LAS VEGAS — Believe it or not, there was a plan: look intimidating at the poker table, stone-faced, distant, a little weird, even.
On went the only hoodie I own, a chunky pair of headphones. Never mind the “Wicked” soundtrack played on the iPod or that I slurped some raspberry concoction called “Go Girl” my partner had picked me up as a joke. Nobody needed to know.
To top it off, I needed a “thing,” like 2006 World Series champ Jamie Gold’s affinity for blueberries or Dennis Phillips’ ubiquitous St. Louis Cardinals cap. Weight Watchers be damned, Good N Plenty would be my thing.
This was my only chance to play in anything close to a WSOP event, a media tournament held Wednesday in the same Amazon Room at the Rio, where this year’s field of more than 6,800 players had been reduced to about 1,800.
Those brave and/or foolish souls had spent $10,000 for their shot at an $8.5 million top prize; the 130 scribes in our contest plunked down nothing and could, at best, walk off with a trophy and an iPad2.
I’d played in small-stakes cash games at home — cost me $40 every damn time, too — and my proudest moment even vaguely related to the green felt was the time I won $100 off the great Doyle Brunson.
In Vegas, there are poker tournaments several times a day at most casinos, so in the days leading up to the media scrum I entered three: Sam’s Town (of The Killers album name fame) for $35, Bally’s for $75 and Bill’s Gamblin’ Hall, formerly Barbary Coast, for $30.
At Sam’s Town, a sweet-seeming old biddy wearing a purple headband she knitted herself busted me out with relish. I nearly got into a fistfight with a drunk dude at Bally’s who insisted I hadn’t said the word “raise” loud enough, but a Danish fellow next to me had my back and I won the hand. I lasted the shortest at Bill’s, four hands, proving that I had learned nothing at all for my efforts.
No strategy and no confidence is what I brought to the table, a miserable combination. On each player’s seat sat a copy of Annie Duke’s new book entitled, “Decide To Play Great Poker.” All I could think was, “Too late!”
It was pretty clear from the start, though, that my attempts to seem bad-ass were futile. Most notably, I sat next to a surly fellow named John Mastalir of Las Vegas Entertainment News, who was naturally grumpy and obnoxious. His antics swiftly reduced my little act to a charade.
Mastalir was quite abusive to the dealer. Early on, she made a joke, only to earn this growl: “Was that supposed to be funny? Was it? Huh?”
Later, when another dealer forgot to raise the blinds, grouchy Mastalir berated him, “How ‘bout I just pay attention for you?” He was making everyone uncomfortable, so I said, “This is supposed to be fun, you know,” to which he shot back, “Not for me, it’s not.”
I outlasted about four people — including Mastalir! — and stuck around for 40 minutes. I didn’t bust anyone, but took a nice pot on a bluff by just forcing a steady stare at the cards on the table.
Then, my hand of reckoning. Pocket nines. I raised the pot a bit. Someone else called. The flop was worthless to me, but I still felt good. I bid up. He called again. The unhelpful turn card came. The sinking feeling set in when he raised enough to force me all in. We showed. He had a pair of aces, including one from the flop. The river was irrelevant. I was out.
My big regret: I didn’t even say, “All in.” I just meekly shoved my sad remaining stack forward a few inches and waited for my likely end. I lost, the dealer swept my chips to my slayer’s pile and I stood up. Nobody even turned to bid me farewell. They were checking their next hands.
There is an intriguing postscript. Annie Duke played in the media tournament — and won. In the process, she sort of undermined the need for a 450-page compendium of lessons.
She didn’t want to win. She was late for dinner plans, so she kept trying to bust out. She went all-in on purpose with crap hands just to be excused. And each time, improbable cards came to rescue her.
Too bad there was no one there to rescue me.
— Steve Freiss is a freelance writer based in Las Vegas
On went the only hoodie I own, a chunky pair of headphones. Never mind the “Wicked” soundtrack played on the iPod or that I slurped some raspberry concoction called “Go Girl” my partner had picked me up as a joke. Nobody needed to know.
To top it off, I needed a “thing,” like 2006 World Series champ Jamie Gold’s affinity for blueberries or Dennis Phillips’ ubiquitous St. Louis Cardinals cap. Weight Watchers be damned, Good N Plenty would be my thing.
This was my only chance to play in anything close to a WSOP event, a media tournament held Wednesday in the same Amazon Room at the Rio, where this year’s field of more than 6,800 players had been reduced to about 1,800.
Those brave and/or foolish souls had spent $10,000 for their shot at an $8.5 million top prize; the 130 scribes in our contest plunked down nothing and could, at best, walk off with a trophy and an iPad2.
I’d played in small-stakes cash games at home — cost me $40 every damn time, too — and my proudest moment even vaguely related to the green felt was the time I won $100 off the great Doyle Brunson.
In Vegas, there are poker tournaments several times a day at most casinos, so in the days leading up to the media scrum I entered three: Sam’s Town (of The Killers album name fame) for $35, Bally’s for $75 and Bill’s Gamblin’ Hall, formerly Barbary Coast, for $30.
At Sam’s Town, a sweet-seeming old biddy wearing a purple headband she knitted herself busted me out with relish. I nearly got into a fistfight with a drunk dude at Bally’s who insisted I hadn’t said the word “raise” loud enough, but a Danish fellow next to me had my back and I won the hand. I lasted the shortest at Bill’s, four hands, proving that I had learned nothing at all for my efforts.
No strategy and no confidence is what I brought to the table, a miserable combination. On each player’s seat sat a copy of Annie Duke’s new book entitled, “Decide To Play Great Poker.” All I could think was, “Too late!”
It was pretty clear from the start, though, that my attempts to seem bad-ass were futile. Most notably, I sat next to a surly fellow named John Mastalir of Las Vegas Entertainment News, who was naturally grumpy and obnoxious. His antics swiftly reduced my little act to a charade.
Mastalir was quite abusive to the dealer. Early on, she made a joke, only to earn this growl: “Was that supposed to be funny? Was it? Huh?”
Later, when another dealer forgot to raise the blinds, grouchy Mastalir berated him, “How ‘bout I just pay attention for you?” He was making everyone uncomfortable, so I said, “This is supposed to be fun, you know,” to which he shot back, “Not for me, it’s not.”
I outlasted about four people — including Mastalir! — and stuck around for 40 minutes. I didn’t bust anyone, but took a nice pot on a bluff by just forcing a steady stare at the cards on the table.
Then, my hand of reckoning. Pocket nines. I raised the pot a bit. Someone else called. The flop was worthless to me, but I still felt good. I bid up. He called again. The unhelpful turn card came. The sinking feeling set in when he raised enough to force me all in. We showed. He had a pair of aces, including one from the flop. The river was irrelevant. I was out.
My big regret: I didn’t even say, “All in.” I just meekly shoved my sad remaining stack forward a few inches and waited for my likely end. I lost, the dealer swept my chips to my slayer’s pile and I stood up. Nobody even turned to bid me farewell. They were checking their next hands.
There is an intriguing postscript. Annie Duke played in the media tournament — and won. In the process, she sort of undermined the need for a 450-page compendium of lessons.
She didn’t want to win. She was late for dinner plans, so she kept trying to bust out. She went all-in on purpose with crap hands just to be excused. And each time, improbable cards came to rescue her.
Too bad there was no one there to rescue me.
— Steve Freiss is a freelance writer based in Las Vegas
