cliffs on tennis career? bollettieri tennis academy is quite famous. why didn´t you pursue your tennis career further? some kind of injury or what stopped you?
nevertheless great read, no one makes live poker stories sound as exciting as you do.
cliffs on tennis career? bollettieri tennis academy is quite famous. why didn´t you pursue your tennis career further? some kind of injury or what stopped you?
nevertheless great read, no one makes live poker stories sound as exciting as you do.
I can't speak for OP, but if you go back and read the first thread you can learn a lot about tennis career.
-OP beat his brother when he was 12 for some sort of junior event
-OP went to bollettieri, traveled the world (or at least this part of the world) playing tennis.
-OP went up on some big name players, but would succumb to mental game issues and wind up losing.
-OP got recruited by Miss. State and presumably other schools, but wound up at Texas Tech.
-OP went to Texas Tech but was encouraged to transfer elsewhere
-OP went to USF (San Fran I think, not South Florida) but didn't make the team.
-OP lost his passion for tennis, with I am sure poker somewhat influencing that.
We started a little faster than I thought, but then again I knew most of these guys were running a shorter race than me. Trotting along for two or three miles with the majority of the crowd only needing to finish their 10k or half-marathon, I made sure to pace myself for what would certainly be an all day affair. The gaps lengthened within the next few miles, and as we reached the 6.2 mile checkpoint, I sipped electrolyte water with the question of my limits not even beginning to find provocation.
Smoothly climbing up the next ridge, I realize we’re a few miles from the open expanse of the race, the sunny hills that hold the power to humble nearly anyone running through. I recognize the slowing of the two dozen racers in front of me, and realize that perhaps I’m more well-trained for this than I thought. Nearly ten miles in, I have no semblance of fatigue in any part of my body, and this elicits a little push, perhaps not entirely advisory, beyond the pack.
Running up past the hill and reaching a fork, I take the seemingly obvious left towards the paved road and jog down out of sight of anyone. For twenty minutes I fly down towards what I’d imagine is the park entrance towards the scenic route of the run, but begin to get nervous when I realize I haven’t seen that yellow tape marking the route that the 50km runners are supposed to take. A few hikers nearby recognize both my bib number and my confusion and advise me to continue on through the uninhabited route I’d been on for what could be close to a half hour. I thank them and jog on, but find nothing reassuring, and at a point find it inconceivable that I’m going the right way.
Sprinting in the opposite direction, fueled by not only adrenaline but nerves and perhaps even a little embarrassment, I allow my well-trained legs to fly me up to that same fork I passed an hour earlier, questioning a few photographers this time on where they saw the runners pass. Again, an inconclusive response leads me trotting uncertainly in a different direction, up to some sort of water reserve. I run back down and pass the same photographers twenty minutes later, seeing the yellow tape indecipherably marking where the fork in the road is, but not where I ought to go. Again, I run back towards the water tower and find a beaten path that some colorful tape seduces nearby runners. It looks more orange to me, though. My visual disability is left to the wayside as I bound down this trail that must lead towards someone who might let me know where to go, and a quick fifteen minutes later I see things I recognize.
They give me an uneasy feeling. Things I recognize. I’ve already been here. Going back to where I was? I’d already put in that time, that effort. I’m supposed to be past all this, exploring new depths and applying that fire to undiscovered scenery. I jog down a hill that I’ve definitely seen before, and again, reach that 6.2 mile checkpoint.
Met with natural congratulations from the volunteers, I mention sarcastically that I’ve already been here and ask seriously where the hell I need to go from here. In between bites of various salty carbohydrates, I learn where my mistakes lied and where I need to go now. Did it really take these exasperated questions, so far after the fact, to realize that I couldn’t do all this on my own?
I jog up the hill past the aid station after thanking the volunteers and continue on. Not until I reach flat ground do I realize from the Nike+ app that I’m over 20 miles into a race that will take well over another marathon to complete. The frantic multiple hour long search for guidance that resulted in somewhat of a reset, cost me more than a half marathon worth of energy and the wonder as if I truly have another 40 kilometers in me. After all this, in the first fifth of the race, do I really have it in my body, my guts, my mind, my whatever else, to pull it off?
And then I fall.
My stride must’ve become lazy, I wonder, staring up at the sky on my back, lifting the stinging right hand from the dirt and finding two surprisingly deep gashes in my right palm. The nervous worry about my potential to finish had shielded my mind from finding those potential biological difficulties with completing this thing, but for the time being, pain encompasses psychology and I feel as I watch blood stream from my hand.
But I get up. I continue along, reorganizing the dirty iPhone entangled with headphones, seeing it with much less battery than I’d have hoped, all while sucking dirty blood out of my hand as I continue along, wondering about a deeper question. Do I crave suffering - enjoy pain and ignore what's good for me as it so clearly gives me something to work towards? I spit and continue to move.
The next ten miles are uneventful, aside from a conscious recognition that I am in fact mortal - I do become to some extent fatigued from the result of nearly four hours of constant strenuous movement. I reach aid station #3 and intake whatever is suggested, from electrolyte supplement to potato chips, before moving out again into the sunlight and circling the eight mile expanse that was supposed to be the real test out here.
