Monthly Archives: March 2007

I don’t know how long he’d been there before I arrived. Clearly, if his stack was any indication, it’d been a while.

Sporting a blue shirt with the word Dayton screen-printed on the left, the man in the one-seat confirmed what I’d suspected when I overheard him say, “I worked for Dayton Tire for eighteen years, was laid off… now I’m in the oil field – pipe and rigging.”

The Dayton Tire lay-off was a by-product of the GM plant closing several months ago. It was one of a few ancillary businesses that were dependent on GM, most of which closed down when the auto plant closed its doors. We’d seen many of the laid-off workers through our doors in the last months, now unemployed and facing a difficult road back to gainful employment.

Most of the workers were folks who’d played their cards right, maintaining loyalty to a company that rewarded them with good wages, good benefits and the promise of a comfortable retirement. They were long-term employees who’d been given a bad-beat due to the market downswing of GM products.

It’s part of my job to help unemployed folks get back into the workforce. It’s heartbreaking to have a person sitting across from you wondering how they’re going to get back into the labor market without skills that can compete.

I was glad to hear that the man in the one-seat wasn’t in need of our services. He was one of the fortunate ones, able to transfer his skills and possessing a will to move on and not look back.

He was fairly stoic, stocky and had hands that were portraits of a life of labor. Bloodshot eyes kept a continuous gaze on the flat-screen tv behind my shoulder.

His playing style was loose-aggressive. Playing a lot of hands, coming in for a raise most times, he managed to steal a lot of orphaned pots, steadily adding to his stack. He was careful not to push it too hard, if he thought he was beat he backed down.

A short while after I arrived, the six-seat was filled by a gentleman who appeared to be of Japanese decent. His small frame was clad in a brown corduroy jacket and his right hand sparkled with a simple diamond and platinum ring. His face was lined with the kind of character that is so intriguing of one from the Asian culture.

He played tight, only getting involved in pots with big cards. This man didn’t speculate. It only took a few hands for him to have $400 to $500 in chips stacked in front of him, which he had no problem adding to over the course of the evening. The interesting thing was – his lack of aggressiveness. While he wasn’t timid about betting big, he consistently cold called each bet into him, rarely raising.

I danced my way around both of these players, content to grab my pots off the tight fella on my left or the “any two cards can win” Republican on my right. I was having a good time and was pleased with my play (I’ll ignore, for the time being, the blundering bad play with a set of nines), slowly building my own stack.

After a few hours, the one-seat had over $800 in front of him and was beginning to make noises about going home. He’d had a good run, something I had the feeling was long in coming. But he wasn’t ready to go home, just yet. He had at least one more hand left to play.

He opened the hand with his typical $15 raise. We folded around to the gent in the six-seat who called. The flop came Q-3-2, two spades.

The one-seat bet out $50. Six-seat thought a moment, then called. I squeezed my brain cells wondering why he’d cold-call with top pair. Why not re-raise? Or was he on the flush draw?

The turn was a four. Unflinchingly, the one-seat dropped a black chip onto the felt. The rest of us turned our intent gazes onto the six-seat. He slowly pushed out a stack of reds, cold-calling the $100 bet.

Another queen landed on the river. The one-seat, with an almost imperceptible shake of his head, checked. The six-seat said, “All-in.” We held our breath as we turned our attention to the one-seat.

He looked crushed – the six-seat had him covered and he knew he was beat. I expected him to fold his over-pair, but something inexplicably compelled him to call. At that moment, the rest of us at the table stood up. There were now over $1,700 in the pot which demanded a little respect, I guess.

“Show me a winner,” the dealer charged. The one-seat flipped over his red kings, the six-seat showed his ace-queen off-suit.

The one-seat was as stoic with that loss as he had been while he played all evening, taking his bad beat in stride, but not without disappointment. I was left wondering what had compelled him to call. I watched him walk away, he didn’t look back.

One might see a metaphor of the times in that hand. But it was just a game and, as it is with all games, there are winners and there are losers.

The next three people to occupy the one-seat ended up leaving empty handed. I can’t help but wonder if a winner won’t be seen there until our friend from Dayton Tire returns, as I have no doubt that he will, and that he will have no trouble bouncing back.

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