The Poker Project (playing and writing about poker in the U.S.)
06-03-2024
, 01:34 PM
Long Day at the Beau
When I got to the Beau’s cardroom at 9:45 in the morning, there was already a line of oldsters 20 coffeehousing with their walkers and their vintage casino windbreakers. The Beau’s supervisors and dealers were readying two tables, one with five racks of reds and another with five racks of whites. At ten sharp the front of the line politely stampeded to the $4/$8 LOLimit table, and the others to a fresh $1/$3. Despite arriving early, I just missed snagging a starting seat. But a supervisor told me that a second $1/$3 would open soon and sent me to the table nearest the cage.
This was only my second time playing in the newish ten-table cardroom. Pretty much everyone agreed that it was a downgrade from the old twelve-table room, which had been more secluded and thus less loud and smoky. But it was still the Beau: the food comps were solid and the dealers, like the action, were usually excellent. I took the 7 Seat, bought in for $500, and stored some reserve ammo—ten $100 blacks—in my hoodie’s breastpocket. The table quickly filled up after only a few minutes, and we were in action by 10:14. I clicked “play” on my poker tracking app and put my phone in airplane mode. With nine days left in the month, I needed fiftyish hours to ship my reverse freeroll. The plan for today was to play from ten to ten. The plan for tomorrow was to open the room again and play in the noon donkament.
At 10:19, the last open seat was taken by an old white guy wearing a Saint Louis Cardinals 2011 World Series Champs hat. I folded a few hands and then had a few raise-and-take-its with KT and AQ. I raised AQ again and played it passively multiway, check-calling a small bet on a 955 flop. The turn came a Queen—check, check. My opponent, on my direct left in Seat 8, was an Indian guy in his fifties who was perusing Nvidia’s stock history on his phone. I vaguely recognized him from some other game in some other cardroom.
On the Nine river I bet small and got called. I showed, and he wordlessly mucked.
The next hand I raised to $10 again, this time with pocket Fives, and got four callers. The flop came Three-Five-Seven, I bet $25, and only Mr. Nvidia called. The turn was a Seven, bringing in a diamond flush draw, and I fired $75. He called again.
The river was a Jack, and I glanced tensely to my left. Mr. Nvidia had $300 back and the pot was $250. I pushed forward a stack of reds with four greens on top.
“You have pocket Fives,” he said after a moment. His tone was angry, decisive. “I saw how you played Ace-Queen. You have pocket Fives.” He folded 78o face-up and started mumbling. I could hear the words “fish” and “stupid.”
I silently stacked my chips and wondered how many bluffs I would realistically have on the river, after triple barreling into four players: probably none, if I was being honest.
“You should have bet $75 if you wanted to get value,” he said, speaking louder.
“Thanks for the advice,” I couldn’t help replying. There was a touch of sarcasm in my voice.
***
I went for a pee break, holding my breath as I hustled past the smoky slots. When I got back to my seat, the white-haired guy in Seat 9 was talking about how his ex-wife had hit a bingo jackpot and didn’t tell him.
How’d you find out? Dealer Rhonda asked.
“The IRS told me,” he said. His black wristwatch rested atop five stacks of reds beside six blacks.
He announced a raise to fifteen and added, gruffly, “that goddamn woman.”
***
“You’re a long way from Harrah’s,” I heard someone say around eleven. Standing behind me was a black guy wearing glasses, a red hoodie, and a red Live Lucky ballcap. A blue surgical mask drooped beneath his chubby nose. I pretended to recognize him and we fist-bumped. For a minute or so, as we gossiped about the games at Harrahdise—the games here, he said, were much better—I mined my memory for details about him. Nothing came to mind.
“What’s your name, man?” he asked. I told him and he said, “I’m Ibrahim.” We shook hands and wished each other luck.
Ten minutes later, I remembered that we’d played less than two weeks earlier, in Nola. Ibrahim was the kind of cardroom reg who talks a lot of ****, and who masks his losses behind bluster and bravado. People bent over backwards to play with him. It was ridiculous that I hadn't remembered him.
***
The white-haired guy in Seat 9 had stopped talking about his ex-and-now-current wife (he had remarried her because he’d wanted his house back). Now he was telling us how, once, in a Michigan charity card club’s parking garage, he’d jammed his key into the forehead of a would-be carjacker. “I stuck it right in there,” he said, pointing to his right temple, “and they couldn’t get it out. The cops gave me ****. Asked me why I didn”t just let him take the car.”
“Bullshit,” the St. Louis fan said sympathetically. And then: “They don’t make fobs like that anymore.”
“Oh yes they do!” The Stabber stood up and fished around in his jeans for his keys. He pressed a button, and the steel key flipped out of the fob.
By noon the Stabber was gone, and Mr. Nvidia had switched seats to the other side of the table, in Seat 2. Taking his place on my left was a fortyish southern bro dressed in camo shorts and a black mesh shirt. He messily plopped down earbuds, a pack of pink Trident gum, and a pile of high denomination chips—three $1K yellows, one $500 purple, three blacks, and two greens.
“Donation,” he said before entering a pot.
