I was left to my own devices
Many days fell away with nothing to show
And the walls kept tumbling down
In the city that we love
Grey clouds roll over the hills
Bringing darkness from above
But if you close your eyes,
Does it almost feel like
Nothing changed at all?
And if you close your eyes,
Does it almost feel like
You've been here before?
How am I gonna be an optimist about this?
We were caught up and lost in all of our vices
In your pose as the dust settles around us
Oh where do we begin?
The rubble or our sins?
Oh where do we begin?
The rubble or our sins?
And the walls kept tumbling down
In the city that we love
Grey clouds roll over the hills
Bringing darkness from above
But if you close your eyes,
Does it almost feel like
Nothing changed at all?
And if you close your eyes,
Does it almost feel like
You've been here before?
Pompeii -- Bastille
“A 10k is a race. A marathon is an experience. An ultra is an adventure.” - Bryan Hacker
April 4th, 2013
A casual jog on a Friday afternoon turned into something more. Less than a mile into Golden Gate Park, I felt some discomfort in my left foot – the new trail running shoes I’d ordered still needed some breaking in. I predicted it would be a short one.
An hour later I found myself jogging along Ocean Beach, simultaneously calling my roommate to drive out and drop off an energy bar and some Gatorade. Close to ten miles in I realized I needed some fuel in order to explore the depths of my endurance.
Three hours after that, I jogged around the corner of Fell and Masonic St. back to my apartment nearly thirty miles in, feeling boundless at the fact that I wasn’t close to spent. Ultrarunning legend Dean Karnazes calls it The Run – it’s the one you come home afterwards as a different person. To me it seemed as if a new athletic door had opened.
June 21st, 2013
I head back into the Bellagio in the evening, primed to jump into 10/20. I walk to the back podium off to the far right of the room, and see the “upstairs” section close up for the first time. Four tables sectioned off with stain-glass walls that crawl halfway up to the ceiling give a certain element of superiority to the games that run here. While the section is certainly trumped in elegance and exclusivity by Bobby’s Room, a two-table room fifty feet away complete with couches, its own doors, and never a game with a minimum buyin lower than something like $10k, I’m excited to get to work up the two stairs where 10/20 seems to be played.
Unfortunately there’s a long list. I get on it but the desk suggests I jump in 5/10 as well while I’m waiting. I’m quickly seated in the smaller of the two limits and buy in for the fairly low 150bb maximum of $1500. A casual looking table with nobody seeming entirely set on winning every hand, I ease into the session with a few 3bets and pick up a couple small pots.
A half hour later I 3bet on the button to a UTG open with two red aces. The opener, a well-groomed guy of about thirty examines my stack before 4betting my 120 to 340, leaving something like 1k behind. I tank for 15 seconds or so before declaring all-in, and am awarded with a call some thirty seconds later. The board blanks out and I table my hand just as the floor lets me know my 10/20 seat is available. UTG mucks, and I rack up 3k before walking upstairs.
The chip denominations at the Bellagio are odd, at least to me. 2/5 plays with $5 chips which seem very standard, but 5/10 plays with $10 chips, and 10/20 has their very own $20 chips. Additionally, $5’s are the standard red, $10’s are a darker orange, and $20’s a lighter orange. To make matters much worse, the $20’s are only distinguishable from the yellow $1k chips upon closer inspection – and my acute colorblindness doesn’t help. When I sit down at 10/20 my $10 racks are whisked away and replaced with $20 chips, a denomination that will take some getting used to.
The table has a noticeably different vibe that takes all of two orbits to recognize. The clearly non-professionals are at a minimum seasoned gamblers, if not reasonably good at hand reading and finding spots to bluff. Limped pots are fought for, and 3bets are the norm - not some alarming play that screams of a big pair. The biggest difference to me, however, is how elevated the average player’s table presence is. Compared to the lower limit games, careful scrutiny seems to be given to each decision by nearly every player, and when you put in a reraise somewhere, it’s likely your opponent will take some time to size you up.
Regardless, I start playing pots quickly and things begin on a good note. I flop a set after opening 99 and get three streets of value from a larger gentleman who peels off each call from a thick stack of bills that form a lean-to on the back of his black chips.
