the following reason: more women in poker means less exposed arsecracks, fewer individuals with dubious personal hygiene, and fewer morons saying “I won’t wash this shirt because it is my lucky shirt and it has been since the 2002 World Series”. That’s right. More women in the game means there will fewer men at my table and therefore a reduced chance I have to play with an obese mouth-breather eating nachos with one hand and scratching his nuts with the other. And then fumbling his cards with those hands.
This has a value that cannot be overstated. I don’t want to throw in gender stereotypes here, but I’ve never played with a woman who stank of spoiled milk and Doritos, farted loudly, and sweated profusely through the front of her shirt. But I have certainly played with men who have done all of these things.
So I’m for a women’s event because it means somewhere down the track, more women will be introduced to the game, which in turn means there will be less male arse-crack at the table.
And I have to finish by saying this - the guys who did play were not protesting against anything and are not doing this because they wanted to make a stand. They did it because they are foolish and thoughtless. If they had a social conscious and were genuinely worked up about issues of rights, then they would play the ‘ante up for Africa’ event – which, among other things, donates money to communities affected by genocide. This is what you call a real issue.
So to all you guys who ‘protested’ by buying into the ladies event? Well morons, your bus is leaving. Go back to your frat club and don’t let the door hit you on the way out.
This article was originally published on June 9 2010
In case you hadn’t heard the story, this is what happened - a half-dozen men decided to enter the ladies event this year. Some of them dressed up as women, one used a tampon as a card protector. Pure hilarity. As you may have guessed, these were mainly very young men; Internet kids egged on by other Internet kids.
Their reasoning? Not clear. There was an explanation by one of them (Sean Deeb - a very young online player who wore a dress to the event), who said he did it because he lost a prop bet. Later he belatedly claimed he was fighting for men’s equality. Yeah, right. It was probably just some random youthful stupidity, or the early onset of life-long douchebaggery. No one really knows. The only thing that was clear is that he looked horrible in a dress.
So everyone has been pissed off by these clowns turning up and spoiling the day for many of the players. Indeed, quite a number of professionals have spoken up over the past couple of days in favour of a women-only event, and the main argument they have put forward has been this: the women’s event is good for poker. Over 1000 ladies turned up for this event. That’s right, over a thousand. So if a thousand women are willing to go to a card room to play cards against other women, then good for them. If they feel more comfortable in that format, then why stop them?
Some of the top female pros don’t like to play in it (like Jen Harman) – they only play in the open events, rightly assuming that they are good enough to play against anyone, and gender shouldn’t count. That’s their right too. One doesn’t preclude the other.
For me, if the women want it (and the numbers suggest they do) and it’s good for poker, then why fuck it up with some half-assed protest? But anyway, these arguments are all sort of obvious. The event will keep going and hopefully it will be an avenue for more women to enter the poker mainstream. And I’m all for that.
This leads me to a less obvious, though even more persuasive argument. I’d like to see more women in poker for the following reason: more women in poker means less exposed arsecracks, fewer individuals with dubious personal hygiene, and fewer morons saying “I won’t wash this shirt because it is my lucky shirt and it has been since the 2002 World Series”. That’s right. More women in the game means there will fewer men at my table and therefore a reduced chance I have to play with an obese mouth-breather eating nachos with one hand and scratching his nuts with the other. And then fumbling his cards with those hands.
This has a value that cannot be overstated. I don’t want to throw in gender stereotypes here, but I’ve never played with a woman who stank of spoiled milk and Doritos, farted loudly, and sweated profusely through the front of her shirt. But I have certainly played with men who have done all of these things.
So I’m for a women’s event because it means somewhere down the track, more women will be introduced to the game, which in turn means there will be less male arse-crack at the table.
And I have to finish by saying this - the guys who did play were not protesting against anything and are not doing this because they wanted to make a stand. They did it because they are foolish and thoughtless. If they had a social conscious and were genuinely worked up about issues of rights, then they would play the ‘ante up for Africa’ event – which, among other things, donates money to communities affected by genocide. This is what you call a real issue.