The guy, who looked like a Nate, played more passively than I expected. He almost called down with fourth pair against an old man in a Green Bay Packers shirt, but then decided against it because he didn’t want to break a black chip. He limped utg with Three-Six and almost called a shove with a gutshot before folding his cards face up. He liked showing cards. Someone asked if he played baseball. “No,” Nate said. He licked the lid of a can of Berry Skoal. “I mean, who didn’t as a kid. But my game was football.”
Nate and Mr. Nvidia got into a pot. The board was 89T32 rainbow, Nate bet $35, and Mr. Nvidia raised to $100. Nate disgustedly showed 8To, hemmed and hawed, mumbled the word “donation” a few times, and eventually lobbed a black across the table. It lightly struck the far rail to the left of Mr. Nvidia, who showed pocket Sevens and calmly placed the black atop his stack. “Next time, please don’t throw your chip at me,” he said.
“Next time I’m not gonna pay you off,” Nate said. He looked frustrated.
“You will,” Mr. Nvidia said. “And you will put the chip in the middle of the table.”
“It isn’t like I threw it at you. I’m just donating. My $2/$5 guys do it all the time.”
“I’m not one of your $2/$5 guys," Mr. Nvidia said. "You don’t have to be rude."
***
Five games were going by 1 pm, and the $2/$5 list was filling up. I hadn’t been able to get much going over the last hour. Finally I got AJhh on my button straddle and made it $36 over a bunch of limpers. Nate and a short stack called.
The flop came Queen-high with three spades, and they got another hundred or so in with AQo and A8ss.
“How bad do I run?” Nate asked. At the first opportunity he moved over to the 1 Seat.
An enormous guy wearing a black tee and green mesh shorts rode into the room on a red scooter and took the open seat on my left. Before sitting down, he covered his seat with a white hotel towel. He was pleasant, but he smelled.
***
Around 2:30, Nate and I moved to $2/$5. The game was opening on Table 3 in the area nearest to Buffalo Corner and the main slot floor. It was very loud. Along with the incessant pings and beeps and alarms and plinking sounds that you’ll hear on The Price is Right were the less frequent sounds of special rewards—a shrieking eagle, stampeding Buffalo hooves, cha-CHING cha-CHING cha CHING, smashing gongs, and garbled together with it all was the pop music piped in from the ceiling.
The vibe in our fresh game was a little more serious, as it usually is in a bigger game, and the stacks ranged from $500 to a few gees. I recognized one of players, a friendly pro named Austin in the 2 Seat. We’d met in Nola during the pre-pandemic days, and he lived here now. He still looked young and reggish.
I took the 7 Seat again and bought in for a gee. Nate was in the 1 with his same stack: a single tower, with three yellows sitting atop eight greens. In the first first hand of note, Ibrahim limped utg on my direct right, I isoed A2hh +1, and calling on my direct left was a guy in thirties from Alabama who looked like a Viking—like, he literally had a map of Scandinavia tattooed on his forearm, plus a bushy brown beard.
Ibrahim called too. The flop came T86 with one heart, and action checked through. I bet $50 on the Kh turn and took it down.
The very next hand, Austin stacked Ibrahim—a set of Jacks over a set of Sixes.
“Cooler,” a few of us sympathetically said. Ibraham nodded grimly and reloaded for another five.
***
Sitting at higher stakes, you feel a heightened sense of purpose. Every decision carries added weight, and mistakes are doubly punished. As a result, I’ve always found it easier to focus, to play in flow, to pay attention.
A little while later, Austin made it $50 from the big blind over the Viking’s button straddle. Ibrahim called and I looked down at AKo. It felt like a tricky spot: a mandatory squeeze given Ibrahim’s flat, but not a stackoffable hand again Austin, given our dynamic. I made it $185, planning to fold to an Austin 4!, but they both folded.
The game was good. Really good. Way better than Harrah’s. The only pro in the game, Austin, was gone by four. By then the Viking—who probably thought that he’s a pro—had punted off three grand. Around five, Ibrahim returned to his seat with two sushi cartons from the Beau’s snack shop. “Take a piece,” he said, popping one open.
I carefully selected a piece of spicy tuna with my nonshuffling left hand and ate it. I loved sushi.
“Take another,” he said, lowering his mask to eat. I told him about the $3K pot the Viking had lost to a reggy-looking East-Asian guy who’d taken Austin’s seat.
“Take another,” Abraham said.
“Last one,” I said.
“One more,” he said, “and we’ll call it good.”
I took one last piece.
***
A friendly bald guy from Ocean Springs doubled through the Viking and racked up. “He hit and ran me,” the Viking said, as we watched the bald guy walk to the cage. A few hands later the Viking moved to Seat 4. “You left the best seat,” a guy named Cass said in the 5. He was also East-Asian, with designer silver shades, a black Armani Exchange hoodie, and a flat-brimmed black hat.
“I’m stuck $3K in that seat!” the Viking said, and the table laughed.
Taking the Viking’s old seat to my left was a tatted-up younghead who bought in short. He called a raise with T8cc, raised a c-bet with his flopped flush draw, and got there. He ordered a chocolate milkshake with whipped cream and put it in a drink holder beside his fattening stack. I watched him sip the chocolate milk through a straw. His milkshake looked good.