I tighten up yet win a few preflop pots with timely three-bets, while continuing to observe the more calculated nature of these games. The most important piece of information I pick up on after an hour at this table is simple: people respect the mere idea of a bet. Put money in the middle, and the thought process is one of discovering why you a hand, not if you do, or even sometimes, what you have.
I adjust by ramping up the aggression. With a little over 5k, I flat QJhh in the big blind to a seemingly snug young player who gives me the impression he isn’t entirely ready to get out of line or even comfortably play big pots. Having not played any five figure pots in something like four years, I realize perhaps in some sense I’m not conditioned to do so, but in another sense I can’t wait. He continues on a rainbow, one heart 943 and I checkraise to 340.
The initial four seconds of a tank in a pot where not folding might involve playing for stacks can define a player. The nature of his disposition, to the observant, will imply much about his approach to the game. Some might seem confident about their ability to correctly make a big call or fold on later streets, while others apply their energy to simply avoiding making a mistake – which usually means finding a big fold.
He calls and the beautiful ten of hearts adds to the other three board cards, giving me a straight draw and flush draw. Not only is this a trivial continuation bet, but any sixth sense he might have about my own confidence will only discover that I’m not worried – I’ll bet the turn here a dozen times in a row even if I keep losing. Six black chips and a $20 cascade forward, his eyes following them as they literally advance towards his stack. But his calm tells me this isn’t a sign to yet give up whatever part of his flop bet/calling range he’s holding. I’m met with a call.
The river is an offsuit king, and I have the nuts with a credible bluff range to represent, partially because backdoor hearts missed and secondly because there aren’t too many hands I’m valuebetting here. The bottom of his range seems to be something like A9, JT, and also other hands like queens or jacks are possible although less likely as I block a few combos. KT or K9 is snapping me off; how often is a ten herocalling? What hands bet/call – is there merit to trying to checkraise? How often is he raising sets here, and how often does he even get to the river with one? If I check does he turn any hand into a bluff?
I don’t find a clear reason to check, so I make a standard bet of 1580 and await my fate. He thinks for a while before asking a dream of a question, “how much are you playing?” I slide my hands away from the view of a little over 2k, not bothering to respond verbally. It seems prudent to give away as little as possible, and balance in these spots with my entire range. Continuing to riffle with my left hand, the chips thankfully require being put to good use as he declares all in while sliding a stack of black chips forward. He shows me a set of kings and I respond with the bad news.
I cash out a $9.2k profit after eight hours and am given two Bellagio $5k chips typically referred to as “flags”, realizing that coloring up is more efficient for high stakes players than counting dozens or often hundreds of bills. Perhaps this will become the norm.
Yeah, the $10 and 20$ chips drive me nuts there.
My most common games are 40/80 and 80/160 mix and LHE and they throw me for a loop.
Good read so far, and good choice to color up. Always best when going to be frequenting the property, as long as you have somewhere safe to store them.
Do you play the 10/25 at M8trix?
Just noticed that the sequel is up. Very happy to see it.
I am super impressed by your writing. As a military man who moves every few years, I was amazed by what I thought was an excerpt on "The Curse of the Traveler," so I followed your footnote to find the original work. I was super surprised to note that you'd written that dialogue from a precis of the issue in a Reddit post, as I was pretty sure that I was about to find a great novel that it came from. Amazing.
Feeling my way through the darkness
Guided by a beating heart
I can't tell where the journey will end
But I know where to start
They tell me I'm too young to understand
They say I'm caught up in a dream
Well life will pass me by if I don't open up my eyes
Well that's fine by me
So wake me up when it's all over
When I'm wiser and I'm older
All this time I was finding myself
And I didn't know I was lost
I tried carrying the weight of the world
But I only have two hands
Hope I get the chance to travel the world
But I don't have any plans
Wish that I could stay forever this young
Not afraid to close my eyes
Life's a game made for everyone
And love is the prize
So wake me up when it's all over
When I'm wiser and I'm older
All this time I was finding myself
And I didn't know I was lost
Wake Me Up -- Avicii
September 2001
I don't believe this is happening, and I'm vocal about it. Enough so, that my father walks onto the court and lets me know no more will be accepted. We switch ends and I swill down a few ounces of Gatorade so quickly that I figure, unconcerned, I might've almost drowned myself in the stuff. I walk back to the baseline to start the third set, still breathless at the fact that not winning in straight sets even left open a discussion. The 12&Under city championships were mine to win. And I'd let nobody touch me en route to the finals, where I may have been a little more fearful of the potential - likely - fact, that I'd be playing the dangerous #2 seed.