So to all you guys who ‘protested’ by buying into the ladies event? Well morons, your bus is leaving. Go back to your frat club and don’t let the door hit you on the way out.
This article was originally published on June 9 2010
Death by a Thousand C*nts
I type “Razztard” into the ‘player notes’. My opponent has done something stupid. This is my very clever name for a bad Razz player. I have a number of clever short-names like this; “Moron”, “SpasticStation”, “Checking raising C*nt” and “Bad beating C*nt”. My player notes are rich with such information.
I’m playing in PokerStars ‘Spring Championship of Online Poker'. Event 27. Razz. Good god, why I am I playing Razz? A more tedious or unimaginative game I could not imagine. Try to make the lowest hand. DUUUH. I duz has A359. I duz min-bet and take another card. Razz - a game for masochists, morons and 87-year old men.
So aggravating, so excruciating. In Guantanamo Bay I understand they used to switch between water-boarding detainees and forcing them to play all night Razz tournaments. No wonder so many people left there psychologically damaged.
So why am I playing? Oh yeah, that’s right, it’s poker. Nick ‘the Greek’ Dandalos won and lost millions gambling, and at the end of it all, he was broke and reduced to playing five dollar limit draw poker in California. When a rail bird recognized who he was and asked him how he could be content playing at such low limits after once playing for the highest stakes, his legendary answer was, “…hey, it’s action, isn’t it?” We’ll, I haven’t lost or won millions, not even close, but I crave the poker action, and though Razz may be the worst form of poker, it’s still poker.
So I played the SCOOP tournament and ended up busting 100th for around $45. Wow. 45 dollars. I keep telling my girlfriend that I’m going to ‘earn the Benjamins’ so we can retire in a luxurious ‘baller’ lifestyle. She’s not sure what ‘Benjamins’ or ‘baller’ means, but I think she’s starting to get suspicious about my extravagant claims when tournament cashes earn me 40 bucks.
But, to give myself credit, my reaction to my bust out hand was pure class. After the last card fell and my opponent revealed a better low, I immediately launched into a tirade at the poor dude, “…you f*cking cap it with a King?” I typed, smashing the keyboard, “FKN IDIOT”. Yes, another dignified exit from another online tournament.
But at least I got my money in good, right? I could be content with that. And yet, as I thought about the hand during the day, something didn’t feel quite right. I capped it when I had A26/Q/9 and he had 234/K/5. Slowly I came to the realization that I probably wasn’t ahead in that spot, even though I had the Queen against the obvious King-low. I ended up logging the hands into a Razz odds calculator online (I am stunned that such a thing even exists – who knew that 87-year old men used the Internet?) and found that I was a 65/35 underdog in the hand. Hmmm. So I’d capped the betting as a two-to-one dog. And then I berated my opponent in the chat box for several minutes for being a moron.
Nice. I guess I’m the Razztard. And a douche. I need to put that in my own player notes: “Razzdouche”.
And all this leaves me worried. Is there more to Razz than meets the eye? Are there subtleties involved? Should I hone my game, practice, look to work my way up to the next level? Is Razz a new frontier for my game?
Well, no. I’d rather be handcuffed to a chair, have my pants set on fire, and listen to Michael Buble all night, over playing another damn Razz tournament. But if I should accidentally stumble into another one – well, at least when I bust out I’ll have a better chance of berating my opponent and being right about the odds.
This article was first published ion May 21 2010
I’m playing in PokerStars ‘Spring Championship of Online Poker'. Event 27. Razz. Good god, why I am I playing Razz? A more tedious or unimaginative game I could not imagine. Try to make the lowest hand. DUUUH. I duz has A359. I duz min-bet and take another card. Razz - a game for masochists, morons and 87-year old men.
So aggravating, so excruciating. In Guantanamo Bay I understand they used to switch between water-boarding detainees and forcing them to play all night Razz tournaments. No wonder so many people left there psychologically damaged.