My second cup of coffee, which I’d finished around five, was going right through me. I hustled to the bathroom, holding my breath and listening to the sound of shrieking eagles. “Hey, you know you look like Dirk, right?” said a guy at one of the sinks.
I came back and button-straddled. The Viking made it $60 from mp over some limps, Ibrahim called, and I had an easy squeeze with AsKd. I made it $250, the Viking folded, and Ibrahim called with $500 back.
The flop came J95ddx. “Whatever that is,” he said, sliding all his greens out. Dealer Bill counted down his greens and announced a $300 bet.
To me it seemed like a close decision, but I didn’t strongly consider folding. I’d played enough with Ibrahim to see him click buttons with all sorts of hands. But more importantly: the guy gave action, so he deserved action.
I jammed all-in, got called, and lost to AJhh.
I topped up with the five blacks left in my hoodie, bringing me to a little over a gee, and wondered if I should top up for another five. The game was still very good. I told myself that I would take a quick trip to the cage, but instead I got caught up in the action. The Viking check-raised bluffed with the bare Ac against the young gun on my left, who called down with two pair. After four hours of punting, the Viking stared straight past the dealer’s head to the far wall. His somber face was flushed. He was easily stuck $5K.
A few minutes later the Viking straddled the button, Cass called from the small blind, and I made it $60 to go from the big blind with AcKs. They both called.
The flop came KQ8ccc, and I check-called $90. The Jack of diamonds came on the turn, and action checked through. The river bricked, and I considered betting $30; instead I checked, and the Viking snapchecked back.
“When did you like your hand?” Cass said with a smile.
“Never,” I said, and we shared a laugh. Cass recognized me from Nola, although he didn’t play there anymore, and we introduced ourselves. “Nice to put a name to the face after all these years,” he said. Then he asked me who I thought was better, Jordan or Lehbron.
“Are you asking him because he looks like Dirk?” the tatted-up younghead asked.
“It’s funny you say that,” I said, mentioning the exchange I’d just had in the bathroom. I’d been getting a ridiculous amount of Dirk shoutouts lately, probably because the Mavs were deep in the playoffs. “The problem is I’m an eighties baby who grew up rooting for the Bulls,” I told Cass, “so I’ll say Jordan every time.”
Cass also preferred Jordan.
***
A woman sat down who I’d seen around lots of times at the usual places—the Beau, Harrah’s, Pearl River. She was in her sixties and struck me as nitty. After four orbits of folding or limping she finally raised—to $25, over a limp—Cass called, and I looked down at two Queens in the small blind. I almost auto-threebet, but then I had second thoughts. I scanned her $600 stack. Was the plan to 3!-call? 3!-fold?
I decided to just call and never tell anyone. No one needed to know how badly I played.
The flop came Queen-high, and I stacked her.
After the hand, as she went to the cage to reload, Cass told me he’d made a big fold on the flop. “You know how I knew you had a big hand? Because you wanted to reraise pre!”
“You’re spot on,” I said, and meant it.
A few hands later, Cass raised limpers over my button straddle to $45, I made it $170 with KQo and he snapfolded, claiming AJ. My stack was almost up to $2K and I was feeling good.
***
The Mavs-Teewolves game was starting at seven-thirty, but the closest TV was tuned to the Stanley Cup playoffs, at Cass’s request. He told me about the four-bet parlay he’d almost binked a few nights earlier—$6k to win $23K—and the $9K worth of action he had tonight: three $3K bets, including the Rangers-Panthers game. “Plus this $3K right here,” he said, gesturing to his chipstack.
Before the game started, I took a break. At the snack shop I ordered a chef’s salad and took it outside to a spartan balcony. Two people were sitting alone on benches, smoking and swiping their phones. It was almost sunset. The clouds looked fluffy in the fading light, and gulls were lazily coasting above the placid water. A boat coasted in the distance. It was one of those lovely evenings where it felt criminal to be inside, and yet I knew I’d return to my seat as soon as I wolfed down my salad. For all my interest in poker, I didn’t know why I was really here, why gambling had its strange, fascinating grip on me and so many others. The only thing I knew for sure was that I would never know. I recalled what Ibrahim had told me a few hours earlier: he was working the graveyard shift tonight at seven, and he would be leaving soon to drive home to Nola. And yet I would have bet my whole stack that he’d still be in the game when I got back.
“You missed a $2K pot,” Ibrahim told me. He pointed to a yellow chip in front of Cass’s stack, and then at a new player in the 2 Seat, a twentysomething redhead who didn’t appear to be any worse for the wear.
It was the end of the first quarter of the Mavs-Teewolves. Hoping to nudge Cass into a channel switch, I asked him which game he’d rather watch.
“This one, man! I’ve got $3K on it!”
I stood up and surveyed the room. Nine of its ten tables were full, mostly with $1/$3s. The $2/$5 was still good and I was feeling fine, but I didn’t give a ****. I wanted to watch beeball, so I would watch beeball. I walked over to the cage and requested a table change. When I got back to my seat, Ibrahim was racking up. He put two room-temp Fijis in his pocket and asked me to order two more. “I'll be back. Just leave them on the tray."