It’s the climb halfway through that brings be back to consciousness, a seeming cliff unquestioningly expecting runners to scale or climb. Nearly three quarters of the way up, carefully putting into place my psychological motivation for both this segment of the race as well as the notion of even completing the entire 50km that, for me, has become so much more.
I turn around and stare at the beauty of northern California, wondering if it’s worth a picture. Beyond stoic, beyond contemplation, viscerally and even too intensely experiencing everything my senses might so painstakingly intake, I toy with a venomous little thought: maybe some things aren’t worth remembering.
I turn and hike. No current momentum, over thirty miles into my own journey, do I feel any pressure to move at anyone else’s pace. It’s at this point that I realize I’m beyond the halfway point, and find that quote again. Yes, the 10k is a race, the marathon an experience. But the ultra, they say? An adventure.
I continue along and realize that I’m quite literally breaking down, in danger of heat stroke and dehydrated. The swagger I swerved into the parking lot with is long gone. Maybe I'm realizing the necessary humility necessary to approach things like this successfully. Maybe I needed something, someone, to redefine the word. Two miles from the next aid station I succumb to something of a trance and meditate fluidly while engaging in a melancholic, yet existential, meditation. What had I been out here for? The drive, that unsatiating fire, the burn. That necessary outlet for a seemingly boundless energy, perhaps satisfied for a week or two. But more, the philosophy. The year’s encompassing drive, defined by that simple understanding about how to live 2013: discover yourself, discover the world – and the difficult part – discover others. Off in my mind in what’s become a hot day encompassing the "indian summer" weather that northern California is famous for, I feel heat and sweat and fatigue communicating a much more simple philosophy for this vastly eventful day:
Go.
I make it to the next aid station, and begin the journey to the final two checkpoints, within short distance of the finish. Upon reaching the 27 mile checkpoint, unfortunately many more miles for me, I realize I’m within walking distance. Fifty minutes later and more than than eight hours from beginning the race, I shuffle across the finish line to the claps of few more than the organizers of the race, and drink deeply into a water bottle. The events of the day questioning whether I truly finished this insurmountable journey, the cramps in my legs reminding me of its physical difficulties, the mental and rational components engaging in the attack on my psyche as to whether I truly ought to have embarked on such a journey, and the intuitive, thrilling satisfaction of proving myself, combine to produce a rather shocking emotion, congruent to that described by Andre Agassi after achieving the world number one ranking for the first time:
I feel nothing.
June 30th, 2013
After a refreshing day off, I head back in the afternoon to the Bellagio. I'm planning on playing the $1.1k One Drop event, buying into both days of the re-entry event, as preparation for the Main Event. It looks like I'll be able to sell about half my action for the main at a decent markup, so getting a little feel for tournament play again seems helpful, despite the shortstacked nature of this preliminary event. Still focused on cash game grinding, I sit down at the fourth 10/20 table near the Bellagio cage and note the increasing hustle-and-bustle feel of the room, as we're getting ever closer to the Big One. Plenty of players of all shapes and sizes will be flying in early to hop into some high stakes action before they sit down to play the tournament everyone is talking about.
Little happens at the first table until I'm moved to the next game- the must-move format of their 10/20 games leading me closer to the "main game" up the stairs in the high limit section. At my second table I open up the aggression a bit, and take a few pots down before a short stack 3bets my MP open. My offsuit ace king is of course good enough to make him play for the $800 behind that $200 3bet. I slide the black chips forward, and a suited up 40-something calls nonchalantly with a manner that doesn't necessarily imply a big hand, almost as if he were placing a bet at a blackjack table. I flip up my hand when the jack high board runs out and am shown AJo. Reloading to a little more than $4k, I pick up JTcc a while later in the big blind, and a young asian player opens the button. The aggressive small blind who covers me 3bets to $200 and I decide to flat with $4.5k in front of me. The button calls and we see a Qc9d5d flop. The small blind checks and I fire $320. A call from the button elicits a grimace from the SB, who folds, apparently disappointed in his choice of 3bet spots.
We see a four of clubs on the turn, and I consider my approach to the rest of the hand. It's first of all a great barrel card, but gives me the idea of betting with the intention of barreling off on more than half the river cards: any club, any nine or king, and any diamond - maybe an offsuit ace as well. My bet sizing will depend on the river, as I think he's simply folding one pair hands to big bets and more likely calling to smaller ones - especially if I represent the unlikely backdoor club flush. With $3k in front of him, I can size the turn bet to be too small for him to want to ship over, but big enough to where he won't want to peel off a card with much.
I bet $720 and he looks over as if expecting his mind to come to some conclusion faster than it has. After considerable deliberation, his actions diverge from the consistently blank facial expression that now watches a large portion of his black chips slide forward. The dealer slides the call in and we see a queen of diamonds on the river.
He checks mechanically, and I can't get any sense of the nature of it. It’s expectant, yes. But ambitious? Curious? Nervous?