So why am I playing? Oh yeah, that’s right, it’s poker. Nick ‘the Greek’ Dandalos won and lost millions gambling, and at the end of it all, he was broke and reduced to playing five dollar limit draw poker in California. When a rail bird recognized who he was and asked him how he could be content playing at such low limits after once playing for the highest stakes, his legendary answer was, “…hey, it’s action, isn’t it?” We’ll, I haven’t lost or won millions, not even close, but I crave the poker action, and though Razz may be the worst form of poker, it’s still poker.
So I played the SCOOP tournament and ended up busting 100th for around $45. Wow. 45 dollars. I keep telling my girlfriend that I’m going to ‘earn the Benjamins’ so we can retire in a luxurious ‘baller’ lifestyle. She’s not sure what ‘Benjamins’ or ‘baller’ means, but I think she’s starting to get suspicious about my extravagant claims when tournament cashes earn me 40 bucks.
But, to give myself credit, my reaction to my bust out hand was pure class. After the last card fell and my opponent revealed a better low, I immediately launched into a tirade at the poor dude, “…you f*cking cap it with a King?” I typed, smashing the keyboard, “FKN IDIOT”. Yes, another dignified exit from another online tournament.
But at least I got my money in good, right? I could be content with that. And yet, as I thought about the hand during the day, something didn’t feel quite right. I capped it when I had A26/Q/9 and he had 234/K/5. Slowly I came to the realization that I probably wasn’t ahead in that spot, even though I had the Queen against the obvious King-low. I ended up logging the hands into a Razz odds calculator online (I am stunned that such a thing even exists – who knew that 87-year old men used the Internet?) and found that I was a 65/35 underdog in the hand. Hmmm. So I’d capped the betting as a two-to-one dog. And then I berated my opponent in the chat box for several minutes for being a moron.
Nice. I guess I’m the Razztard. And a douche. I need to put that in my own player notes: “Razzdouche”.
And all this leaves me worried. Is there more to Razz than meets the eye? Are there subtleties involved? Should I hone my game, practice, look to work my way up to the next level? Is Razz a new frontier for my game?
Well, no. I’d rather be handcuffed to a chair, have my pants set on fire, and listen to Michael Buble all night, over playing another damn Razz tournament. But if I should accidentally stumble into another one – well, at least when I bust out I’ll have a better chance of berating my opponent and being right about the odds.
This article was first published ion May 21 2010
WSOP Too Far Away
I stare at the monitor. It is blank. Utterly non-responsive. This is the second time I've broken the laptop.
I've just smashed the keyboard with my fist after losing with QQ v A2 on the bubble of a World Series Of Poker satellite on PokerStars. Now the screen sits there, mocking my rage with its indifference. I stand up and pace around the room, running bad beats through my head, clenching and unclenching my fists. Sure, I've only busted my laptop twice in two years, but that's twice too many.
Need to curb the tilt. Need to cut back on the keyboard mashing, the F-bombs, the frothing at the mouth. Need to cut down on chat box expletives. Need to stop scaring the neighbours, who by now must think they live next to a raving lunatic. Think about it - what would your average person, who has no knowledge of online poker, think when they regularly hear screams coming from a suburban house at 2am like, “You fucking called me with WHAT?!?” or “C********NNNNNNNT!!!” or “One time dammit ONE TIME!”
The problem is, of course, I play tournament poker online. And for the most part, only multi-table tournaments. There are few things more frustrating than MTTs. Razz? Yes, more frustrating than MTTs. Waiting for BP to plug the oil leak? Yeah that’s a bit frustrating. Men “The Master” saying “all you can eat, baby” for the 18th time? Yes, that’s quite annoying.
But a variation of the MTT tops all of these…satellites. The payout structure always sucks as the percentage of players actually winning anything is always quite small - usually less than ten percent, often less than five per cent, and sometimes there will be only one winner.
I don’t know how many times I’ve played for hours and hours, to end up with nothing at the end of a satellite. And this is the main reason satellites and tilt go together like peaches and cream; like Scotty Nguyen and Coronas; like tilt and smashed laptops.
I’ve had some results in satellites over the years, but I’ve never cracked a WSOP satellite. I played the World Series last year (through building my bankroll, not through a satellite) and I tell you this - playing the WSOP can change your poker mentality completely, as I’m sure the many Aussies are pondering as they sit on their 14-hour flights back home after their WSOP campaigns.