I ordered them, but my timing was off. I moved to a $1/$3 on the other side of the room and lost track of the server. At my new table, Dealer Cheryl was chatting with the 9 Seat about some crazy PLO gambler who'd come in hammered one night and bought in for $100K in the $1/$3.
Twenty minutes later, around nine, the same server came back and I ordered a coffee with cream and a room temp Fiji. It wasn’t the sort of order that I could make at Harrahdise—at one point you needed Diamond status to order Fijis, and now I don’t think that they even carry them anymore—but Ibrahim had inspired me. “Sorry I missed you at the other table,” I said when she returned with my order, slipping two whites into her palm. I savored a sip of hot coffee and squirreled away the Fiji for later.
I spotted Abraham staring into space at an empty table. We made eye contact and I waved him over. I handed him the Fiji and explained why I only had one. He thanked me and said he’d called out of work.
“Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said.
When I got to the Beau’s cardroom at 9:45 in the morning, there was already a line of oldsters 20 coffeehousing with their walkers and their vintage casino windbreakers. The Beau’s supervisors and dealers were readying two tables, one with five racks of reds and another with five racks of whites. At ten sharp the front of the line politely stampeded to the $4/$8 LOLimit table, and the others to a fresh $1/$3. Despite arriving early, I just missed snagging a starting seat. But a supervisor told me that a second $1/$3 would open soon and sent me to the table nearest the cage.
This was only my second time playing in the newish ten-table cardroom. Pretty much everyone agreed that it was a downgrade from the old twelve-table room, which had been more secluded and thus less loud and smoky. But it was still the Beau: the food comps were solid and the dealers, like the action, were usually excellent. I took the 7 Seat, bought in for $500, and stored some reserve ammo—ten $100 blacks—in my hoodie’s breastpocket. The table quickly filled up after only a few minutes, and we were in action by 10:14. I clicked “play” on my poker tracking app and put my phone in airplane mode. With nine days left in the month, I needed fiftyish hours to ship my reverse freeroll. The plan for today was to play from ten to ten. The plan for tomorrow was to open the room again and play in the noon donkament.
At 10:19, the last open seat was taken by an old white guy wearing a Saint Louis Cardinals 2011 World Series Champs hat. I folded a few hands and then had a few raise-and-take-its with KT and AQ. I raised AQ again and played it passively multiway, check-calling a small bet on a 955 flop. The turn came a Queen—check, check. My opponent, on my direct left in Seat 8, was an Indian guy in his fifties who was perusing Nvidia’s stock history on his phone. I vaguely recognized him from some other game in some other cardroom.
On the Nine river I bet small and got called. I showed, and he wordlessly mucked.
The next hand I raised to $10 again, this time with pocket Fives, and got four callers. The flop came Three-Five-Seven, I bet $25, and only Mr. Nvidia called. The turn was a Seven, bringing in a diamond flush draw, and I fired $75. He called again.
The river was a Jack, and I glanced tensely to my left. Mr. Nvidia had $300 back and the pot was $250. I pushed forward a stack of reds with four greens on top.
“You have pocket Fives,” he said after a moment. His tone was angry, decisive. “I saw how you played Ace-Queen. You have pocket Fives.” He folded 78o face-up and started mumbling. I could hear the words “fish” and “stupid.”
I silently stacked my chips and wondered how many bluffs I would realistically have on the river, after triple barreling into four players: probably none, if I was being honest.
“You should have bet $75 if you wanted to get value,” he said, speaking louder.
“Thanks for the advice,” I couldn’t help replying. There was a touch of sarcasm in my voice.
***
I went for a pee break, holding my breath as I hustled past the smoky slots. When I got back to my seat, the white-haired guy in Seat 9 was talking about how his ex-wife had hit a bingo jackpot and didn’t tell him.
How’d you find out? Dealer Rhonda asked.
“The IRS told me,” he said. His black wristwatch rested atop five stacks of reds beside six blacks.
He announced a raise to fifteen and added, gruffly, “that goddamn woman.”
***
“You’re a long way from Harrah’s,” I heard someone say around eleven. Standing behind me was a black guy wearing glasses, a red hoodie, and a red Live Lucky ballcap. A blue surgical mask drooped beneath his chubby nose. I pretended to recognize him and we fist-bumped. For a minute or so, as we gossiped about the games at Harrahdise—the games here, he said, were much better—I mined my memory for details about him. Nothing came to mind.
“What’s your name, man?” he asked. I told him and he said, “I’m Ibrahim.” We shook hands and wished each other luck.
Ten minutes later, I remembered that we’d played less than two weeks earlier, in Nola. Ibrahim was the kind of cardroom reg who talks a lot of ****, and who masks his losses behind bluster and bravado. People bent over backwards to play with him. It was ridiculous that I hadn't remembered him.