My younger brother.
I won the first set 6-3, and something happened in the second, leaving me with a 6-1 loss to take the match to a third and final set for the tournament. How can this happen? I'm the f*cking best! Everyone ought to know, and hear, about the ungodly travesty unfolding here, the ridiculous half hour where I lost six out of seven games.
We begin the third set, and I maintain my composure to regain some amount of momentum. But he's grown up playing with me, and has developed a consistency to counter my aggression and power. He might not miss. The few long games to start the set imply that this might go down to the wire and before I stop to look up, we're tied at 4-4 in the third.
He goes to the line to serve, and I realize I'm hungrier. He wants it, but I need it. He uses tennis, I'm fueled by it. He misses his first serve, and I decide that I won't lose this match. His second serve floats long and I realize I might not even need to win it; he'll just need to lose it.
I break him at 30-40, and switch sides with more adrenaline and focus than I can remember having, before stepping to the line and hitting the biggest serve of my life. Three points later he calmly shakes my hand, and the pressure is off. Returning home, the trophy and pride resting neatly on my bookshelf, it's not until later that night while having dinner with our coach and parents do I discern some sort of resolution from the situation. The contentment of everyone in the room but me, coupled with knowledge of the curious fact - that we both won a total of thirteen games, provokes a wonder in my young mind as to the nature of how we keep score.
June 22nd, 2013
Two solid wins under my belt, I awake to a text message from my younger brother. He's playing his first bracelet event, the Saturday $1.5k. After the first break he's a little under the starting stack, but somehow I'm not concerned as a tendency to run hotter than the sun usually compliments his thoughtfully nitty tournament style.
By 4pm I have a 10/20 seat and feel comfortable, over 500bb in the black on the trip and looking to continue to do some damage. The $3k I buy in seems ideal; I'll start off a session aggressive and if I get stuck, it's only 150bb I've managed to hurricane off. I lose a few small pots and drop a single yellow chip on the top of my 2.2k stack, leaving me 160bb and in for 4k. After nitting it up a few orbits, I 3bet the button and get a fold, then 3bet the next hand with two jacks to a MP open. He seems wary of the fact that I 3bet two hands in a row, yet appears careful not to read too much into it. He calls and we see a three club J74 flop.
He checks and I fire a bit more than half pot after a few necessary moments of faux-deliberation. He doesn't appear interested in giving up, and makes the $260 call. An offsuit ten hits the turn and he checks again. Continuing of course, I bet $640 and he asks what I'm playing after a studying the black and orange chips a few inches over the line. I have about $2k behind. He makes the call and we see a harmless three of hearts complete the board. He checks again, and I think about the optimal amount of time to tank before declaring all-in. Eventually I verbalize the decision, and slide a token stack of chips forward for the cameras while a plastic red ALL IN button flops down next to the bet. He glances over at the button, but when the decision registers, his quick and enthusiastic call makes me worried.
I don't even have to table my hand as he shows me AQcc, and I muck. Hopefully this is good for my image; there aren't a ton of hands that I can be value betting, given his two big clubs. I rebuy for 4k and tighten up a bit, but manage to pick up a few pots and make a good call with second pair against what clearly looks like a whiffed draw.
My brother texts me asking about dinner advice - he's made the third break in the $1.5k at the Rio with a below average $6k stack. I tell him to run across to Gold Coast as Subway or the chinese place there are the best bet, and wish him luck.
The next few hours I play a number of pots and despite a few unsuccessful bluffs, continue to chip up. Not much happens aside from the regular texts messages from my brother, and debates about what stack size is the best for reshoves and how deep you need to be to raise/fold. Unfortunately he loses a flip soon after and busts a few hundred from the money.
