in b4 warmdeck

Keep em coming!

/sub

Really enjoying these!

Subbed!

Spades — 1.5
Do you know what it feels like to be the last man standing in a live tournament?

Sure, scooping a 600 big blind pot in a cash game will probably give you an adrenaline rush, but the experience isn’t quite the same as outlasting an entire field of players.

I wanted to experience that feeling for myself.

The reentry period in the $75 tournament at Spades had come to a close, and players were beginning to bust. Two tables had now broken, and we were approaching the second break.

Vinny had announced the payout structure a short while ago — 65 players, 22 reentries. The top seven players would get paid, with $2175 up top for first.

I had a healthy stack at this point, but, I needed to reassess my game plan and adopt a new strategy — tight, ABC poker wasn’t going to help me at this point. The blinds and antes were getting expensive, and I needed to start chipping-up if I wanted to make it into the money.

The tournament goes on its second break, and the green chips need to be colored up and raced off.

At this point in time, I had never seen a chip race before. In fact, I didn’t even know what a chip race was, because they don’t occur in online poker. When I had colored up tournament chips in games that I had hosted at my house, I simply rounded up any leftover chips to the next denomination. I wasn’t aware that there was a fair and accountable way to do it.

In case you don’t know, a chip race is a method of removing unneeded chip denominations from play. If a player doesn’t have enough chips (of the unneeded denomination) to equal the value of the next denomination, the remaining leftover chips are raced off.

During the break, I stayed at my table to watch and learn how to do a chip race. The dealer races off the greens, and I look through the plexiglass window into the main room — two cash games were going, and Andy was playing in one of them. There were only a few more minutes left on the break, so I decided to just stay in my seat and wait for play to resume.

With 15 seconds remaining on the break, the dealer begins to scramble the cards. He gives the deck a shuffle, deals out the cards, and the action begins.

I still had a tight image at the table. I hadn’t made any big bluffs, and was never at risk at any point since the reentry period had closed. This was about to change — it was time to switch gears.

I pick up A4ss in the big blind. There’s a raise from early position, and both middle position and the button flat. The small blind comes along as well, and I go into the tank. I look at everyone’s stack size — we’re all sitting on roughly the same amount of chips, give or take a few big blinds.

I look at each one of the players in the hand, asking myself if I think that anyone in particular would call a shove. I think for a bit longer. I’m convinced that everyone in the pot is holding a marginal hand at best, and nobody has a hand strong enough to call an all-in. It seems like everyone wants to see a flop.

Finally, I come to a decision and raise all-in. This was a pretty gutsy move. If I was wrong, I was certainly behind, but if I was right, I could pick up a nice pot with only Ace high.

The early position raiser folds, so does middle position, as well as the button. It’s on the small blind, and she starts thinking out loud about what to do, deliberating between her options. I can see she’s trying to find a call, but hasn’t made up her mind yet.

In my head, I keep shouting, “FOLD! FOLD! FOOOOOOO-LD!”.

I direct my gaze to an imaginary spot on the felt, about where the board would be if the dealer had put out a flop. I hold a blank stare — the color of the felt on the table is red.

She’s still in the tank, and decides to turn her hand face up to try and get a read on me. I quickly glance at her hand, then back to the felt.

She’s showing pocket 5’s. She tries engaging me in table talk.

“Do you want me to call?”

I don’t respond.

“I’ll do whatever you want me to do. Call or fold? It’s up to you.”

I still don’t respond. She goes on for a bit longer, but I’m not paying attention to her anymore. In fact, I can’t even hear what she’s saying. I keep repeating in my head, over and over, “FOOOOOOO-LD!”.

She makes up her mind and chucks her hand into the muck. My entire body relaxes, and I feel the air expel from my lungs. I get the urge to crack a smile, but I resist — I’m pleased with myself for making a play that worked. I keep my composure and drag in the pot.

I pick up a couple value hands throughout the next few levels, another table breaks, and I win a few pots. I’m starting to pick up some momentum.

We’re now at 3 tables — I pick up AT on the button, with the Ace of diamonds. The college guy from earlier is in Middle position and puts in a raise. It folds around to me, and I 3-bet. He makes the call.

The flop comes Q7J, all diamonds. He checks, and I bet a little over 1/3 pot. He calls.

