Change100 at PokerWorks

It was paycheck Friday. Not for me, as we freelancers become quickly accustomed to pay schedules with the irregularity of the busted cuckoo clock hanging in my parents’ living room, but for most of the working world, the fifteenth means payday and that blissfully full feeling of temporary financial reprieve. And for the degenerate gambling population of southwest Los Angeles, that typically means a trip to Hollywood Park to blow some percentage of that check on poker and ponies. Wanting to check out the $6-12 game, I ventured into the gangland of Inglewood, armed only with my meager bankroll, though brass knuckles might have been a weapon better suited for the game I was about to enter.

When I sat down, the game consisted of me, three older women, and four black guys. I lost a couple of small pots early when my draws failed to materialize, and won one monsterpott with a set of eights on a ten-high flop. The guy on my left slammed his pocket queens on the felt as I dragged a nice portion of his stack. I thought about quitting right then, up about $130, but thought, that’s not even 11 bets and I’ve been here less than an hour. I had a good read on the table and was playing well. So I stayed.

Once the dinner hour rolled around, the three women left one by one and were replaced by two more black guys and one Mexican guy. The Mexican sat on my right and like me, bought in for two racks and like me, stacked them in five towers of forty $2 chips each. He knew all the dealers and we got into a conversation about where we liked to play and stay in Vegas. He blushed when I asked him which Sin City strip club was his favorite.

I limped in late position with K-T. 5 people were already in the pot, as usual. The older black guy in the big blind raised and everyone called. 7 handed to the flop, $84 already in the pot. The flop was pretty good for my hand. T-7-4 rainbow. The BB bet, everyone called and I raised. Everyone called again. Turn was the 3h, the second heart on the board. The BB checked, everyone else checked, I bet $12, the BB called, and one other guy called. The river was the 9h. We all checked around. I turned over my K-T. The MP guy looked at his cards and mucked. The big blind turned over only a T. The dealer looked at my hand, back to his hand and then at the pot.

“Oh, wait what’s this under here?” he quipped as he slipped the corner of an Ace out from underneath the ten. The dealer pushed the pot to him. I was fuming.

“Sir, do you know what a slowroll is?” He pretended not to hear me as he stacked the pot.

“Excuse me sir. I’m asking you if you know what a slowroll is?”

“What you getting on my case about? I beat you.”

“I don’t care that you beat me. I care that you slowrolled me. That’s not cool, man.”

Usually at this point in the conversation is where someone at the table would agree with me and jump to my defense. The dealer, a fellow player, anyone. Looking at the faces of the seven guys now staring at me (my friendly neighbor was walking), I realized that there was no way it was going to happen on this hand. And, that if I went any further with this argument, there was a good chance that my personal safety was in jeopardy.

The Slowroller looked at me, laughed in my face, and continued stacking as he muttered something to his neighbor that made him laugh as well. The dealer was already pitching out the next hand. I put on my iPod and tried to forget about it. He was a shitty player and would bleed that pot back to the table in no time.

About an hour later, I held Qc-Jd on a Jc-9c-5c flop. The turn was the Qh. The Slowroller bet, I raised, and the players between us folded. He called. The river was another baby club. He checked and I checked behind. I flipped over my queen high flush.

“Nice hand. Just pocket kings.” He set the king of diamonds on the table with one hand and held onto the second card with the other, flashing it to his neighbor.

“Oh wait… is that the king of clubs?”

He slowrolled me again. The dealer pushed him the pot again. He laughed hysterically again. And again, no one said anything.

“Man, you have no class” I said, as I slipped on my iPod headphones. He jawed something back at me, but I couldn’t hear him over the Raconteurs’ “Steady as She Goes” which seared into my eardrums at maximum volume. I played to my blind and then went to get a Pink’s hot dog.

It was not my night. Being emotional is my Achilles’ Heel as a poker player and I knew as long as that fucktard was sitting there with my chips in front of him, I’d never be able to totally recover.

The $6-12 at Hollywood Park is an expensive game. They really should call it $18-6-12, because it’s difficult to see a flop for fewer than three bets. Here’s how it usually goes: 5 people limp in and one of the blinds decides to raise with a hand like A-J offsuit. I say stupidly, because a value raise is pointless at this juncture, because that raise will not make anyone fold, and only succeed in giving the entire table the right price to draw to almost anything on the flop. Everyone calls of course and then the button, who could have anything from the 8-9 of hearts to pocket aces makes it three bets to build even more of a pot. So, after everyone calls the three bets, there is a $126 pot out there that will be bet into for $6 on the flop, pricing the entire field in with better than 20-1 odds. The turn is when a couple of them decide to abandon their “pair draws” that have not materialized, but others have picked up straight and flush draws on the turn that they are still priced in to chase by virtue of the pre-flop action. The typical winning hand is a rag two pair, or a runner-runner straight or flush.

I came back from my hot dog break to find that the Mexican now had eight of those 40-chip stacks and that my nemesis was pulling another $60 minimum buy-in from his wallet. I played maybe three more orbits and The Slowroller ran through those chips in no time, but unfortunately, none of them were pushed my way. I remained completely card-dead and left $172 loser after five hours of play.

The players in this game were terrible, with the exception of the Mexican who played a solid, aggressive style and was lucky enough to hit a few hands. It was definitely worth taking a shot at it, though it was far more volatile than I expected. Coming back to playing live in L.A. has made me long for those limit games at Red Rock and Green Valley Ranch. Even the tourist-infested ones at the Mirage. It’s a major, major difference when there are four players in every pot at a ten-handed table than when there are seven or eight in the pot at a nine-handed table. The former is far better suited to my style of play.

I’m going to try and squeeze in one more cash session before I leave for the WSOP. Probably at Commerce, probably at $4-8 and definitely outside of double jackpot hours.

This entry was posted on Monday, May 21st, 2007 at 12:25 am and is filed under Uncategorized.