I think about the reasons for shipping and the reasons for giving up. There’s something about considering checking back with no showdown value that makes me frantically search for a reason to bet. Something about inactive resignation, recognition of immediate failure, that goes against something primal within me. I continue searching.
What might he think of me, the albeit aggressive kid who decides to so arrogantly to lead the flop? To bet the turn and now perhaps shove the river? Maybe he’ll just hero-fold Qx enough for me to be fine shipping here. Maybe he got to the river with worse and will need to fold. Or maybe I’m just running too good this summer, and hope he folds in support of my desperate attempt to avoid a losing session.
I ship it, and he asks how much it is before making the call with AcQx.
Politely congratulating him on the good call, I rebuy for $4k and go to work. The next few hours are up and down, conscious of the fact that I’m in for over $11k. I dig into the trenches and grind out a fundamentally sound few hours of play before moving to the main game with over $6k. A new table allows a new image: I immediately develop an aggressive dynamic with a few 3-bets and a sarcastic remark at the fishy Russian two to my right who likely doesn’t speak English. A half hour later he opens and I 3bet AKo. I get called only by him and continue for over half pot on 984 rainbow. He calls with a little more than a pot sized bet left on the turn.
The turn is a second nine. He checks to me, in a less than competitive manner; he wants to win but cares more about the thrill of whatever happens when the cards are turned up than analyzing whether he’s cognitively superior to his peers. I think about giving up but decide he has enough one-pair hands that simply fold to a ship. Or maybe, again, I just hope he folds. Pressure is beautiful, I think as I verbally announce, “All in”.
In the same curious yet facially stoic approach that my previous foe had addressed this type of a bet, I look zen-like towards that cursive Bellagio logo in the middle of the table as I await a response.
“Call”, he suggests to the dealer. I don’t even ask to run it twice. A river 9 is irrelevant as he tables two sevens for what is pronounced as a “fool house”. I flick my cards into the muck, little cash left in my backpack and my remaining chips dwindling, realizing that before anything else, I need to take a walk.
Wandering around the sleepy 2am Bellagio casino is nothing literally interesting, but my mind intends to make this phenomenology notable. I open the can of Snus after lifting it from my right pocket and slip a little pouch into my upper lip, simultaneously slouching into a nondescript slot machine.
I settle into a philosophical mindset that threatens to encompass more of the summer, but remains pleasantly on the task at hand: extracting as much from the 10/20 games as is humanly possible. I consider the current state of things: I’m down to what is clearly my last ~4.5k of the night and need to reorient myself into a legitimate disposition to approach the remainder of this session, regardless of the outcome. I ponder the nature of poker and its variance, recognizing my recent heater as something to be appreciated, and tonight as an opportunity to engage in the Sisyphusian ideal of rebuilding. I need to apply that high-minded satisfaction that comes from making decisions that are considered legitimate, prudent – brilliant, even – both during, and after, their execution.
I return to the table over a half an hour after my unceremonious break, and get back to battle. Fortunately, it seems that the table has loosened up a bit and within the next two hours I slowly accure chips through small pots where I very simply apply a stronger hand range to spots where my opponents fail to complete their lesser strength holdings. Near the 5 oclock mark I’m nearing the $7k mark and wondering if I can truly come back from being stuck almost 500 big blinds tonight.
The man who coined the sickness has decided to call it a night, and before he leaves I call out to sarcastically suggest he rail a few hands. I open and am 3bet by a fairly tight big blind. I 4bet and win the pot, but flash a five of hearts in the direction of the gregarious Canadian, letting him know that he might be missing out by racking up those yellow/orange $20 chips. The next hand I’m dealt two fours and flat an early position raise in mid position, only to be 3bet by none other than the small blind who’d folded to my 4bet the hand before. The fishy opener flats and I decide to call as well, covered by both and wondering what kind of magic we might find in this three way pot.
The flop is a rainbow K84, and our re-raiser considers his options careful before open-checking. The early position player tries to figure out what’s going on before checking, and by the time it gets to me, it seems far too easy, as if I’m just never getting calls if I bet. I make the unorthodox check-back with bottom set, and we see an offsuit seven on the turn. This time, the three-bettor leads for a little over half-pot and it’s folded to me. I call and the river is a second seven.
He leads a little over $1500 and I consider calling. I lose to kings full. But do I really never get bet/calls from an oddly played aces or AK? There are more combos of those hands than of kings full. And a player of his type has no other hands that beat me here. He’s just not value-bet/folding, and he’s not checking AK and AA, so his bet/call range must be those as well as kings full. I can’t flat. I announce all-in.
He seems frozen in time for what unfortunately is only about three seconds, before aggressively splashing in a stack of black chips in a motion that tells me I really won’t like what I see. His black kings flip up before I have a chance to even offer the value-shoved fours full. I toss them acrobatically towards the dealer and stand up, embracing the first true loss of the summer.
I decided to reply by saying it was worth the wait (which it certainly was), although I'm worried that in doing so I might contribute to another long delay before the next post (please no!!)