The turn is a black 3. He checks, and I bet again, slightly more than 1/3 pot. He makes the call — there’s no way he doesn’t have a hand here.

The dealer burns a card and puts out the river, 2d.

The complete board is Q7J32 with four diamonds, giving me the nuts. He checks again, and this time I bet 1/2 pot. He looks disgusted with himself.

“Ugh, I f*cked this hand up so badly.”

“I think you played it quite skillfully, and displayed good judgement by not raising at any point post flop.” — I’m trying to goad him into a call, even though I know he’s never going to.

“I know you’re only holding one diamond. I was gonna let you bluff the river and snap you off.”

“Well, now I’m gonna let you fold. Come on, let’s go. I know you’re not calling.”

He mucks.

I table my hand anyway, and turn over AT, with the Ace of hearts?

“You don’t have a diamond? Ace high? Are you kidding me? I folded a f*cking set of sevens and you have Ace god damn high?” — the college guy is visibly agitated.

My jaw drops — I had misread my hand, I really thought that I was holding the Ace of diamonds. Of course, I kept that fact to myself.

“Uh, yeah. That *is* Ace high. Hm, how about that... I guess you did let me bluff the river.”

I was at a bit of a loss for words and didn’t know what else to say — I had never misread my hand before. I was very aware of the fact that I wasn’t capable of playing that hand the way I did, had I known what I really had. I’m sure that I would have given up on the river and checked back. In fact, I probably would have checked back on the turn and never bet the flop in the first place.

Two players get knocked out in the same hand, one of them is the college crybaby. The table breaks, and I receive a new seating card. We’re down to only two tables. I take my new seat and take note of all the stack sizes to see where I stand — I’m right in the middle with about 45 big blinds.

It’s the final level before the last break begins. I’m under the gun and get dealt AKhh. I put in a min-raise and get shoved on by the button, who I have slightly covered, I think. It’s close. I’m not folding, and I decide it’s time to flip. I make the call, but to my surprise, the button tables AQ.

The flop brings a board of 99Q. Good game. Oh well, that’s how it goes sometimes — nothing you can do about it…

…except go runner-runner hearts and hit a backdoor flush!

I’m now sitting on about 80 big blinds and have one of the larger stacks. We’re down to six players at my table, the other one has five. I ask the dealer which one the final table is, and he tells me that the other players will be coming to us, although we’ll be drawing for new seats. It makes no difference anyway, both tables are in the same room and right next to each other.

A player at the other table gets knocked out, and we combine into the final table. We all agree to take a 10 minute break now, and instead play through the one that’s scheduled at the end of the level.

I walk over into the main room to see how Andy is doing in the cash game. He has over $1k in front of him in a $1/$2 game, which sounds like it’s too deep, however, most of the other players have at least $700. The shortest stack isn’t short at all — $400. It was almost 9PM at this point, and both of the cash games were full.

Andy gets up from the table and we walk into the smoking room.

“You made the final table, eh?”

“Yeah, we just got down to ten players. Only seven get paid.”

“How many short stacks are there?”

“Just one, really. Everyone else, including me, has chips. We decided to go on break right after we combined, so we haven’t played a hand yet.”

“Feel the table out before you decide how you wanna play it.”

“I will. I see you’re doing well in the cash game.”

“Oh yeah, it’s playing like a $2/$5 game and everyone is deep. The action is great, the standard open is $15 or $20. I think we might actually just make it a $2/$5 game.”

Clearly, the game was not playing like it was when I had played the night before. It was a tournament night and only 9PM on a Sunday. Most people had work the next day, though, and would begin to leave around 11 - 11:30 PM.

“I’ve gotta get back to the tournament, the break is about to end. When do you think you’ll want to leave? I’ve got class tomorrow morning.” — I had forgotten that Andy said he was going to stay there until the game broke, so that he could try and collect from Matt.

“Don’t worry about it buddy, I’ll call a cab to get back to the train station. I need to see Matt after the game is over, he’s going to pay me with what he makes tonight.”

I get back to my seat in the tournament, and a player at the table proposes a deal. The dealer knocks on the plexiglass window to get Vinny’s attention — he then points to his watch with his index finger, signaling Vinny to pause the clock.

