Books Fail Me Yet Again

This post is from early in the history of out poker game. I stopped doing the "It's biblical" bit a long time ago because everybody had stopped laughing. I'll give it a few years, and then I'll bring it back out again.

It’s pretty clear: all my fancy poker learnin’ isn’t doing it anymore. No matter what techniques and strategies I use, I’m not winning the big pots like I used to. It’s time to put the books away. New poker strategy? Get them drunk. In service of this new strategy, I first stopped at the neighborhood grocery store on the way to Friday night’s game in order to pick up some limes for the Coronas I was going to purchase at the local liquor store. I get to the liquor store, and it’s locked up tight with a little handwritten sign taped to the inside of the doors: be back in five minutes. Great, the one time that goddamn liquor store is closed in all the years I’ve driven by it is when I need to get my friends really, really drunk.

I, myself, stopped drinking because I got tired of waking up after having slept under people’s cars. SUVs have plenty of room underneath, but they let too much cold air in. True connoisseurs know that the VW Passat gives you the right balance of coverage, clearance, and wind-blocking capabilities, especially if parked near a curb. Also, you feel kind of classy waking up underneath such a well-built and aesthetically pleasing vehicle. No, actually, I’m one of those nerds who doesn’t drink or smoke. I do, though, love to snort Ajax. It’s a good buzz. That end-of-the-world burning in your throat and stomach? The burning’s just the Ajax cleaning you up all pretty inside. And, really, stomach linings are overrated. The convulsions? They’re convulsions of cleanliness, and totally worth it.

Respect to Ivan, Respect: At the start of the game, Ivan bought in for thirty, which was ten less than his usual buy-in. He burned through that in a hurry. He bought in for another twenty-two. Twenty-two? That was what he had left in his wallet. He burned through that pretty quickly, too, which was bad for him, but good for us. We were all expecting him to buy in again, but he just sat and watched for a little while. Finally, he said that he was going to leave. Leave? My man, Ivan, poker player deluxe and programmer/designer of this here site, leave? Leave he did, and we debated whether he would come back. We were all pretty sure that he would return shortly, but that seemed less and less likely the longer he was gone. We were getting ready to give up on him, but Ivan’s hardcore, and he finally returned, twenties in hand, ready to take care of business. Now, Ivan’s burned through his money on other nights, said that he was done, but always bought back in. And this is the thing: every time that he buys back in, he always makes money. Even if he ends up down for the night, he gets much closer to even than he had been when he took a break. Ivan ended up making thirty dollars, which was an eighty-dollar turn-around from when he took his little break. Respeck.

It’s Biblical: Ozzy is a really good poker player, so being heads-up against him is already bad enough. To top it off, he is also my big bro, so that makes those confrontations even more difficult. Every time that everybody else folds out and it’s him against me, I always say, “Brother against brother. It’s Biblical,” you know, to get religion and Christ involved. Which one of us is Cain and which one is Abel? Whichever one does the ass kicking, that’s my brother. A big part of poker is understanding your opponents, and on this he will always have me beat. Think about it. He’s seventeen months older than I am, so, in the sense that he had cognitive function before I did, he’s “known” me longer. For at least the first year of my life, when I was as cognizant of the world as a dish rag, he could have been studying me the whole time, eyeballing me as I crawled around like a turtle, looking for tendencies, habits, and defects in my bravery and character. It’s not fair, goddamn it, it’s not fair.

Bad Beat of the Night: We’re playing Omaha, and I’ve got some medium-highs singles. There’s a fifty-cent value bet by Jesse behind me, but we all call it. The rainbow flop (three different suits: club, spade, and heart) gives me a monster hand, the nut straight to my ten. Very few cards are going to be able to hurt me, so when Jesse bets the max, two dollars, I re-raise the max. We lose Bert, Ozzy had already left because he was double-booked, so we’re down to three: Ivan, Jesse, and yours truly. Fourth street is a low heart and doesn’t look like it was of much use to anybody, unless somebody paired it for a second pair or completed a set (three of a kind with two of your hole cards) with it. Somebody having just made a set or two pair is actually good for me, because the odds of them hitting for a boat or four of a kind are slim, and if they bet it up, I’ll pull more green from them. I bet it, Ivan calls, but Jesse folds. We’re heads up and I feel pretty good. Fifth comes down, and it’s a heart that doesn’t pair. It’s of no use to anybody at the table, I don’t think, unless somebody was on a runner runner flush draw, but with these bad-ass players and with the money it cost to catch, who would be? The thing about Omaha, though, is that you can be playing one hand and accidentally hit a better hand on fourth and fifth that you weren’t even thinking about. I had done it earlier in the evening when I made a four-flush to my king on the flop, completely missed the flush, but made a nearly unbeatable straight to my nine and got paid off pretty decently. Maybe Ivan had paid in to make one hand but had ended up making another. And, at this point in the game, Ivan had been in the middle of his comeback streak, and sometimes players on a roll will stay in pots they would ordinarily get out of. They’ve got money to play/attack with, so they’ll try to drive you off of your hands. They also have a psychological advantage. They’re up, you're down, and everybody knows it. They can get you to fold just because they’re in your head. But Ivan, it turned out, wasn’t trying to drive me out or punk me; he was just putting his money in to see what would happen, even though he had rags the whole way. What happened? Ivan, who had been on a miracle draw the whole way, hit runner runner for a flush to his king of hearts, taking the pot, and a little bit of my delicate soul.

Poker Problem: Who's gonna ride your wild horses?

(For Christ's sake, don't snort Ajax.)