***
The white-haired guy in Seat 9 had stopped talking about his ex-and-now-current wife (he had remarried her because he’d wanted his house back). Now he was telling us how, once, in a Michigan charity card club’s parking garage, he’d jammed his key into the forehead of a would-be carjacker. “I stuck it right in there,” he said, pointing to his right temple, “and they couldn’t get it out. The cops gave me ****. Asked me why I didn”t just let him take the car.”
“Bullshit,” the St. Louis fan said sympathetically. And then: “They don’t make fobs like that anymore.”
“Oh yes they do!” The Stabber stood up and fished around in his jeans for his keys. He pressed a button, and the steel key flipped out of the fob.
By noon the Stabber was gone, and Mr. Nvidia had switched seats to the other side of the table, in Seat 2. Taking his place on my left was a fortyish southern bro dressed in camo shorts and a black mesh shirt. He messily plopped down earbuds, a pack of pink Trident gum, and a pile of high denomination chips—three $1K yellows, one $500 purple, three blacks, and two greens.
“Donation,” he said before entering a pot.
The guy, who looked like a Nate, played more passively than I expected. He almost called down with fourth pair against an old man in a Green Bay Packers shirt, but then decided against it because he didn’t want to break a black chip. He limped utg with Three-Six and almost called a shove with a gutshot before folding his cards face up. He liked showing cards. Someone asked if he played baseball. “No,” Nate said. He licked the lid of a can of Berry Skoal. “I mean, who didn’t as a kid. But my game was football.”
Nate and Mr. Nvidia got into a pot. The board was 89T32 rainbow, Nate bet $35, and Mr. Nvidia raised to $100. Nate disgustedly showed 8To, hemmed and hawed, mumbled the word “donation” a few times, and eventually lobbed a black across the table. It lightly struck the far rail to the left of Mr. Nvidia, who showed pocket Sevens and calmly placed the black atop his stack. “Next time, please don’t throw your chip at me,” he said.
“Next time I’m not gonna pay you off,” Nate said. He looked frustrated.
“You will,” Mr. Nvidia said. “And you will put the chip in the middle of the table.”
“It isn’t like I threw it at you. I’m just donating. My $2/$5 guys do it all the time.”
“I’m not one of your $2/$5 guys," Mr. Nvidia said. "You don’t have to be rude."
***
Five games were going by 1 pm, and the $2/$5 list was filling up. I hadn’t been able to get much going over the last hour. Finally I got AJhh on my button straddle and made it $36 over a bunch of limpers. Nate and a short stack called.
The flop came Queen-high with three spades, and they got another hundred or so in with AQo and A8ss.
“How bad do I run?” Nate asked. At the first opportunity he moved over to the 1 Seat.
An enormous guy wearing a black tee and green mesh shorts rode into the room on a red scooter and took the open seat on my left. Before sitting down, he covered his seat with a white hotel towel. He was pleasant, but he smelled.
***
Around 2:30, Nate and I moved to $2/$5. The game was opening on Table 3 in the area nearest to Buffalo Corner and the main slot floor. It was very loud. Along with the incessant pings and beeps and alarms and plinking sounds that you’ll hear on The Price is Right were the less frequent sounds of special rewards—a shrieking eagle, stampeding Buffalo hooves, cha-CHING cha-CHING cha CHING, smashing gongs, and garbled together with it all was the pop music piped in from the ceiling.
The vibe in our fresh game was a little more serious, as it usually is in a bigger game, and the stacks ranged from $500 to a few gees. I recognized one of players, a friendly pro named Austin in the 2 Seat. We’d met in Nola during the pre-pandemic days, and he lived here now. He still looked young and reggish.
I took the 7 Seat again and bought in for a gee. Nate was in the 1 with his same stack: a single tower, with three yellows sitting atop eight greens. In the first first hand of note, Ibrahim limped utg on my direct right, I isoed A2hh +1, and calling on my direct left was a guy in thirties from Alabama who looked like a Viking—like, he literally had a map of Scandinavia tattooed on his forearm, plus a bushy brown beard.
Ibrahim called too. The flop came T86 with one heart, and action checked through. I bet $50 on the Kh turn and took it down.
The very next hand, Austin stacked Ibrahim—a set of Jacks over a set of Sixes.
“Cooler,” a few of us sympathetically said. Ibraham nodded grimly and reloaded for another five.
***
Sitting at higher stakes, you feel a heightened sense of purpose. Every decision carries added weight, and mistakes are doubly punished. As a result, I’ve always found it easier to focus, to play in flow, to pay attention.
A little while later, Austin made it $50 from the big blind over the Viking’s button straddle. Ibrahim called and I looked down at AKo. It felt like a tricky spot: a mandatory squeeze given Ibrahim’s flat, but not a stackoffable hand again Austin, given our dynamic. I made it $185, planning to fold to an Austin 4!, but they both folded.
The game was good. Really good. Way better than Harrah’s. The only pro in the game, Austin, was gone by four. By then the Viking—who probably thought that he’s a pro—had punted off three grand. Around five, Ibrahim returned to his seat with two sushi cartons from the Beau’s snack shop. “Take a piece,” he said, popping one open.
I carefully selected a piece of spicy tuna with my nonshuffling left hand and ate it. I loved sushi.