“Anyone object to an even chop? Let’s do it, right now, chop it up ten ways and we can all go home early with some money. I asked Vin on the break — a ten way chop is $435 each.”

I did not object, and nobody at the table seemed to care that there was a shortstack. I was fine with a $435 payday, and I didn’t have much experience playing shorthanded or heads up anyway. It was all but said and done until one player rejected the deal.

“No deal, I want to keep playing for little while longer. Let’s go, start it up.”

I knew exactly why the guy objected. The one shortstack at the table had less than 6 big blinds. I’m pretty sure that he wanted to wait until the shortstack got knocked out.

The dealer once again knocks on the plexiglass window then points to his watch. Vinny starts the clock.

Four hands into the level, and two players get it in — Aces versus Kings. Of course, the guy who rejected the deal is holding the bullets.

However, karma can be a b*tch, and a King comes in on the turn. Nine players remain, and one of them makes a new proposal.

“Anyone object to a nine-way chop?”

“Yeah, screw it. Keep playing.”

I’m not playing any hands at this point. The shortstack is still in the tournament, and I decide that I’m just going sit back for a while and only open 88+ or two broadway cards. Everything else I’m folding. I’ll see what happens when another player bites the dust — I feel like most of the players still want to chop.

About ten minutes later, the shortstack gets it in with KJdd and loses. Eight players left. This time, nobody says anything about chopping — we’re on the bubble.

The blinds go up and I’m down to about 40 big blinds. With the blinds doubling every level, we were now playing bingo all-in poker. If you were to put in a raise, the rest of the table would either fold or shove. Nobody at this table was flatting.

It was only a matter of time until it was a hand over hand situation — I just had to be patient and wait it out.

Two orbits later, pockets Tens gets it in against pocket 9’s and the Tens hold. Seven players remain and we’re now in the money. This time, I’m the one to bring up a chop.

“How do you guys feel about a seven-way chop? What would we get paid on that?”

Someone at the table quickly does the math.

“$621.”

“Anybody object?” — I see a couple of the players compare all of the stacks in play.

“Ship it!”

The dealer knocks on the plexiglass window to get Vinny’s attention and waves him over. Vinny enters the room.

“Seven-way chop? Alright, then. I’ll be back shortly.”

He returns a minute or two later, holding a giant stack of cash.

“Congratulations, guys. $621 to each player. Thanks for playing, please remember to tip your dealers.”

While he’s paying everyone out, the dealer is in the box suiting the decks and racking up the chips. Each player proceeds to put down $60 onto the table, and the dealer thanks them as they leave the room. Vinny hands me my winnings.

“Good job, mo.” — as he counts out my money.

I remove three $20 bills from the small wad and leave it on the table for the dealer. In underground tournaments, 10% of the payout was a standard tip — that’s just how it was.

I’m about to walk over and say goodbye to Andy when my phone vibrates. I take it out of my pocket. It’s a text from Jennifer, my girlfriend.

“Hey babe, are you ignoring me?”

I immediately realized that I hadn’t spoken to her at all over the weekend.

I had a lot on my mind — I had just cashed my first ever live tournament, I was worried that the situation between Andy and Matt would prevent me from getting a dealing job at Spades, and I had a bunch of things to do in school to prepare for college applications.

I send a text back to Jen, explaining that I had been very busy over the weekend working and playing poker. I apologize and ask if I can make it up to her by taking her out to a nice place for dinner. She seems satisfied.

I make my way over to Andy and we say our goodbyes. I tell him that I’ll speak to him tomorrow — I was certainly going to give him a call, it was important that I know how the situation with Matt played out. I didn’t want anything standing in my way of getting a dealing job at Spades.

I leave the club and get into my car to drive home. 20 minutes later, I walk into my house and find my mother waiting for me.

“I have some bad news, son. Your father’s going to be in jail for a while.”

To be continued…

These just keep getting better! Can't wait for the next installment!

Spades — 1.6
The Summer of 2007 was nearly here, and I was almost finished with my junior year of high school. Nearly a year had passed since I had first been brought into the underground poker world. I had spent the months playing at Fox’s on the weekends, reading any worthwhile poker literature I could find, playing online poker almost daily, and routinely talking strategy with Andy.

