Originally Posted by DBurg
A table with felt stretched taught across its surface.
Nine or ten chairs, maybe comfortable, maybe not.
A dealer, female or male, doing a job, quietly and with the aid of a ten thousand dollar (hopefully) random shuffling machine.
Nine or ten individuals occupy said chairs:
A landscaper, toiling in the sun, wind and rain five or six days a week. Slides ten thousand dollars into a makeshift cage to take a shot at taking the chips of the other individuals peering across the taught felt, a shot at millions of dollars. The landscaper has broken a hand when a rock fell from a truck being unloaded, slipped and tore a knee to shreds on the side of hill, while planting trees on some millionaires property, and gets to see his or her three children for an hour or so each night. Tough, thoughtful, hardworking, brings a quiet but hard demeanor to the table.
A banker, wealthy and set for life, used to shutting out the rest of the world in order to find tiny, fractional inefficiencies which to exploit to advantage. Kids go to expensive private schools and vacation in Spain and Barbados. Sits on the boards of multiple charities and philanthropic groups, which meet in high-end art galleries and restaurants. The banker brings studied knowledge of numbers, psychological manipulation and a ironic dual understanding that the ten thousand dollar entry fee can earn millions, but won't be lost should the kings and queens conspire against.
A gambler, lost to the thrill for years, hasn't seen family or friends in... Thrives beneath the lights, breaks from the felt filled with spinning reels and rolling dice. Knows the cigarette break may be his last, a balcony eight stories up providing a possible end if the ghosts of chance go south for the twentieth time. Forty-some years old, maybe older, and hoping every moment for that one score that drags his sole out of hock to the devil inside. Ten thousand dollars bet, borrowed and stolen, each penny another notch cut from weakening heart.
A teacher, summer break can't arrive fast enough. Two big tournament wins, each a chop of the mid-westerner's local casino's two hundred and fifty dollar buy-in Sunday Extravaganza has provided two thirds of the ten thousand dollar entry, the other third out of pocket. A child on the way, one last grab at life changing money before summers will be filled with diapers, and side jobs to save for children's college.
The pro, comfortable in a high rise just off the strip. A pool to swim in at night and exercise room thirty feet from the elevator door. Travels the world playing the circuit and bloated cash games. Ten thousand dollars is an entry on the accountants ledger, the price of doing business. The pro knows the tourney director, the dealers and is being railed by a handful of expectant fellow specialists. Supposed to win, the pro never wonders otherwise.
The young pizza maker, works odd jobs, often for tips, plays at the plush east coast casino. The pizza maker is taking a shot, not rolled properly, no back-up plan and no cash in reserve. Two hometown local grinders own a piece of the pizza maker's action, recent results on-line and live point to breakthrough in the biggest series of the year. If things go well, the significant other will join the pizza maker for the sweat of a lifetime, and maybe, just maybe they will move permanently to high-rise just off the strip.
These players and many more fill the seats at the tables covered in felt. Some will sit quietly, some will argue with their table-mates and the spots on the thin cards. Some of the players will jump from their seats when they win, others will slowly collect the pot and stack the chips. Some players will be able to talk others out winning calls, or into losing calls.
One thing's for certain, they all expect the casino to deal a fair game. They all expect to run head-long into humanities swirling cauldron of emotion, muscle, deception, elation and heartbreak. Deep down, they don't want new friends or someone to hold their hand and pat them on the head. They want to take their opponents chips, all of them. They want eight million dollars.
And, really, really deep inside, inside a place most of them will never understand, they want to get as far away as possible from the codified, paved, timed, insured, institutionalized soul shriveling modern world. Those fifty-two cards, felt and chairs are a place our very souls need, like a month in the wilderness, no guarantee of survival, the ancient brain takes over.
Poker needs to be this way, for our very sanity. It shouts out for the mind-benders, the bluffers, the talkers, the flippers and the gripping life reaffirming angst. That friendly banter, "Good game." "Well played." "Bad luck." That stuff is the bull#^* veneer covering the terrible game of survival we all hope for deep, deep inside each time we sit down.