Firstly, you realise that tournament fields are relatively weak, even at the higher buy-in level. Yes, everyone says this, thus the name “donkament”, right? But when you cough up a couple of grand on a tournament entry and find yourself against players who don't understand the basics - how much to raise, pot odds, outs, position, hand rankings, how to spell poker - well, this never ceases to surprise me. The Poker 101 stuff is beyond half the field.
You also realise that because the fields are so weak, you can play competitively at that level. You’re competitive in close to the top tier of tournament poker in the world. You have a positive expectation against the field. Think about that.
The WSOP is addictive. You need to play again, soak in the atmosphere, the rush of live play, the fact that nothing in poker is as satisfying as making your way to the final table of a big field tournament. The WSOP is the mother of them all and once you’ve got a taste – well, you need to chase that dragon. It’s hard to come back down from that high.
Nothing is like the WSOP. I thought last year would be my first and last time (this is what I assured my girlfriend). I meant it at the time (really, I did) but now – god no. Playing last year changed my game and my outlook. I started playing higher buy-in tournaments online and live, and the thought of throwing down a grand or two for a tournament became less and less intimidating.
Now I’m not going to pretend I’m a high roller. Not even close. A thousand dollars is a lot of money, but when it comes to a poker tournament, the money becomes less and less of an issue. $4.50 for a coffee? Ridiculous – you can take your soy-milk latte and shove it, hippy. But two grand for a poker tournament? Sure, no problem.
Now think about that monetary logic and then think about what your wife (or husband) thinks about it. Hmmm.
So I hop on my girlfriend's computer and start writing up this article. The WSOP came and went and I didn’t play. I’m gutted. For all my talk in this article of plonking down a few grand here or there for a tournament, I also happen to play a disciplined bankroll, and I hadn’t done enough this year to justify a trip to Vegas. Vegas will chew you up and spit you out if you don’t have the bank roll to sustain it, and this year I didn’t.
So for those of you who made the trip – especially the Aussies – I hope your bankrolls and your games improved. But for me, as with many, the World Series was painfully out of reach. Until next year.
I've just smashed the keyboard with my fist after losing with QQ v A2 on the bubble of a World Series Of Poker satellite on PokerStars. Now the screen sits there, mocking my rage with its indifference. I stand up and pace around the room, running bad beats through my head, clenching and unclenching my fists. Sure, I've only busted my laptop twice in two years, but that's twice too many.
Need to curb the tilt. Need to cut back on the keyboard mashing, the F-bombs, the frothing at the mouth. Need to cut down on chat box expletives. Need to stop scaring the neighbours, who by now must think they live next to a raving lunatic. Think about it - what would your average person, who has no knowledge of online poker, think when they regularly hear screams coming from a suburban house at 2am like, “You fucking called me with WHAT?!?” or “C********NNNNNNNT!!!” or “One time dammit ONE TIME!”
The problem is, of course, I play tournament poker online. And for the most part, only multi-table tournaments. There are few things more frustrating than MTTs. Razz? Yes, more frustrating than MTTs. Waiting for BP to plug the oil leak? Yeah that’s a bit frustrating. Men “The Master” saying “all you can eat, baby” for the 18th time? Yes, that’s quite annoying.
But a variation of the MTT tops all of these…satellites. The payout structure always sucks as the percentage of players actually winning anything is always quite small - usually less than ten percent, often less than five per cent, and sometimes there will be only one winner.
I don’t know how many times I’ve played for hours and hours, to end up with nothing at the end of a satellite. And this is the main reason satellites and tilt go together like peaches and cream; like Scotty Nguyen and Coronas; like tilt and smashed laptops.
I’ve had some results in satellites over the years, but I’ve never cracked a WSOP satellite. I played the World Series last year (through building my bankroll, not through a satellite) and I tell you this - playing the WSOP can change your poker mentality completely, as I’m sure the many Aussies are pondering as they sit on their 14-hour flights back home after their WSOP campaigns.