I was becoming a much better player, and my familiarity with the nuances of live poker was growing. At this point, I had become a regular at Spades, and I often played cash on Saturday nights. I would always buy a seat into the Sunday tournament, though, because that was when the club was at its busiest, and subsequently had the largest staffing requirement. I figured that if I hung around often enough, an opportunity would eventually present itself.

School would soon be over, and I wanted to deal over the summer. If I was going to get a job dealing at Spades, it was most certainly going to be when they ran their tournaments. The problem, however, was that there weren’t any open spots — they were all taken, even on Sundays, which required at least 7 dealers to run smoothly.

I would always arrive early for the Sunday afternoon tournament, and the dealers would be in the middle of setting everything up for play. I had noticed that a few of the dealers would occasionally say how they would “rather play than deal today”, and I had the realization that this might be the perfect opportunity for me to create an opening that I could fill.

I had a plan, I was going to proposition one of the dealers — I would pay for their entry fee into the tournament, and in return they would give me their dealing spot. I figured that Vinny would be much more likely to replace one of his dealers if they were the one who was asking. I needed to wait for the right time, though, because I hadn’t yet told Vinny that I knew how to deal.

Eventually, on no particular Sunday, the right moment presented itself, and I propositioned a dealer who kept talking about how badly he wanted to play in the tournament. He agrees to the terms of the deal, and a short while later, Vinny asks me to have a seat in the box for a quick audition.

He instructs me to deal out the hole cards required for a 9-handed PLO hand, then put out a complete flop, turn and river.

I ask him why he’s having me deal out PLO, when the only game that he runs is NL Hold’em. He responds by saying that if I can efficiently deal PLO, then I can, without question, deal no-limit.

I deal out the PLO hand, and then he directs me to table two random hands and read them. I was incredibly nervous about being put on the spot like this — I had never done an audition before. I take far too long trying to read even one hand, but he’s seen me play so many times, and knows that I’m just nervous.

Before I can even say anything, he tells me that he’ll let me deal, but only in the tournaments. However, he’ll give me a shot today, and if it goes smoothly, talk to me about locking up a spot on a weekly basis.

That’s essentially how I got my foot in the door at Spades. I was a nice kid, well-spoken, and reliable. I dressed professionally when I came to deal, and I did anything that I could to help out — took out the trash, ran chips, cleaned up, restocked the fridge, whatever I could do to seem useful.

As I became a better dealer, I would later on get a shot to deal cash there, but it wouldn’t happen for quite some time.

I was now spending a lot of time at Spades, but not even remotely close to as much as Andy. He wound up accepting Gary’s offer to be a prop player for the club. Under their arrangement, he usually worked the opening shift in the morning. He had to arrive at the club by 10 AM, and could leave at 6 PM, but stay on the clock until 8 PM, if he wanted.

He worked out a pretty reasonable deal to play $1/$2 NL — $19 per hour and reimbursement for train tickets and taxi fare. However, if a table filled up, and there was a player was waiting, he would have to either give up his seat to continue accumulating his hourly, or give up his hourly to continue playing.

Andy did very well for himself at Spades, and I was happy for him. He rarely, if ever, seemed to be in a foul mood, which is commendable, because most people who spend that kind of time in a poker room seem to be miserable. Perhaps that’s why he was so successful.

Matt was still working at the club and had settled his outstanding debt to Andy, months earlier. As a dealer, if you were somehow able to get a spot dealing cash at Spades, you had proverbially “hit gin”. There was no way Matt was going to risk losing his spot over $2,000 when he earned twice as much as that in one week. Players were respectful — although, just like any poker room, sometimes certain characters would pass through and stir the pot — they generously tipped the dealers and made sure they were well taken care of, and the club ran like clockwork, seven days a week, opening every morning at 10 am.

I would regularly play at Spades when I wasn’t working there, and I began developing a friendship with Chris — the dealer who I had met the first time that I played and cashed in the Sunday afternoon tournament. When I first met him, I thought that he was around the same age as Andy, who was 35, but I was wrong. Chris was actually 24, though he looked much older. With me being 17, Chris was like the older brother that I never had.

We got along very well and had the same interests that most young men have in common — girls, partying, and money. We also shared a similar sense of pride when it came to poker. He was an outstanding dealer, and felt the same way I did — if you were not good at dealing the game, it should be unacceptable to expect players to tip you.

