It’s difficult to write about poker when you don’t play. And perhaps I’m naive, but I get the sense what I had for lunch isn’t gonna float your boat.
So I played poker tonight. For you. Dear Reader. And for me.
I signed up for the $28K after a long weekend of semi-debauchery (in the non-gam00000ling sense). A long weekend of beverages, company and driving an Effing Truck. That’s right. Like a Peterbilt. Long haul. Eggs sunny side up in sloggy diners near dirty locales.
Or, a Toyota with radient friends riding shotgun, feet propped on the dash and giggles in the air. Your call.
So, where was I? the $28K. I’m gonna cash. Unless the Earth decides to stop rotaing on its axis, this assured, being as we are on the bubble and my stack is safe. Not big, but safe, as the blinds have just passed me by in the manner of the Angel of Death seeing the lamb’s blood on my door jamb. What is interesting is I’ve gotten here without benefit of good cards and I tend to be a player who needs cards, at least on a sporadic basis.
Fully 70% of my current stack was achieved at Level I, where I flopped trips in the BB against a min. raise who had the misfortune to be fucking stupid enough to min. raise on the button with 88. I suppose he initially liked the 552 flop, though less so when I re-raised him all-in. He called nonetheless. Since then, it’s been reads and guile that grew (minimally) my stack enough to stay alive through hour two (plus a level).
The last I played, a week, 10 days, lifetime ago, the results caused me to shut it down. I’m a big believer in positive mental attitude when you play any game, let alone one in which money is at stake. Twice in the first hour, I stared at JJ, got multiple callers and saw three overcards on the flop. Three. When forced to cast my meager lot with AK, 66 easily faded my overs. And it was what I expected. Hence, it was returned. Poof. Gone.
Tonight, I played for fun. I have always maintained that a white-knuckle insistance on the drop of a card rendered that card against me. Whether it be a penny game with my friends or high-stakes blackjack, I have ALWAYS cashed out more chits when the money was not an object, not a device accounted for, meticulously, in my head.
“I’m down $40.” Counting money at the table.
I recently had occasison to recount one of my finest moments at a poker table, not because of the racks taken to the cashier, but for the totallity of enjoyment which the experience gave me. As I told the tale, I realized winning and cashing and money was not the part that really gave me the buzz. It was the fun.
I do not aspire to poker greatness. I did, I think, at one time. I want to do my best every time I play. That is simply part of my competitive instinct. My Pride. Deadly sin notwithstanding.
All of which is secondary to the experience. I’ve known that all along. I’ve resisted it because it’s a cold hard bidness. There’s no room for melancholy or rose-sniffing or grand works. It’s down to results. To money.
It’s hard to say. That I’m not cut out for sharp percentages, steely glares or the Bottom Line. It’s liberating, though.