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Before I return to my shining, cashing, WSOP glory, I want to take a moment to send my condolences to the Woods family. I did not know Michael, although, like everyone else on this site, I happened to casually exchange a few words with him in the tournament lobby a handful of times. He always seemed incredibly generous, responding to everyone, even the schmucks, with frankness, humor and grace. At a time when words fail, the best I can say to those who knew and loved Michael is: I am very sorry for your loss and hope that sooner, rather than later, the grief subsides and what remains are memories that make you smile. Michael, I'm sure, wants the cards to keep flying, so I'll return to my story.
Of the 2891 entrants who began the day, we were left with 277 who would go home with more cash than they walked in with. The happy money haze cleared and we went back to business. I continued to build my stack, winning a few small pots. I was no longer avoiding confrontation; I just couldn't find any. No longer satisfied with small pots, I wanted, as my best friend Karen constantly admonishes, to "Go big or go home." No one, however, wanted to play with me. I decided I must be playing too tight, so I mixed it up a little and stole a few, but still no shot at a big one.
Shortly after we made the money, a player was moved to our table. I knew he was a famous player I'd watched on TV, but I couldn't put my finger on his name. It started to drive me insane. The guy tried to buy a few, missed some flops, gave away a bunch of chips and then our table broke. As we collected our chips, I turned to the player next to me and said, "Who was that guy?" He looked at me like I was an idiot and said, "Gavin Smith". I paused, and then responded. "I wish he'd be a little more careful with his chips. That guy's on my fantasy poker team."
Cheerleader girl went crazy when I turned over my hand.
My new table was a live one. You'd think we were at a blackjack table on a Caribbean booze cruise. These guys were loud, rowdy and having a grand old time. A perky blond woman, about 40, was leading the band, screaming, cheering and rooting every single hand. Even the ones she wasn't in. A few short hands after I arrived, I was the big blind. Everyone folded to the button, who pushed all-in with his short stack. The small blind folded and I looked down at queen-ten off-suit. I sat back. This guy needed to make a move and found himself in the fortunate position to be first in the pot on the button, with only the blinds to beat. I decided he would have pushed in with almost any hand. I might be behind, I might be ahead, but in all likelihood, I at least had live cards. His stack was about a third of the size of mine. Against a random hand, I decided queen-ten was worth risking a third of my stack, and called. He turned over ace-three off-suit. Cheerleader girl went crazy when I turned over my hand. "OH MY GOD!!! THAT IS MY FAVORITE HAND!!! QUEEN-TEN IS THE BEST HAND!!! I LOVE QUEEN-TEN!!! YOU'RE GOING TO WIN!!!" I'm glad this girl wasn't at the final table when Robert Varkonyi won. She would have punctured a lung. I missed the flop, but perhaps willed by this girl's overwhelming enthusiasm, the queen made her appearance on the turn. I quietly shook the guy's hand while this girl did cartwheels around the table. I promise you, I am exaggerating only slightly.
I saw nothing for the next long stretch. The guy who moved into the button was a serious bully, raising my blind every time he had the chance. I wanted to take him on, but saw nothing better in the blinds than 9-2, 7-4, etc. He may have folded to a scary re-raise, but I just didn't want to risk it with such crap. I didn't even see anything suited. Finally came the announcement, "Players, we will play one more round. When each player at your table has had the big blind one more time, play will end for the night." The news was met with one collective sigh of relief. It was 1am. We had been playing since 11am and most of us could barely see straight. Even the red-bull-gulping crowd looked like they might fall over. A player at the table suggested we all just fold to the big blind and come back fresh tomorrow. Half the table agreed and half the table didn't answer. I would have done it if all nine of the others wanted to, but I wasn't big on the idea. I didn't want to miss a chance to build my stack just because we were all tired. You never know which hand is going to be the one that makes a difference.
I was finally going to be initiated into the secret brotherhood of the bag people; an official member at last.
The first nine hands of the last round were all the same - one player raises, every one else folds. I continued to see rags. In the very last hand of the night, I looked down at ace-queen of diamonds in early position. Dad has a superstition about the last hand before any break, but I just couldn't stand not to play, especially after all the crap I'd been seeing. I raised, and the fellow in the big blind just happened to be the blind-stealing bully. He looked at me grumpily, "I thought we were going to let everyone keep their blind." Without missing a beat, I came back with, "I thought so too, until you took mine." He looked sulkily at his cards and folded as the rest of the table laughed.
It was time to bag our chips. I was thrilled. I was always envious of the people who made it to the second day of tournaments, the "bag people". I'd be starting a tournament, my stack looking an awful lot like the rest of the table, and see across the room the lucky few who had survived a field that began the day before. They'd sit down, open their big plastic bags and stack their chips, usually winners already. I wondered what the process was like. Do you bag your own chips? Do you count them yourself? I was finally going to be initiated into the secret brotherhood of the bag people; an official member at last.
Although I can't reveal all, or they'll cast me out or worse, I can tell you this; while making the second day of a tournament is awesome, the actual bagging process was not quite all I imagined it would be. Most mysteries are more intriguing left un-solved. Still, I think we can all agree with this truth: It is ALWAYS better to be a bag person than not. I left, exhausted and happy.