I wasn’t that good at dealing yet, but eventually when the time came for my journey to end at Spades, I would learn quite a bit from the time I had spent there, and my skills would grow to a satisfactory level.

At the time, I knew that if I wanted to take home as much money as Chris did from dealing cash, I had to get more experience in the box — he respected me for that. If a dealer wasn’t good, it was okay as long as they could get through a down without making mistakes too frequently, and genuinely cared about the game, and getting better at the job — something you could determine based on their attitude, during their time in the box.

For the past 3 years, Chris had stayed in Vegas every summer to deal the World Series of Poker, something I would go on to do myself many years later. He told me that he had met a lot of great people, and learned how to be a better dealer during the time he spent at the WSOP.

There were a lot of bad dealers who worked at the series, and they were excellent examples of exactly what not to do. They almost always made far less money than the veterans. However, the good dealers did very well for themselves, by either dealing live action and standing out amongst the others, or by signing up and getting approval to deal featured events and final tables.

Because Chris was a remarkable dealer, the money was very good, and it kept him coming back to the WSOP every summer, although this year, he would not be returning — the take-home wasn’t even close to what he was now making at Spades dealing cash 5-6 nights per week.

Eventually, I started hanging out with Chris outside of the club, and we became very good friends. He was a true degenerate, and one of the most aggressive and fearless poker players that I’ve ever met. Andy did not particularly like Chris — he didn’t approve at all of Chris’ degenerate nature, and tried to warn me, more than a few times, to distance myself from him. Andy certainly did respect Chris as a dealer though — he preferred when Chris dealt because he liked his style, and tipped him more because of how good he was.

Over the next few years, the two of us would go on to have some wild experiences together, the first of which would involve us taking a road trip, each with a few of our buddies, up to Turning Stone to play poker and have what can only be described as “more” than a good time.

About five months had passed since I had last seen my Dad. He was serving a 1-year sentence in Nassau County Correctional Center for a DWI conviction — he had managed to score two of them within a three month span, though this time was not like the other. He had jumped the curb to a local 7-Eleven and came crashing through the front window.

Thankfully, nobody was hurt, but the judge was infuriated by my Dad’s swift return to court and threw the book at him.

He wouldn’t be getting released for another seven months, but it would turn out that the next time I saw him would be close to eight years later, inside his final resting place. I never even got the chance to have another conversation with him.

Up until recently at this point in my life, I had never been privy to the knowledge of my Father’s never-ending struggle with drug addiction. For the past 16 years or so, he had done an excellent job of hiding it from me. However, in the year or so before he was sentenced to jail, he had begun to spiral out-of-control towards rock bottom, revealing himself in the process.

He ran my parent’s business and finances into the ground, and had spent every last penny on mountains of cocaine and various types of pain pills, but mainly oxycodone of the 30mg variety — my Mother was now broke, and any luxuries that she had suddenly vanished.

I began to notice that my Father was always at home, both when I would leave for school, and when I would return. It seemed like he would never leave the house to go to work anymore. He would either be comatose in bed, or he would stay up, for what seemed like days on end, all through the night doing miscellaneous, strange things.

One particular night, I walked into the kitchen and found him having a complete, in-depth, but nonsensical conversation with the refrigerator, while completely unaware of both his surroundings and even my presence in the room. He didn’t know where he was. I became very concerned and frightened, but also confused.

When I would question him about his strange behavior, I couldn’t get any straight answers. Nothing he said made any sense, and it didn’t add up. He would tell me that he had just had too mucn to drink, or that he was messing with me and joking around. He would even lie about how often he slept, or whether or not he ever went to bed the previous night — he would always tell me that he had just waken up early that very day.

Inevitably, one night he became incredibly erratic and violent — he was in a state of paranoia, he was sleep-deprived and experiencing drug-induced psychosis.

He attacks my Mother, which sends me into a full-blown rage. I pull him off of her and shove him face-first into a wall. He retaliates, and we beat the bloody hell out of each other for about two minutes, when I eventually get the best of him — he couldn’t match me in strength. I was athletic and regularly practiced weight lifting, whereas he was relatively inactive, intoxicated, and sleep-deprived. Even so, I was completely gassed when I finally ended it. I had never in my life felt exhaustion like that.

The next day he knocks on my bedroom door and comes into my room to apologize. He admits everything to me, and promises that he’s going to get help and get better.