By midnight I'm about even, 350bb deep and at a table that is a comfortable mix of passive, somewhat predictable players, a few regulars, and one or two spots.
I open two sevens UTG and get four callers to the Vietnamese regular sitting in seat 9, who looks over at my stack past the dealer before calling. We see a 874 two spade flop, and it's checked to me.
I fire 280 and am called in two places. The turn is an offsuit ten, something of a blank. The big blind checks again and I bet 960 this time. The older man in middle position recognizes he's reached his financial limit for the current runout and folds, giving the BB an option. He looks over at my stack a second time before reaching for calling chips.
They splash in, and I look over. Something's odd - there aren't enough black chips. I see two lighter yellow chips and realize they aren't the $20 denomination as soon as the dealer spreads the bet to reveal that I've been check raised to $2480. Of course I take my time to figure out what the hell is going on here, but it's immediately clear that there's no play but calling. The red white and blue flag on the top of his stack doesn't merely rest there; it commands it, constricts it... qualifies it - he covers me. Before this hand, content to having worked for five hours to get back to even, I realize I'm again plunging off the deep end into what appears to be shark-infested waters. He's too confident; this isn't ill-advised. But it's not clearly strong or weak; he knows what he's representing and he either has it or hopes I believe it.
I make the call, and the river is an offsuit nine. He asks how much I'm playing while peering over to my stack, and seems satisfied with what he sees before I verbalize anything. I wait, still in the dark about the types of hands he ought to or decided to checkraise the turn with, and with what hands he's going to opt to shove the river.
A small stack of chips is tossed forward, with a $5k exclamation point.
I try to run through the ranges and come to the conclusion that he has more Jx than I do on the river - but whether he chunks it in is another story. Baffled and startled at playing such a big pot out of nowhere, I take a bit longer than expected, and he calls the clock on me. Fairly sure I'm folding, I sit with the riffle chips as the floor comes over and informs me of the sixty seconds I have to decide whether I want to play a 16k pot.
Surprisingly, I dont fondle my cards in standard folding foreplay, and it gets me thinking about how I'm perceived. Pots this big haven't been played recently, and an obviously seasoned veteran who was so effortlessly detached to the value of that white chip must recognize how an unknown player like me will tend to avoid making huge calls in a spot where he likely could be nutted. With thirty seconds left, I sigh and tense the grip on those riffle chips, tapping them a little harder on the felt than normal.
Ten more seconds go by and the possibility of processing a conscious, coherent thought has passed. Instinct and guts will determine the outcome, and whether I'll be a $3.5k loser, $7.5k loser, or $8.5k winner. I opt to not take responsibility for my actions, and watch as my left hand taps the felt a few more times, expecting it to make the correct decision. The chips end up in the middle of the table, and I brace myself for the two decisive seconds when he either tables a jack or takes his time admitting to the bluff.
"Good call," he says disappointed but too seasoned to be frustrated. Then as he realizes I'm waiting to table my hand, mentions with a glimmer of hope, "I only have a ten". I wait until he tables T5ss for the turned pair and flopped flush draw, prudently gaining information about an obviously dangerous player, before showing him the winner.
The flag, used so powerfully against me now compliments the variety of colors I'll never see as vividly as most.
You are a gifted individual. Thanks for sharing your insight with us. Best of luck in your (past) endeavours you've yet to share with us. And the future of course.
The chip denominations at the Bellagio are odd, at least to me. 2/5 plays with $5 chips which seem very standard, but 5/10 plays with $10 chips, and 10/20 has their very own $20 chips. Additionally, $5’s are the standard red, $10’s are a darker orange, and $20’s a lighter orange. To make matters much worse, the $20’s are only distinguishable from the yellow $1k chips upon closer inspection – and my acute colorblindness doesn’t help. When I sit down at 10/20 my $10 racks are whisked away and replaced with $20 chips, a denomination that will take some getting used to.
Can anyone explain why US poker rooms do this? Here even 1/2 games are played mainly with €25 and €100 chips. Any time I play in Vegas it seems like a silly amount of time is spent counting and recounting small denomination chips.