“Take another,” he said, lowering his mask to eat. I told him about the $3K pot the Viking had lost to a reggy-looking East-Asian guy who’d taken Austin’s seat.
“Take another,” Abraham said.
“Last one,” I said.
“One more,” he said, “and we’ll call it good.”
I took one last piece.
***
A friendly bald guy from Ocean Springs doubled through the Viking and racked up. “He hit and ran me,” the Viking said, as we watched the bald guy walk to the cage. A few hands later the Viking moved to Seat 4. “You left the best seat,” a guy named Cass said in the 5. He was also East-Asian, with designer silver shades, a black Armani Exchange hoodie, and a flat-brimmed black hat.
“I’m stuck $3K in that seat!” the Viking said, and the table laughed.
Taking the Viking’s old seat to my left was a tatted-up younghead who bought in short. He called a raise with T8cc, raised a c-bet with his flopped flush draw, and got there. He ordered a chocolate milkshake with whipped cream and put it in a drink holder beside his fattening stack. I watched him sip the chocolate milk through a straw. His milkshake looked good.
My second cup of coffee, which I’d finished around five, was going right through me. I hustled to the bathroom, holding my breath and listening to the sound of shrieking eagles. “Hey, you know you look like Dirk, right?” said a guy at one of the sinks.
I came back and button-straddled. The Viking made it $60 from mp over some limps, Ibrahim called, and I had an easy squeeze with AsKd. I made it $250, the Viking folded, and Ibrahim called with $500 back.
The flop came J95ddx. “Whatever that is,” he said, sliding all his greens out. Dealer Bill counted down his greens and announced a $300 bet.
To me it seemed like a close decision, but I didn’t strongly consider folding. I’d played enough with Ibrahim to see him click buttons with all sorts of hands. But more importantly: the guy gave action, so he deserved action.
I jammed all-in, got called, and lost to AJhh.
I topped up with the five blacks left in my hoodie, bringing me to a little over a gee, and wondered if I should top up for another five. The game was still very good. I told myself that I would take a quick trip to the cage, but instead I got caught up in the action. The Viking check-raised bluffed with the bare Ac against the young gun on my left, who called down with two pair. After four hours of punting, the Viking stared straight past the dealer’s head to the far wall. His somber face was flushed. He was easily stuck $5K.
A few minutes later the Viking straddled the button, Cass called from the small blind, and I made it $60 to go from the big blind with AcKs. They both called.
The flop came KQ8ccc, and I check-called $90. The Jack of diamonds came on the turn, and action checked through. The river bricked, and I considered betting $30; instead I checked, and the Viking snapchecked back.
“When did you like your hand?” Cass said with a smile.
“Never,” I said, and we shared a laugh. Cass recognized me from Nola, although he didn’t play there anymore, and we introduced ourselves. “Nice to put a name to the face after all these years,” he said. Then he asked me who I thought was better, Jordan or Lehbron.
“Are you asking him because he looks like Dirk?” the tatted-up younghead asked.
“It’s funny you say that,” I said, mentioning the exchange I’d just had in the bathroom. I’d been getting a ridiculous amount of Dirk shoutouts lately, probably because the Mavs were deep in the playoffs. “The problem is I’m an eighties baby who grew up rooting for the Bulls,” I told Cass, “so I’ll say Jordan every time.”
Cass also preferred Jordan.
***
A woman sat down who I’d seen around lots of times at the usual places—the Beau, Harrah’s, Pearl River. She was in her sixties and struck me as nitty. After four orbits of folding or limping she finally raised—to $25, over a limp—Cass called, and I looked down at two Queens in the small blind. I almost auto-threebet, but then I had second thoughts. I scanned her $600 stack. Was the plan to 3!-call? 3!-fold?
I decided to just call and never tell anyone. No one needed to know how badly I played.
The flop came Queen-high, and I stacked her.
After the hand, as she went to the cage to reload, Cass told me he’d made a big fold on the flop. “You know how I knew you had a big hand? Because you wanted to reraise pre!”
“You’re spot on,” I said, and meant it.
A few hands later, Cass raised limpers over my button straddle to $45, I made it $170 with KQo and he snapfolded, claiming AJ. My stack was almost up to $2K and I was feeling good.
***
The Mavs-Teewolves game was starting at seven-thirty, but the closest TV was tuned to the Stanley Cup playoffs, at Cass’s request. He told me about the four-bet parlay he’d almost binked a few nights earlier—$6k to win $23K—and the $9K worth of action he had tonight: three $3K bets, including the Rangers-Panthers game. “Plus this $3K right here,” he said, gesturing to his chipstack.
Before the game started, I took a break. At the snack shop I ordered a chef’s salad and took it outside to a spartan balcony. Two people were sitting alone on benches, smoking and swiping their phones. It was almost sunset. The clouds looked fluffy in the fading light, and gulls were lazily coasting above the placid water. A boat coasted in the distance. It was one of those lovely evenings where it felt criminal to be inside, and yet I knew I’d return to my seat as soon as I wolfed down my salad. For all my interest in poker, I didn’t know why I was really here, why gambling had its strange, fascinating grip on me and so many others. The only thing I knew for sure was that I would never know. I recalled what Ibrahim had told me a few hours earlier: he was working the graveyard shift tonight at seven, and he would be leaving soon to drive home to Nola. And yet I would have bet my whole stack that he’d still be in the game when I got back.