But, he never got better. In fact, he continued to get worse and progressively ignore his responsibilities as a father and husband more and more as time passed. Then, one night, after cashing my first live tournament at Spades, I come home to find that he’s suddenly gone, and will be stuck in jail for a year.

I didn’t ever want to see him again — my family was better off without him. My siblings felt the same way. We all gave him so many chances, but he threw away every one of them. It was my Mother who actually needed the most convincing, she didn’t want to abandon him, even though she had been secretly dealing with his issues for close to two decades.

I felt that had we let him come back, he would have taken us down with him, for he did not want to get professional help with conquering the inner demons that he was battling on a daily basis.

Now, the best summer months were ahead of me, and I was making great money for someone my age. Playing poker was finally starting to pay off, and I had more free time on my hands than anyone else I knew.

Things were going all but too well at Spades. It wouldn’t be long until I would experience my first encounter with SWAT, and get the biggest reality check of my life.

To be continued...

What a fantastic storyteller you are!!!
Really enjoying your thread, 5 star thread in the making!

Man, been reading your stories on a daily basis while on lunch at work. I love the stories and the way you are writing them. I am sorry to hear about the addiction your father had. I have known good people who's lives were destroyed to hard drugs as well.

Spades — 1.7
Junior year of high school is by far the hardest year for a student. There is so much that goes on — SAT’s, finals, college applications, entrance essays, recommendation letters, and relationships, among other things. All of your effort gets spent raising your GPA as high as you possibly can, so that you can get into the school of your choice. However, for me, working my way up in the underground poker world was just as important.

The summer of 2007 was in full swing now, and my junior year of high school had finally ended. By this point, I had accomplished many of the things I had set out to do — I had been accepted into St. John’s University on a scholarship for Computer Science, I was dating Jennifer, my first, true love, my ability as a poker player was finally paying off, and I had strategically maneuvered my way into a regular dealing job at Spades. I was starting to get good enough as a dealer to begin venturing out to other clubs for work.

However, not everything was sunshine and rainbows. My Father was still in jail, and he would remain there for quite some time. My Mother was broke and immensely struggling to pay the bills to support my siblings and me, and I still wasn’t truly happy with my skills as a dealer — I was decent and I could deal a solid game, but I was nowhere near the professional level that would yield the type of money Chris was making.

With my Father out of the picture, I took it upon myself to take on the responsibility of being the provider. My Mother was doing her best to rebuild the business that my Father had decimated, and while she was repairing the damage, I didn’t hesitate to pay the bills that she couldn’t afford. Even though I was only 17, between dealing poker and playing $1/$3 and $2/$5, I was earning about the same amount of money a typical mid 30’s nine-to-fiver was. I paid for summer camp for both my brother and sister, which gave my Mother the opportunity to focus on her business and personal life. This also left me free of babysitting duty.

I was playing poker everyday and dealing the tournaments at Spades three nights a week. When I’d finish work at Spades, I’d then jump into a cash game to try and earn even more. I had a huge advantage over most of the other players — I dealt to them regularly and really got to observe their tendencies which allowed me to figure out how they approached the game.

By mid summer, my live reads on the regulars were so often correct, that it rarely mattered what my holdings were. I knew when they were weak, I knew when they were strong, and I knew who liked to fold and who loved to call down. I was undoubtedly taking full-blown advantage of being a dealer.

I don’t want to overplay how much I was making from playing — I could never have depended solely on my winnings. The majority of my income came from dealing, but I also saw steady financial gain from playing live poker. I was starting to build up a solid bankroll.

By this point, I had almost fully given up the idea of playing online poker seriously, because my Full Tilt account was registered under my Father’s name, and I wasn’t even of legal age to be playing online anyway. I felt it was too great of a risk trying to withdrawal funds while the account owner was incarcerated. Before my Father was sent to jail, I would withdrawal via check and have my Father cash it for me. With him being in jail, this was no longer an option. I was too paranoid to get a bank transfer sent to an account that belonged to a minor.

I would still occasionally play online to keep my theoretical skills sharp and rail the nosebleed games, but would also play heads up with Andy, Chris, and many other poker buddies I met at the underground clubs.

For all of these reasons, I opted to mainly play live poker and focus more on becoming a professional level dealer.