Firstly, you realise that tournament fields are relatively weak, even at the higher buy-in level. Yes, everyone says this, thus the name “donkament”, right? But when you cough up a couple of grand on a tournament entry and find yourself against players who don't understand the basics - how much to raise, pot odds, outs, position, hand rankings, how to spell poker - well, this never ceases to surprise me. The Poker 101 stuff is beyond half the field.
You also realise that because the fields are so weak, you can play competitively at that level. You’re competitive in close to the top tier of tournament poker in the world. You have a positive expectation against the field. Think about that.
The WSOP is addictive. You need to play again, soak in the atmosphere, the rush of live play, the fact that nothing in poker is as satisfying as making your way to the final table of a big field tournament. The WSOP is the mother of them all and once you’ve got a taste – well, you need to chase that dragon. It’s hard to come back down from that high.
Nothing is like the WSOP. I thought last year would be my first and last time (this is what I assured my girlfriend). I meant it at the time (really, I did) but now – god no. Playing last year changed my game and my outlook. I started playing higher buy-in tournaments online and live, and the thought of throwing down a grand or two for a tournament became less and less intimidating.
Now I’m not going to pretend I’m a high roller. Not even close. A thousand dollars is a lot of money, but when it comes to a poker tournament, the money becomes less and less of an issue. $4.50 for a coffee? Ridiculous – you can take your soy-milk latte and shove it, hippy. But two grand for a poker tournament? Sure, no problem.
Now think about that monetary logic and then think about what your wife (or husband) thinks about it. Hmmm.
So I hop on my girlfriend's computer and start writing up this article. The WSOP came and went and I didn’t play. I’m gutted. For all my talk in this article of plonking down a few grand here or there for a tournament, I also happen to play a disciplined bankroll, and I hadn’t done enough this year to justify a trip to Vegas. Vegas will chew you up and spit you out if you don’t have the bank roll to sustain it, and this year I didn’t.
So for those of you who made the trip – especially the Aussies – I hope your bankrolls and your games improved. But for me, as with many, the World Series was painfully out of reach. Until next year.
Mel Brooks and the Bad Beat
I'm heads up in the Shootout event at the Aussie Millions - winner moves through to the final table and some guaranteed cash for their trouble. Loser walks. I’m facing a river all-in on a board of Q-J-9-6-7 holding Q-T. The tattooed young lady opposite of me sits back calmly, seemingly content with her huge bet.
I had flopped my first ever Royal Flush a little earlier in this same tournament. Yes, it was on the ‘PokerPro’ tables, which is almost the Internet but I’ll take it as my first Royal Flush none the less. I also experienced the rarest of rare pleasures when the other person in the pot pushed all-in. Hung over as I was, it’s a damn good feeling facing an all-in bet while holding a Royal Flush.
But the hangover had made the tournament a struggle. The night before I was drinking at Crown’s Nobu with Kelly Kim (World Series Of Poker ‘November 9’, 2008) and Peter ‘Ro-Boat’ Rho (2nd place Aussie Millions 2009). Our expensive drinks comp’ed by a patron of the gambling arts called Curley and his extravagantly bearded confederate called Punter. At one point I found myself drinking 30-dollar glasses of scotch while engaged in an intense conversation with Peter Rho on how the hell he didn’t go broke the year before at the final table of the Aussie Millions when it was three handed and he had a set of kings on a A-K-J-7-2 board with Stewart Scott holding the improbable Q-T. How can you NOT go broke there? But Peter, in a moment of genius, had flat-called a bet on the river rather than going all-in. He was explaining to me the reasoning behind the flat-call, but the Scotch I was quaffing and the Sake I drank earlier were starting to interact and I couldn’t follow what he was saying.
Toward the end of the conversation I noticed that online poker phenom Tom ‘durrrr’ Dwan and some of his mates were sitting at a table nearby. I begin to insist with Kelly and his boys that we have a poker crew smackdown with durrrr and company. Punter nodded vigorously in agreement, announcing that he wanted to ‘throw some hands’. In a drunken haze I could see nothing better than yelling “Bluff this, genius” as I front-kicked Mr Dwan in the sternum; his brittle, sun-starved, cadaver-like body snapping in half with a satisfying crunch. But Kelly declined. Fortunately, he and his boys were good guys, and not given to bouts of drunken foolishness.