“You missed a $2K pot,” Ibrahim told me. He pointed to a yellow chip in front of Cass’s stack, and then at a new player in the 2 Seat, a twentysomething redhead who didn’t appear to be any worse for the wear.
It was the end of the first quarter of the Mavs-Teewolves. Hoping to nudge Cass into a channel switch, I asked him which game he’d rather watch.
“This one, man! I’ve got $3K on it!”
I stood up and surveyed the room. Nine of its ten tables were full, mostly with $1/$3s. The $2/$5 was still good and I was feeling fine, but I didn’t give a ****. I wanted to watch beeball, so I would watch beeball. I walked over to the cage and requested a table change. When I got back to my seat, Ibrahim was racking up. He put two room-temp Fijis in his pocket and asked me to order two more. “I'll be back. Just leave them on the tray."
I ordered them, but my timing was off. I moved to a $1/$3 on the other side of the room and lost track of the server. At my new table, Dealer Cheryl was chatting with the 9 Seat about some crazy PLO gambler who'd come in hammered one night and bought in for $100K in the $1/$3.
Twenty minutes later, around nine, the same server came back and I ordered a coffee with cream and a room temp Fiji. It wasn’t the sort of order that I could make at Harrahdise—at one point you needed Diamond status to order Fijis, and now I don’t think that they even carry them anymore—but Ibrahim had inspired me. “Sorry I missed you at the other table,” I said when she returned with my order, slipping two whites into her palm. I savored a sip of hot coffee and squirreled away the Fiji for later.
I spotted Abraham staring into space at an empty table. We made eye contact and I waved him over. I handed him the Fiji and explained why I only had one. He thanked me and said he’d called out of work.
“Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said.
Last edited by bob_124; 06-03-2024 at 01:44 PM.
06-04-2024
, 11:25 AM
May Recap
The day after my long sesh at the Beau, I opened the room again and played a few hours in a sleepy $1/$3. I was tempted to hop back into the noon $2/$5, but decided to stick to the original plan of entering the $100 Daily Donkament. There were 50 runners. After going all-in a lot I found myself heads up against a burly Boomer who had me outchipped 2:1. He warned me that he was "a very good heads-up player" and offered a chip chop. To which I could only reply:
I had nothing against the dude—the truth was that I only hop in three or so donkaments per year, so I rarely get the chance to play at a final table, let alone heads up. Pretty early on my elite HU opponent attempted a massive three-street bluff. Unfortunately for him, I had a pear.
I returned to Nola needing only twenty hours or so to hit my 250, which was easy enough to do.
Operation Deny marknfw [252/250]
At times this challenge was slightly annoying, nudging me into the cardroom when I didn't want to go. It served its purpose perfectly, in other words, so let's run it back for the second half of the year.
Bob's Lolive Mini-Challenge: 500 hours by the end of the year.
Punishment for failure: I’ll ship a gee to the first person who poasts a Dirk Nowitski-with-dog pic itt (real pic preferred, but I'll allow photoshop)
My current tally is 259/500, and it's likely I won't log a hand of poker until August. Tomorrow I'm heading out of Nola for two months or so. No, dear gambolers, I won't be trekking to Vegas for the WSOP. Instead I'll be heading to Vermont for some family time along with the usual teaching/writing/traveling. Might sneak in a Europe trip too. We'll see!
Saturn Bar
End of an Era
Beeday Fluffball
Hope the summer is starting off well, yall!
The day after my long sesh at the Beau, I opened the room again and played a few hours in a sleepy $1/$3. I was tempted to hop back into the noon $2/$5, but decided to stick to the original plan of entering the $100 Daily Donkament. There were 50 runners. After going all-in a lot I found myself heads up against a burly Boomer who had me outchipped 2:1. He warned me that he was "a very good heads-up player" and offered a chip chop. To which I could only reply:
Spoiler:
I had nothing against the dude—the truth was that I only hop in three or so donkaments per year, so I rarely get the chance to play at a final table, let alone heads up. Pretty early on my elite HU opponent attempted a massive three-street bluff. Unfortunately for him, I had a pear.
Spoiler:
I returned to Nola needing only twenty hours or so to hit my 250, which was easy enough to do.
Operation Deny marknfw [252/250]
At times this challenge was slightly annoying, nudging me into the cardroom when I didn't want to go. It served its purpose perfectly, in other words, so let's run it back for the second half of the year.
Bob's Lolive Mini-Challenge: 500 hours by the end of the year.
Punishment for failure: I’ll ship a gee to the first person who poasts a Dirk Nowitski-with-dog pic itt (real pic preferred, but I'll allow photoshop)
My current tally is 259/500, and it's likely I won't log a hand of poker until August. Tomorrow I'm heading out of Nola for two months or so. No, dear gambolers, I won't be trekking to Vegas for the WSOP. Instead I'll be heading to Vermont for some family time along with the usual teaching/writing/traveling. Might sneak in a Europe trip too. We'll see!