I was starting to get really comfortable working at Spades. I would report to work in professional attire, maintained a diplomatic and professional attitude, and always showed interest in learning more about the business of poker. I was young, but not at all arrogant, and was considered a great employee because I was reliable, always arrived early, and volunteered to do all of the grunt work — take out the trash, restock the fridge, run chips, make ATM runs for players who would bust, drive to the convenience store for special item requests by big action players, you name it. I knew I wasn’t the best dealer, so I made up for it by being valuable in other areas.

By the mid summer, I had locked up my dealing spot at Spades and had become a regular tournament dealer. The guys who dealt cash were always the same, and they had their spots locked up, but when it came to tournaments, the turnover rate was often high. The cash guys didn’t want to deal the tournaments because it wasn’t as lucrative, so Spades would often employ either players or dealers who were in debt. Of course, sometimes the cash dealers were required to deal the tournaments, but they would only start them off — only to open a cash game as soon as the first table would break. For them, they would rather relax and take a break than deal the tournament for an hour and a half.

I was starting to get very comfortable in the box, and I was becoming confident in my skills as a dealer. I was beginning to feel that it was time that I start dealing cash. The problem, however, was that the cash spots were locked up and the management at Spades felt I wasn’t strong enough as a dealer to deal cash. How was I to get better, if I wasn’t allowed to in the first place?

One Saturday afternoon, my phone rings. It’s Vinny.

“Hey Mo. What are you doing? Are you busy?”

“What’s up Vinny? I’m at home relaxing, not busy at all. What’s up?”

“One of the dealers for the $1/$2 game just called out sick, I’m short staffed. I need you to come in and deal cash. You think you can do it?”

I shot up out of my chair. I was lit up with joy. Finally! This was my opportunity to finally get a chance to deal cash.

“Absolutely. I’ll leave my place now. I’ll be there in less than 20 minutes.”

“Great. I knew I could count on you, Mo. See you soon.”

I threw on some fresh clothes and raced over to the club. I sped into the back parking lot, jumped out of my car, and headed inside the club.

When I walked in, Vinny explained the situation, just as he did on the phone.

One of the dealers had called out sick, and he was stuck with only 3 dealers, while two cash tables were running. At Spades, they always had one dealer more than the amount of cash tables running, meaning that someone would always be on break or brush, while the others were in the box.

For two tables running, a standard rotation would be to push into table 1, deal for thirty minutes, get pushed out and push into table 2, then get pushed out and go on break or brush.

If you don’t know, “brush” means to essentially help out with any other duties that might come up. Run chips, let players in and out, take a break, or anything else that might arise.

I was ecstatic. I was finally going to get my shot. Vinny tells me to get ready to go to Table 1 on the push (on the half hour) and I start to mentally prepare. He briefs me with the details about how it’s going to work.

“Okay, Mo. You know the deal. The rake is 10% capped at $10. You can keep all of your tips. Put them in the left-most side of the well. No rabbit hunting, no running it twice, and make sure you count the stub at least twice during your down. Make sure any all-in player pushes all of their chips up into the middle. Call out for chips if a player needs to rebuy.”

“Okay, I got it. Thanks, Vinny.”

Ten minutes goes by and I walk up behind the dealer seated in the box at Table 1. I give him a light tap on his left shoulder, letting him know that I’m there to relieve him, and after the hand concludes, he thanks the players and I take my seat in the box.

I give a familiar nod to the players who I know, say a few hellos, and finally it’s time.

“Good afternoon, everyone. Blinds please.”

I give the deck a wash and deal my first cash hand. I was incredibly nervous for the first orbit or so. My hands were slightly shaking. I was focusing all of my attention on the game, and I didn’t make a single word of conversation other than calling the game and announcing the action. After a few minutes, I settled in to a rhythm and it felt just like I was dealing a tournament.

It was clear to me, and to all of the players seated at the table, that I was obviously new to this. I wasn’t of the same caliber that the other dealers were — but, I was sure as hell trying my best.

During one particular hand, I had dealt a cooler and felted a rather short-fused player. He threw his cards at me and complained to my face, shouting that I was an “awful dealer” and to “hurry the **** up” with the next hand. The winner of the hand, probably as a needle to the loser, tosses me a green-bird and tells me to enjoy the loser’s money. A few players laughed and the player throwing a temper-tantrum shut right up.