Let me digress further. Antonio ‘The Magician’ Esfandiari likes to tell everyone how he hates bad beat stories. If someone comes up to him with a story – the Magician likes to recount – he just tells them ‘he doesn’t want to hear it’ and walks away. Antonio doesn’t seem to have a problem, apparently, with verbally bad-beating the rest of us repeatedly with inane and repetitive dialogue every time a camera is pointed in his general direction. He says three things and three things only when he gets his delicately plucked eyebrows and designer spectacles on the TV screen: 1) “weeeeeee”; 2) “only in America!”, and 3) “Have you played ‘Lodden Thinks?’”.
I’ve heard these phrases and watched him make others at the table play Jonny-fucking-Lodden Thinks about 300 times now and I just can’t take it anymore. Argh. Antonio - I want to watch High Stakes Poker, not listen to you speculate on how many push-ups you think Phil Laak thinks that Phil Hellmuth can do (I’ll take the under on 4, by the way). Bad beat stories are infinitely more interesting – and here’s a quote from Mel Brooks that helps explain why – “Tragedy is when I cut my finger; comedy is when you walk into an open sewer and die.” You’ve heard it all before? I don’t give a shit. My bad beat stories are the most important in the world.
So my head was pounding. I had top pair, and it was heads-up, but I still didn’t feel good about my hand; not good at all. My opponent glances over at me, casual, unworried. But rather than think it though and make a solid fold, I open my parched mouth and croak “call”. Peter Rho can fold a set in that spot; I can’t even fold top pair.
“Just a straight,” she said turning over 8-5 suited for a spiked gutshot on the river.
I slam the table, stand, grudgingly shake hands, and walk away.
Tragedy.
Now if I can just find Antonio's address so I can send him my bad beat story.
I had flopped my first ever Royal Flush a little earlier in this same tournament. Yes, it was on the ‘PokerPro’ tables, which is almost the Internet but I’ll take it as my first Royal Flush none the less. I also experienced the rarest of rare pleasures when the other person in the pot pushed all-in. Hung over as I was, it’s a damn good feeling facing an all-in bet while holding a Royal Flush.
But the hangover had made the tournament a struggle. The night before I was drinking at Crown’s Nobu with Kelly Kim (World Series Of Poker ‘November 9’, 2008) and Peter ‘Ro-Boat’ Rho (2nd place Aussie Millions 2009). Our expensive drinks comp’ed by a patron of the gambling arts called Curley and his extravagantly bearded confederate called Punter. At one point I found myself drinking 30-dollar glasses of scotch while engaged in an intense conversation with Peter Rho on how the hell he didn’t go broke the year before at the final table of the Aussie Millions when it was three handed and he had a set of kings on a A-K-J-7-2 board with Stewart Scott holding the improbable Q-T. How can you NOT go broke there? But Peter, in a moment of genius, had flat-called a bet on the river rather than going all-in. He was explaining to me the reasoning behind the flat-call, but the Scotch I was quaffing and the Sake I drank earlier were starting to interact and I couldn’t follow what he was saying.
Toward the end of the conversation I noticed that online poker phenom Tom ‘durrrr’ Dwan and some of his mates were sitting at a table nearby. I begin to insist with Kelly and his boys that we have a poker crew smackdown with durrrr and company. Punter nodded vigorously in agreement, announcing that he wanted to ‘throw some hands’. In a drunken haze I could see nothing better than yelling “Bluff this, genius” as I front-kicked Mr Dwan in the sternum; his brittle, sun-starved, cadaver-like body snapping in half with a satisfying crunch. But Kelly declined. Fortunately, he and his boys were good guys, and not given to bouts of drunken foolishness.