Saturn Bar
Spoiler:
End of an Era
Spoiler:
Beeday Fluffball
Spoiler:
Hope the summer is starting off well, yall!
Last edited by bob_124; 06-04-2024 at 11:36 AM.
06-05-2024
, 01:13 AM
Quote:
Long Day at the Beau
For all my interest in poker, I didn’t know why I was really here, why gambling had its strange, fascinating grip on me and so many others. The only thing I knew for sure was that I would never know. I recalled what Ibrahim had told me a few hours earlier: he was working the graveyard shift tonight at seven, and he would be leaving soon to drive home to Nola. And yet I would have bet my whole stack that he’d still be in the game when I got back.
“Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said.
For all my interest in poker, I didn’t know why I was really here, why gambling had its strange, fascinating grip on me and so many others. The only thing I knew for sure was that I would never know. I recalled what Ibrahim had told me a few hours earlier: he was working the graveyard shift tonight at seven, and he would be leaving soon to drive home to Nola. And yet I would have bet my whole stack that he’d still be in the game when I got back.
“Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said.
06-06-2024
, 05:46 PM
Quote:
I'm currently making a playlist for a friend entitled "songs from the 2000s I tolerate". It's currently got one song on it from a band who had their heyday in the 90s. But I'll dip into Vampire Weekend at some stage; so short-answer: detailed impressions in a state of postponement.
Not in Melbourne at the moment. Played a few gigs earlier this year. Highlight was some random saying to me after the gig: "you're a great ****ing drummer, man." I later discovered the said random was in fact a guitarist in some semi-famous band. A few gigs, one brag --- not a bad winrate.
Loved your TR btw. Gulf coast poker is a literary goldmine, for sure. Ibrahim stacking your AK with AJ was a form of poetic justice, perhaps. Can we quantify poetic justice in terms of EV? Not sure if that's rhetorical tbh.
I don't believe the Dirk thing is too bad at all. The other day someone thought I was Johnny Vibes. I said, "no, I'm his brother." Guy instantly replies, "makes sense."
Not in Melbourne at the moment. Played a few gigs earlier this year. Highlight was some random saying to me after the gig: "you're a great ****ing drummer, man." I later discovered the said random was in fact a guitarist in some semi-famous band. A few gigs, one brag --- not a bad winrate.
Loved your TR btw. Gulf coast poker is a literary goldmine, for sure. Ibrahim stacking your AK with AJ was a form of poetic justice, perhaps. Can we quantify poetic justice in terms of EV? Not sure if that's rhetorical tbh.
I don't believe the Dirk thing is too bad at all. The other day someone thought I was Johnny Vibes. I said, "no, I'm his brother." Guy instantly replies, "makes sense."
I've gotten Brad Owens a few times.
Thanks Dubn! How's your new blog going? (feel free to drop a link here so others can follow your progress as well)
Quote:
It's "Whitetail" by Low, from the Things We lost in the Fire album recorded by Albini in 2001. Keep in mind, I just started the list ... it's not the only song from the 2000s I like. This track was effectively an addendum to another (drumming related) playlist. Actually, makes me think of doing a "90s bands that still released great stuff in the 2000s" playlist.
06-10-2024
, 02:29 AM
It is going alrightish ; I guess I am still getting back into the flow of blogging once again, and mainly writing in English, as while the latter is still part of my daily life (I listen to podcasts in English and certain movies), I no longer write nor speak it except on very rare occasions - but that will change in Vegas
. I hence feel that while I did write a few solid blog entries, others left a little to be desired... Nevertheless, it should start to get more interesting starting on June 21 with some daily WSOP updates ; thx for asking friend
06-16-2024
, 10:56 AM
Quote:
Thx Ben, sure, will do : https://www.unibetcommunity.com/foru...533;/#comments
It is going alrightish ; I guess I am still getting back into the flow of blogging once again, and mainly writing in English, as while the latter is still part of my daily life (I listen to podcasts in English and certain movies), I no longer write nor speak it except on very rare occasions - but that will change in Vegas. I hence feel that while I did write a few solid blog entries, others left a little to be desired... Nevertheless, it should start to get more interesting starting on June 21 with some daily WSOP updates ; thx for asking friend
It is going alrightish ; I guess I am still getting back into the flow of blogging once again, and mainly writing in English, as while the latter is still part of my daily life (I listen to podcasts in English and certain movies), I no longer write nor speak it except on very rare occasions - but that will change in Vegas
. I hence feel that while I did write a few solid blog entries, others left a little to be desired... Nevertheless, it should start to get more interesting starting on June 21 with some daily WSOP updates ; thx for asking friend
I just got up to VT and, although I don't have WSOP FOMO, I've been following the action closer than I thought I would via a few vlogs, podcasts, etc. Was fun to see Ivey snag his 11th bracelet, and Schulman's performance in the 25K ranks as the best FT performances I've seen outside of Joe Mckeehen in the 2015 Main.