I made a valiant effort and continued, and before I knew it, I felt a light tap on my left shoulder. It was time to push into the next table. I grabbed my tips from the well, quickly eyed them for a count, and slipped them into my pocket. I had just made $43, I could surely get used to this.

About 3 and a half hours go by, and Vinny approaches me while I’m on my break.

“You did good today, Mo. You need some work to get better, but overall you got the job done. I got a hold of Matt and he just pulled into the parking lot. He’s going to be finishing up the shift for you. Thanks for helping out on such short notice. I’ll call you again if I need you for cash. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon for the Sunday tournament.”

I was a little bummed that it ended so quickly, but still, I was happy that I had been given the opportunity. For 3 hours of dealing, including my breaks, I totaled around $300 in tips. However, I was aware that some of the players were over-tipping me because they knew that it was my first time dealing cash. At that moment, I absolutely knew that I had to start dealing cash.

I was in a great mood, and there was only one thing that could make it even better — sex.

I haven’t talked much about my girlfriend, Jen, up until this point, but as you’ll later on find out, will become an integral part of my story. She was the same age as me, although a few months older, and absolutely gorgeous. She was 5’4, 110lbs, blonde hair with mesmerizing, hypnotic blue eyes, exercised regularly, and had a magnificent ass, and perfect, C-cup breasts. She was the first girl I ever fell in love with. I truly believed that I was going to marry her, I would have done anything for her. I think that all guys fall under that spell with their first love.

She was also the most intelligent person I ever met in my entire life. While she possessed an innate ability for academic excellence, I was the more cunning and clever type. Where she had difficulty reading between the lines, I could always see the bigger picture. She would graduate as the salutatorian and later go on to work for the State Department as an Arabic translator.

Anyway, I decided to leave the club and drive over to Jen’s house. Her parents were away on vacation in The Hamptons, so we had the house to ourselves — perfect.

When I arrived at her house, I told her all about my first cash-dealing experience and how much I had made. She was impressed — kids our age would spend an entire week, working full-day shifts to make this kind of money. I did detect a hint of concern though, as she was aware that what I was doing was illegal.

I told her that I wanted to go out and celebrate, but that we should first work up an appetite.

She was wearing a sky blue blouse that day, so I unbuttoned her shirt, unhinged her bra, and to my surprise, she took the lead. She stood before me, in nothing but silk, pink panties, and pushed me onto her bed. For the next 10 minutes, I was her play toy.

After throwing her sheets into the washing machine, we headed out for a nice dinner at an upscale steak house. We both had fake ID’s, so we enjoyed our meal with a couple glasses of cheap wine. We spent the time during our meal talking about future and what the next year — our senior year — of school might hold for us.

During the drive back to Jen’s house, I began formulating a plan of where I could deal more cash games. I was pretty sure that it wasn’t going to be at Spades, but I did have a few ideas of where I could start. Regardless, I was definitely going to continue dealing the tournaments there, it was my bread and butter — steady and lucrative.

As I pulled up to a red light, my phone rang — it was Chris.

“Dude! What are you up to?! Let’s go to ****ing Turning Stone and crush some poker up there. Whattaya say?”

To be continued…

We appreciate you.

Nice subbed!

Excellent writing. Subbed.

This thread is good and I appreciate your work here sir.

Thanks guys, really glad to hear that you’re enjoying the story.

Very good, thank you for sharing.

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gotta catch up on this

Great stuff. Subscribed.

Amazing writing and story. Subbed

Holy crap!

Made it to PokerNews!

https://www.pokernews.com/news/2019/...ddit-34053.htm

Congrats, and also thanks for sharing! I'm really enjoying the story.

Awesome man, honestly I have not been into reading a thread this much since, the "Another Kid Another Dream" thread. Which if course was a while ago now. Keep it going, it is fantastic!!

I started playing in 03' like everyone else and am from NYC, The first time i played live poker was in " fox's game" , I might have the dates mixed up but the location at the time was in the long island/queens border near JFK in some office building suite.

I played 5/10 with a kill with the old timers and some NL but not much since i was a fish and couldn't afford much.

I really have no idea about the spades club , did you change the name of it for the purpose of the story ?