2019 World Series of Poker: I have arrived, May 29
Getting the lay of the land; eyeballing Negreanu, Seidel and Lamb; trip down memory lane to Circus Circus; registration line goes further than the eye can see; practicing my poker face.
I’m going through airport security with money split up in an array of different places. A couple grand in my wallet, a stash buried at the bottom of my back pack, some more hidden … none of anyone’s damn business. Good news is, stacks of green paper do not set off alarm bells at the airport security X-ray machine. TSA is my friend. I’m just a harmless looking old guy. Of late, people have started holding doors open for me at restaurants, banks, etc. Young kids who don’t know me have started calling me “Sir.”
As for the cash, I’m not a drug dealer trying to launder bricks of cash. I’m not part of a card counting team bringing in heaps of cash to beat the blackjack tables when the count is juicy. Nor am I a beard acting as a front for a sports betting syndicate with large bundles of cash to get in action at the sports books in town.
I have less than the $10,000 trigger that will get me jammed up by security, but more than I’d normally feel comfortable carrying. I’m a wannabe poker player headed to the World Series of Poker. I’m about to pop my WSOP cherry. Playing it somewhat safe, I’ve got only part of my tourney bankroll on me. The rest is in a big-named bank with branches in both my hometown and Las Vegas. I’ll hit the Vegas branch halfway through my stay. While I’d like to believe I will make a deposit at that time, poker gravity/reality says I will be asking for a withdrawal slip. It’s the direction money flows in Sin City.
Another kid, another dr---, scratch that. I haven’t been a kid for a long time. Another gray-haired guy, another dream. As poker crushers have gotten younger the last couple of decades+, I am swimming against the current. I am 57 years old, although I’d like to believe I am 57 years young. Maybe my mirror is foggy. I guess I’m here to find out. But if you take a look at me, I look more like a guy who will split a pair of 3s at the Blackjack table, and less like someone who will check raise on the river with nothing but a strong sense of imagination underneath his card protector in a poker tournament.
My flight lands in Las Vegas from Chicago. I don’t have a terribly wide-ranging itinerary in mind. I’m here to play poker. Nothing else. After I get my suitcase, I go to pick up my car rental (very inexpensive) and I drive to the Signature where I will be staying. I booked my hotel through Airbnb, which means no resort fee and no parking fees. An early win. Even so, the rates are somewhat more than might be ideal if I were hyper focused on ROI. My approach is this is a poker trip, but I want some niceties. I view this trip as I would if you could buy your way into Wimbledon or The Masters. Here at the WSOP, I will be playing in the same tournament as the best players in the world which I find cool and, surprisingly, not intimidating. Plus, unlike Wimbledon or The Masters I actually have a puncher’s chance if I catch a raging-hot deck. In Wimbledon, I would lose 6-0, 6-0, 6-0 to a qualifier. Every day of the week and twice on Sunday. At the Masters I would finish so many shots behind the last-place finisher that an accounting firm would be needed to tally how many shots back I’d be. But at the WSOP, if I get AA vs KK or if I flop the world in a big-blind special I am going to see a whole bunch of chips come my way against even the best players in the world. Yes, I know those lightning-in-a-bottle hands are not sustainable, but you get the point. Amateurs can go on epic runs in poker on occasion in ways not possible in other professional sports.
I arrive at the Signature. Check in is easy. I get to my room/mini suite and make sure that the promised refrigerator and safe are in fact in place as advertised. They are. The accommodations are very nice. I don’t bother to unpack. I head back downstairs, have my car brought out of (free) parking, I tip the attendant and I head to a nearby grocery store. I load up on basics: bread, peanut butter, jelly, lunch meats, drinks, chips, etc. While I’m not averse to paying extra for a nice room, I see no point in paying the thumb-on-the-scale, absurd prices that I have heard get charged for food at the RIO during the WSOP. Included in my suitcase back at the hotel are a backpack, a thermal bag and ice packs to keep snacks and lunch fresh throughout the poker tourney days and nights. If I make dinner breaks, I am mostly an Earl of Sandwich type of guy.
I drive back to the Signature, unload the groceries, and now it’s time to head over to the Rio. I figure out how to get to the giant (free) parking lot in the back. I head in and feel like an excited tourist (try not to show it, try not to show it) as I see the WSOP branding on the steps and entrance. A few weeks earlier I had made a reservation at an upscale restaurant for tonight figuring I wouldn’t have a chance to do so during the rest of my stay, but a few days ago I had a change of heart and canceled the reservation. I figured my time tonight would be better spent getting the lay of the land at the Rio. Find out where the bathrooms are, get an idea where the different ballrooms are in relation to each other, etc. I wander around a bunch, see where everything is, marvel at the vastness of the ballrooms which for the time being are almost entirely empty. I am pretty content to walk around, look at stuff. Walk around some more, look at more stuff.