Let me digress further. Antonio ‘The Magician’ Esfandiari likes to tell everyone how he hates bad beat stories. If someone comes up to him with a story – the Magician likes to recount – he just tells them ‘he doesn’t want to hear it’ and walks away. Antonio doesn’t seem to have a problem, apparently, with verbally bad-beating the rest of us repeatedly with inane and repetitive dialogue every time a camera is pointed in his general direction. He says three things and three things only when he gets his delicately plucked eyebrows and designer spectacles on the TV screen: 1) “weeeeeee”; 2) “only in America!”, and 3) “Have you played ‘Lodden Thinks?’”.
I’ve heard these phrases and watched him make others at the table play Jonny-fucking-Lodden Thinks about 300 times now and I just can’t take it anymore. Argh. Antonio - I want to watch High Stakes Poker, not listen to you speculate on how many push-ups you think Phil Laak thinks that Phil Hellmuth can do (I’ll take the under on 4, by the way). Bad beat stories are infinitely more interesting – and here’s a quote from Mel Brooks that helps explain why – “Tragedy is when I cut my finger; comedy is when you walk into an open sewer and die.” You’ve heard it all before? I don’t give a shit. My bad beat stories are the most important in the world.
So my head was pounding. I had top pair, and it was heads-up, but I still didn’t feel good about my hand; not good at all. My opponent glances over at me, casual, unworried. But rather than think it though and make a solid fold, I open my parched mouth and croak “call”. Peter Rho can fold a set in that spot; I can’t even fold top pair.
“Just a straight,” she said turning over 8-5 suited for a spiked gutshot on the river.
I slam the table, stand, grudgingly shake hands, and walk away.
Tragedy.
Now if I can just find Antonio's address so I can send him my bad beat story.
Honesty in Poker
Poker is a game that glorifies dishonesty. It is a game where the lie has been raised to an art form. And I do mean art. Anyone who watched Phil Ivey 5-bet bluff Peter Jackson with Queen-high at the Monte Carlo Millions in 2005 has seen a true artist plying his trade (If you haven’t seen this classic hand - take yourself to youtube right now). Genius.
But it is also a game that is unwinnable without honesty. Without frank self-assessment; without a willingness to know the self, a poker player is doomed to failure.
“Know thyself” was the advice of that old Greek, Socrates. It was written above the entrance of the Temple of Delphi. They should put it above the door at that other great temple – the Rio Hotel and Casino, right below the “World Series of Poker” sign.
“Welcome participants in the 41st World Series of Poker: Know thyself”
Those Greeks – they knew how to win at poker before it was even invented. Maybe that’s why there’s always one in every game you play, anywhere in the world.
Poker is a skill (or an occupation) with a balance sheet. Not many other walks of life articulate so clearly whether you are succeeding, failing, or breaking even in your chosen profession. Certainly not in such clear, numerical terms. A plumber doesn’t sit down at the end of the year and say to himself: ‘well, I’m a plus 37 for plumbing this year’. An office manager doesn’t tell herself: “oh shit, the spreadsheet says I’m down 190 this year for office managing, I better get my act together”.
A hedge fund speculator certainly doesn’t correlate skill with remuneration – they may find themselves with a billion dollar loss on their accounts and still drive home (in a Mercedes) to their home (on the upper west side in New York) with their multi-million dollar pay package intact. Fuckers.
But Poker is pure. The numbers are unarguable. Are you a winning poker player? There is no ambiguity here – it’s black or white (or red). The numbers do not lie.
But you can lie to yourself. You can blame your luck, or variance, or the old Greek guy who keeps calling your raises with trash. You can ignore the numbers and announce yourself ‘about even’ on the night, or the month, or the year. Of course you can: the poker rooms are awash with the deluded and the self-deceiving.
But the numbers are always there, waiting; waiting for you to sit down and consider them in all their brutal clarity. It is not easy to consider these losses, as it almost always entails considering yourself at your worst.
I remember stumbling out of the casino after a long, long night of bad beats, bad play, heavy drinking and tilt. I’d gone through at least three buy-ins in a game that (at the time) was probably too high for me to play. Walking out into a cold, deserted carpark at 5am, I took the last chip I had in my pocket – a dirty, faded, one dollar chip – and hurled it at the gods in disgust. Disgusted at my luck, angry at putting myself in a situation where I could lose so much money; furious with the ‘inferior’ players who were now playing with my money.