By the time we got back to the hotel, Cardplayer had the stack counts. With my $24,100 in chips, I was just below average, but really right in there with the majority of the pack. There were 139 of us left and most of us were with a few thousand chips of each other. One big blind made a difference of twenty or so places. I knew I would have to hit some cards, but I was definitely in this thing. We had survived to the third money level at this point, guaranteed about three thousand dollars. I had visions of walking away with a whole lot more than that, though!
Too late to call anyone, I sent out some e-mails and finally wound down enough to go to sleep. Thankfully, play wasn't to resume until 2, so I could sleep in and have a nice lunch before any cards were out again. My parents got busy on the phone in the morning, so the good luck wishes were pouring in by the time I woke up. It was certainly a nice feeling. At 2, I was in my seat. We did not redraw for seats the night before, so the button was in the same place, cheerleader girl was cheering anew and I was ready. A whole bunch of people dropped right away. The table broke, so I would have to learn new people yet again, but the good news is we got to the next money level fairly quickly.
The player was about as nice as he could be and the dealer looked like he was going to cry.
With the blinds and antes eating away at our stacks, pretty much everyone had to hit a hand. I missed one flop with ace-jack and didn't see anything else for a little while. There was a young guy in seat ten. In one hand, the action came to him. He looks at his cards and I can tell by his body language that he likes them. He puts a chip on top and contemplates a raise. The dealer, without looking down to see the chip protecting the cards, gathers them into the muck. I was sitting directly across, had been watching everything carefully and was the only one to see. I yelled to stop the guy, but he was quick. The player grabbed them out of the muck, the dealer stopped him and the floor was called. The rule is, once the cards hit the muck, they're folded. This guy, however, had protected his cards as he was supposed to. The floor picked up the cards and let the player whisper what they were into his ear. Unfortunately, the dealer had shuffled others into them and only one was the right card. Pocket kings gone. The player was about as nice as he could be and the dealer looked like he was going to cry. I heard a few days later that the dealer had been fired. I felt bad for him. You could tell it was an honest mistake. Unfortunately, that honest mistake came at a crucial point in a tournament when a player had a critical hand. No telling what would have happened there.
A very lucky, very aggressive kid was cleaning up in seat two. He was calling when he shouldn't, raising when he shouldn't and sucking out left and right. About an hour into the day, the gentleman to his right, a generally tight player, raised in first position, implying strength. Lucky guy flat calls. The action folds to me and I look down at pocket kings. It was time; I pushed all in. The first raiser thought about it, then folded. The player in second position asked for a count. He was told it would be twelve thousand more to call, which was a decent chunk of his stack. Without missing a beat, he called. I was shocked when he turned over ace-ten of diamonds. Was this guy kidding me? He calls a first position raise in second position with ace-ten, a horrible decision already, then calls an all-in? The first position guy says he folded ace-jack. I get up and begin to gather my things. The guy has only two outs, not counting the diamonds, and I know he's going to hit one. Well, I was wrong. He hit both. An ace came on the flop, and just for good measure, the last one showed up on the river. I turned to the guy in seat ten and said, "I wish they'd mucked my kings," and followed the runner to the loser's table. Lady Luck had left my side. The poker Gods had decided I'd had enough fun (and are still shunning me, by the way - stories to come). I was stunned and steaming. NATO be damned - at that moment, I was very, very attached to outcome.
He chose the wrong moment to bother me.
As I stood in line waiting for my $4209 consolation prize, I received a text from the always awesome jmpulido in Venezuela. As I was texting him about my bad beat, a rent-a-cop approached me. The official rule is no cell phone use in the Amazon room. There are, however, hundreds, sometimes thousands of people in the room at once and only one schmuck in uniform whose job it is to walk around telling them to get off the phone. It's a completely futile effort. He chose the wrong moment to bother me. I snapped, "why don't you go bother the five hundred other people on the phone and leave people who just got knocked out of a tournament alone?!?" He argued back, "you see that guy over there?" I look. It's Sammy Farha playing in a high stakes cash game. "Sammy? Yeah." He had no idea who he was. "Well, that guy's playing fifteen thousand dollar hands and I told him to get off." I retorted, "I'm sure he's winning some of them, too. Shoo."
Yelling at the rent-a-cop made me feel a little better. He really picked the wrong group of people to mess with. I'm sure I was much nicer than some of the big angry guys would have been. Some of the steam released, I started to calm down and realized that I had actually done quite well. I finished 105 of 2891 and started the ticker on my WSOP earnings. I had some of the best fun of my life. I had gotten in with the best of it. Despite a horribly played hand very early on, I'd survived and flourished. Funny how a bad beat is only a great injustice when it happens to you. Cheered up even more by a little retail therapy in the WSOP store (t-shirt "I Bought This Shirt With Your Money" and a registered player card protector for me and dad, spectator one for mom), it was time to get back on the horse.
For me at least, the #17, $1000 No Limit Hold 'Em event, was over.
E-mail me at brittani@hollywoodpoker.com - come on in, the water's fine :)
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