At this point, I figure it’s time to get signed up. I ask a WSOP employee where to go and he tells me where to go to sign up for a Caesars Rewards Card, which will let me buy into tournaments, as well as where to go to buy in to the actual tournaments. The line for the Rewards Card is surprisingly short and fast moving. Maybe 15-20 minutes. Then I see a line that goes on and on and on and on to buy in to tomorrow’s initial flight for the Big 50. I know from Two Plus Two that it is more optimal to get in line late at night when there shouldn’t be as many people. I figure I’ll come back later when the line is shorter.
Instead, I find out where the $10,000 Super Turbo Bounty No Limit Hold’em tournament is being played and I head over to gawk. The field seems pretty small and the people watching behind the ropes are not especially numerous. Either people aren’t in town yet, or those that are can all be found in the massive line to buy in to tomorrow’s event. I see Erik Seidel, Daniel Negreanu and Ben Lamb playing in the high roller event, but I’ve never been much of a celebrity gazer. When I was a kid, everyone knew I was a big sports fan, so people were constantly bringing me autographs from famous athletes. I’d politely thank them, but I was thinking, “It’s a piece of paper with a name scribbled on it. And it’s not a check. What the heck am I supposed to do with it?” I remember once, my dad called me. He said he was at his bank and he had someone who wanted to say hi. Next thing I know I hear a man say, “Hi, I’m Ernie Banks, how are you doing today?” The thought going through my mind was, “I’d love to see Ernie Banks perform on the baseball diamond, but what am I supposed to talk to him about?” Later that night at dinner my dad said, “I thought you’d be more excited to talk to Ernie Banks.” Celebrities just aren’t my thing.
I watched Seidel, Negreanu, Lamb and others for about five minutes, but you can’t see the cards from behind the ropes so the novelty wore off fast. Turns out that those five minutes would be relevant eventually in the trip, but more on that later. I decided I would head back to my hotel, dump my rental car, explore the strip and then come back later at night when presumably the lines to buy in to tournaments will hopefully be shorter.
Back at my hotel, I get rid of the car, and I started walking the strip. I take in the overdose of neon lights that are everywhere. With no WSOP tournament to play at the moment, I act like a tourist and search for stuff like the Fountains of Bellagio, the Treasure Island Pirate Show, the Mirage Volcano, etc. OK, good, got that out of my system. Before I head back to my hotel, I decide I need to see one more thing. As a kid I went on a trip to Las Vegas a million years ago. We stayed at Circus Circus. At the time I thought the high-flying circus act above the casino floor and the dazzling array of arcade games on the outer circle around the casino floor were magical. I was so dominant at a game where you used flippers to make a ball go to a points area that made wooden horses move toward the finish line that I eventually won a huge gold horse with a clock in the middle. My first Vegas accolade. For reasons I do not begin to comprehend, Hendon Mob does not acknowledge this initial Vegas score on my part. Back to the present day/night, it was a long walk and the hotels started getting less and less impressive as I made my way toward Circus Circus. I finally arrived, went inside and let’s just say that present day reality did not hold a candle to my fond childhood memories. What a dump it had become. I guess sometimes memories are best left as memories.
Disappointed for the first time on this trip (would it be the last time?), I then made the long walk back to my hotel, had my car brought up and headed back to the Rio to buy in to tomorrow’s Big 50 tournament. As I drove, I patted myself on the back for making the veteran move to come back late in the evening when the lines would be shorter. I went inside the Rio and found the line … which was … longer than it had been earlier in the day. It was massive. So, I got in line and waited. Just like everyone else. Just another schnook in a long line. Sigh. It took two hours to get to the cage. I couldn’t figure out why they wouldn’t have more employees working the cage when there was such a long line. People were there ready to spend their money. When people are begging to hand you their money, TAKE IT! The entrepreneur in me couldn’t understand the lack of planning. Oh well, I thought, it’s just the first night. Surely it will get better.
Yes, I was a rube, a newbie, a country bumpkin who did not know any better. You can stop laughing at me now. OK, fine, you can keep laughing at me. The lines to the cage, of course, did not get any better most of the 12 days I was there. Live and learn. Or should I say wait and learn. Eventually I got to the cage, someone did me the monumental favor of taking my money, and I was one step closer to playing against the big boys.
As I drove back to my hotel, I visualized all of the A-A, straights, flushes and full houses that were surely on the horizon for me. Dare to dream. I’m not going to lie. I was pretty excited. I was going to have to do something about that so my opponents didn’t make me out for the inexperienced rookie that I in fact was. Time to work on my bored, been there done that facial expression. As I took the elevator up to my room, I couldn’t stop grinning. Damn.