These moments always burn (and it is moments such as these which, in the end, make poker worth playing - how can we truly appreciate the highs of victory without such despairing lows?) But it is these moments we should turn to our advantage. It is here, at our poker worst, where we need to ask the tough questions. Why did I lose? How could I have changed the outcome? How could I have minimised those loses? Was I just outplayed? Should I step down a level? What are my weaknesses? I always try to write a list of mistakes I’ve made after every session, win or lose.
But urging players to ‘know thyself’ at any tournament or cash game, in any poker room, is an exercise in futility. And lucky for me that it is. For without the dishonest, the perpetually self-deceiving, without those living an unexamined poker life, I would never be able to grind out a meager profit.
This is what it really should say at the WSOP:
“Welcome participants in the 41st World Series of Poker: Everyone wins a bracelet”
Ahh, Dishonesty. It makes the poker world go round.
But it is also a game that is unwinnable without honesty. Without frank self-assessment; without a willingness to know the self, a poker player is doomed to failure.
“Know thyself” was the advice of that old Greek, Socrates. It was written above the entrance of the Temple of Delphi. They should put it above the door at that other great temple – the Rio Hotel and Casino, right below the “World Series of Poker” sign.
“Welcome participants in the 41st World Series of Poker: Know thyself”
Those Greeks – they knew how to win at poker before it was even invented. Maybe that’s why there’s always one in every game you play, anywhere in the world.
Poker is a skill (or an occupation) with a balance sheet. Not many other walks of life articulate so clearly whether you are succeeding, failing, or breaking even in your chosen profession. Certainly not in such clear, numerical terms. A plumber doesn’t sit down at the end of the year and say to himself: ‘well, I’m a plus 37 for plumbing this year’. An office manager doesn’t tell herself: “oh shit, the spreadsheet says I’m down 190 this year for office managing, I better get my act together”.
A hedge fund speculator certainly doesn’t correlate skill with remuneration – they may find themselves with a billion dollar loss on their accounts and still drive home (in a Mercedes) to their home (on the upper west side in New York) with their multi-million dollar pay package intact. Fuckers.
But Poker is pure. The numbers are unarguable. Are you a winning poker player? There is no ambiguity here – it’s black or white (or red). The numbers do not lie.
But you can lie to yourself. You can blame your luck, or variance, or the old Greek guy who keeps calling your raises with trash. You can ignore the numbers and announce yourself ‘about even’ on the night, or the month, or the year. Of course you can: the poker rooms are awash with the deluded and the self-deceiving.
But the numbers are always there, waiting; waiting for you to sit down and consider them in all their brutal clarity. It is not easy to consider these losses, as it almost always entails considering yourself at your worst.
I remember stumbling out of the casino after a long, long night of bad beats, bad play, heavy drinking and tilt. I’d gone through at least three buy-ins in a game that (at the time) was probably too high for me to play. Walking out into a cold, deserted carpark at 5am, I took the last chip I had in my pocket – a dirty, faded, one dollar chip – and hurled it at the gods in disgust. Disgusted at my luck, angry at putting myself in a situation where I could lose so much money; furious with the ‘inferior’ players who were now playing with my money.
These moments always burn (and it is moments such as these which, in the end, make poker worth playing - how can we truly appreciate the highs of victory without such despairing lows?) But it is these moments we should turn to our advantage. It is here, at our poker worst, where we need to ask the tough questions. Why did I lose? How could I have changed the outcome? How could I have minimised those loses? Was I just outplayed? Should I step down a level? What are my weaknesses? I always try to write a list of mistakes I’ve made after every session, win or lose.
But urging players to ‘know thyself’ at any tournament or cash game, in any poker room, is an exercise in futility. And lucky for me that it is. For without the dishonest, the perpetually self-deceiving, without those living an unexamined poker life, I would never be able to grind out a meager profit.
This is what it really should say at the WSOP:
“Welcome participants in the 41st World Series of Poker: Everyone wins a bracelet”
Ahh, Dishonesty. It makes the poker world go round.
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