When I don’t hear from Sergio, I figure I am free for the evening and return to the WSOP. I’m getting to know the temporary pool of visiting players, a sort of circus of two-five action. There’s Daniella the Columbian. Josh the Firefighter. Levi the pro. Abdul the goof. Lots of other now familiar faces. One has flown all the way from India for the series. Lots of Japanese thanks to some sort of vlogger-organized junket. They cross-pollinate the Ladies Event; I play against one who is madly aggressive, another who is too sweet to exist.
I’m early enough to see one of the tournaments in action. The convention hall locusts with chip riffling. Blank faces wander in and out, stunned by their last hand or ready for a new one. Usually, I’m in too late for much activity, arriving when the Paris is more like the end of a concert. Come late enough and the staff emerge to pick up the trash and posters and strangely ejected items of clothing. Some sort of post-tourney debrief of dealers happens in the rebuy zone.
The games and my results don’t change much, despite cracking positive for the series. I lose weird pots when fish overplay hands like 54o and KJs for stacks. In one case, Abdul the shortstacker insists we run it twice, which isn’t allowed. Still, the dealer obliges his demand and so do I. It’s a small pot but he gets there twice. I’ve lost a nice win thanks to these shenanigans. The bossy Dane from the first week resurfaces in my brain: I had pointed out that running it was not allowed, thinking to protect the dealer. This guy was so exasperated with me it was amazing. He sighed and moaned and chastised me for interfering as if he’d been putting up with me all his life. I’m his small, retarded brother and he’s had it. I have not seen him again, this perpetual poker uncle. And where is tip security guy? Somewhere in the crowd, or did he just not have enough patience with all of us?
I don’t worry about my father that actively. I do what I can. The Poker Dad pieces are my way of coping with him and his condition; sometimes “art” really does, if not transcend, provide relief. However, this night I have the most miserable nightmare about him, wherein my sister and I lose track of him in some medieval labyrinth of a suburban university. We have foolishly let him wander and now cannot find him, nor can I even move through the tiny halls and doors and departments. My sister finds some evidence of his activity, shifting large sheets of paper. We yell and scream for him but no one helps and we cannot find him. He is gone.
It’s time for the Ladies Event. I see couple of transwomen in the field; I had wondered earlier what will happen when their presence finally upsets the applecart. Then, ideas become reality: Aubrey, a face I know from the Borgata, wins a big pot and catches some flak. Of course, all that matters is that the ladies accept him as one of their own. It is a matter of intention, which is interesting. Had Brandon really played, some may not have liked it, as he would be a satirical addition. At the same time, wiser players don’t mind the additional prize pool. All of this means that the accepted social preference is to genuinely feign womanhood to get the ladies’ price.
When I turn on the stream later and Aubrey is again featured, the censor can’t work hard enough, deleting even the most innocuous comments from those surprised to see a man playing the event. If they had held the tournament on July 4th, perhaps the WSOP worriers would have realized the implications of this sort of thing; instead, we see an amateurish rush to manufacture opinion. Of course, the Ladies’ event throws a spotlight on a lot of questionable play and on female psychology, yet if I were to type that in chat, it would not have been censored. Or maybe, it would have been, which isn’t really any better! In fact, at one point, someone types “freedom of speech is not allowed in the chat” and it is immediately removed!
My dream, meanwhile, has forced me to confront a more painful truth than the gender wars ever could: my life will yield no further joy for my father. He is there, but not there. Even if I could bend the universe to my will and have a family, he would not really know what is happening.
As nights of play pass, another bad beat with ace-king when my face-up opponent pays the turn to catch his ten percent. He leads huge and I fold the straight. It’s irritating that he would even think I’m going to pay him: more sour grapes as big wins elude me, again and again. I have to wonder, too, at how easily I had won during the last couple years.
Had I really been running that well? Have I overestimated myself? Yes and no. Situations change. Few samples are consistent representations of themselves; yes, even numbers lie. Above all, the texture of the games change. I don’t have my game three times a week anymore and the new players in it are far tougher than the Resorts World batch. My hours at Wynn declined as the Caesars games exhausted me, in a brutal exchange I didn’t plan. So far the theme of the WSOP cash games has been what, perhaps players not folding, realizing more equity, and driving up the swings? I’m not sure what’s going on yet.
For the cash-only player, the tournaments represent temptation. Why should I play for such small beer when I could be going for what’s “up top”? And they all have such a great time, it seems! For a few moments, anyway. (And there was a moment for me to have taken them seriously, when money and so much more was on the line.) The tournaments, above all, are a poker player’s way of wish casting: tell me what you desire, says the djinn.
Of course, the most realistic output of the tournament is little or nothing. That has always struck me, and so I forsook them. It doesn’t mean I was right. I have issues. I have no faith. I don’t want to owe or be owed: the culture of staking seems like a trap to be avoided. I don’t want to chase the dragon and stumble out of the room blankly, checking my schedule for the next rollercoaster and the ping from my ever-curious backer.
I don’t want to be seen, I want to pass. I am the problem, not the product. I come and go when I please. I am the wandering djinn, not the wish caster. So I must be patient, stay my course. Hypocrisy would break me and my little bankroll. There will be no Jeff Platt handshake, no photo with two random cards and swappers waiting for me to take them to Nobu. I want to head out with my tiny win at four in the morning and be alright.
+1082
