Near dawn at the WSOP, one card away. The tournament section has long gone quiet, but the cash desk and the staff directors are humming; poker goes on, long after the cameras are off. I’m playing more of these hours, and more often, trying to expose myself to profitable games even when I’m not in the zone.
It’s been a struggle of a series, nearly an embarrassment: what pathetic numbers I am posting! Still, I’ve come back from being stuck tonight and overall, as well. It’s the riptide of a downswing still rushing, where I lose and then come back, lose and then win.
The straddle is back in a big way, an undercurrent bringing hidden problems few acknowledge. Tonight we’ve gone from a manageable 2/5/10 all the way to /20/40/80. It’s hard to overcome, and you can be dealt out of any spots very easily. I’ll lose over a fourth of my stack in straddles alone during one stretch, before committing to a dumb shove and getting some, well, straddle-back. The truth is that I should really not be in this game: the bankroll does not support it, no matter how “good.” I’m being short-sighted and choosing to follow the wrong priorities.
My efforts, though, are not good enough for one dude who seems, at first, to want to gamble. He might be the biggest asshole I’ve ever played with, yet one who paradoxically conducts himself in such a way that it’s not too annoying; definitely eye-opening for those of us concerned with the zoology of the poker pool. With an absurdly supervisory voice, he confronts me, asking how many flops I’ve played. In truth it’s an empty interrogation. He’s accusing me of essentially nothing more than not playing the way he wants me to. Yet, as with Tip Security guy, I am a little too aggressive in countering him, perhaps taken by surprise: my tone is not quite perfect. He’s half-right, after all: I’m not playing a lot of hands. How can I? The straddle kills action by making many hands unplayable, mainly working in situations where the players are already inclined to gamble. So, while I haven’t folded anything good, I’m not winging it in like a fool, either. He’s not getting what he wants from me.
Straddle Gent keeps at it into the small hours, policing anyone who is not putting the forty on. We have a value-oriented Englishman who is talking a bunch to give the impression of action, and a Japanese player who is not even humoring the table; he even sits out of the bomb pots. I’m somewhere in the middle of the table’s straddle numbers, putting the twenty and even the forty on, but stopping there. Straddle Gent won’t cease making his requests, however, even feigning to not understand that someone might not want to put in eight or sixteen times the blind dead or be prepared for the subsequent SPR pancake. I like him in spite of his asininity; he’s unusually transparent and straightforward in projecting his interests above everyone else’s. This is his comfort zone.
I’m just a squirrel, a house cat, focused on my own singular goal, zeroing in like a small predator upon even smaller prey. I know a lot about poker but am no great player. I do my thing, and I’m where I want to be, just one card away. I’d already planned my morning: groceries, reading over coffee somewhere, and a trip to the bank. If I dodge the five percent equity my opponent has in this final hand at 2/5/10/20, the deposit will even mean something. I’ll be well up for the series and won’t worry about the bills for a month.
I only need to pay for a modest life. I don’t do anything fun. I do have my passions: I read, write, and cook. I suppose my eating is the only real pleasure I have. I’ve quit alcohol, cigarettes, even the vape. My woman is long in the wind; I rarely even dream of her anymore. The body chemistry could be better: I have the appetite of an active person, left over from a busy life which is now a literally sedate one. (Yes, a life of chairs; a poker player is a lay expert in seats, cushions and their effect upon the ass and spine.) I’ve even skipped out on the tournament life, too – one of the main themes of this blog series – and am missing out the best excitement poker has to offer, if not the unlikely riches. I’m Joey Knish with a laptop.
It’s noble work, I hear. Tonight I will be out of the casino by four a.m. but it’s really too late for anything particularly good to eat. I don’t want to see the unimpressed face of the guy at Roberto’s who hates everyone or hear him mumble whatever it is he always confronts me over. I’d already had an omelet at the Christian Omelet Retirement Home on Decatur; can’t go there again yet. Instead, I make a rare visit to a Jack in the Box, now truly scraping the bottom of the barrel to save a few dollars. It’s not the best but goes down well. The patty is overcooked and grey, but the fries are hot and salty and crisp. I eat them in the car while they can still singe the tips of my fingers.
One card. I’ve flipped up my hand, like in a tournament, because I know this is it, the spot, this five bet all-in. I’ve been stealing enough to float all the stupid straddles Gentleman Straddle demands of his workers. Getting it good like this is part of the whole poker strategy.
Good on the flop, good on the turn. It’s just one card. The enemy has two outs, one time. I don’t even really see the final card when it’s dealt because the dealer seems to want to hide it from me, to protect me, curving it behind her palm.
A moment before, Straddle Gentleman had returned to his subject with unbelievable gall. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but I don’t think you’re actually playing enough hands” he begins, in the tone of a performance review. I have to look into his eyes now, really see how this successful VP works his magic. I remember the wonderful Hitchens anecdote, when some dirtball in a restaurant wanted the booth he was sitting in with Martin. The hippy leaned over and started, “You’re going to hate us but…” Hitchens didn’t wait to rip into him: “We already hate you.”
I tell Boss Straddle to back off. I’m in awe of him, though: there are just some people who are too used to getting their way. I’m convinced he must be the CEO of some small but successful company where no one dares defy him, the man who makes it rain, the man who can put his hands on the secretary’s shoulders. It’s always been a problem for me, this split in how humans work. I was raised to think of others and to sacrifice while simultaneously being a disagreeable person. Lamb of God meets aspiring alpha stuff. Terrible for the young man but good for society.
Here it comes. What is five percent, really? It’s nineteen to one judged as an event. It’s taking Norway in the Cup. It’s a longshot horse you can make a fortune on but never have the money for. You are about five percent likely to experience synesthesia, where one of your senses becomes confused with another. It shouldn’t happen much.
The card comes out on the river. That was the spot, this was the action I needed, yet it was my fault for ever agreeing to such stakes. I have been irresponsible. I feel that one headache coming over me. The colors change into smells, my brain beats like a heart. I wish everyone good luck. I will drive, not too long, just until my eyes hear nothing and I find that fast food joint. I am President Straddle’s worst and former employee.
+1495
“It’s always been a problem for me, this split in how humans work. I was raised to think of others and to sacrifice while simultaneously being a disagreeable person. Lamb of God meets aspiring alpha stuff. Terrible for the young man but good for society.”