2 Tournaments

Ever since I won my bracelet the offers have been flooding in. Everybody wants to fly me places, and pay for my buy ins. I remember when Phil had to scrounge around trying to get me a discount on my entry fees. Now there are so many tournament and website deals, it’s hard to figure out which ones to do.

The only problem is, because of my new TV series, I am finding it increasingly hard to work in my poker schedule. The best I can do is put in a request and keep my fingers crossed. This month there are two tournaments that I really want to go to: the Borgata, because Atlantic City sounds iconic to me, and Aruba.

Aruba always seemed like the best place to play poker. I liked turning on the TV and watching the final table, which was usually filmed in front of palm trees, an impossibly white beach, and a blindingly blue ocean. I liked seeing my favorite players squinting in the bright light, looking uncharacteristically healthy due to sudden tan, and wearing improbable Hawaiian shirts.

At the last minute, it turns out I am not in two episodes. I can go to both tournaments! We are ecstatic. I pack a big suitcase with Borgata outfits: t-shirts and jeans, and Aruba outfits: sunglasses and bikinis.

Phil brings Between a Rock and a Hard Place, a book he’s reading about a kid who has to cut off
his arm to survive. “It’ll make me feel better when I bust out of the tournament,” explains Phil. “I’ll just be happy I still have all my body parts.”

ATLANTIC CITY
The Borgata is a luxurious Vegas-style hotel complete with the requisite Chihuly sculptures in the lobby. The first night we go to a big party where the new World Poker Tour video game is being unveiled. You can choose what player you want to go heads up with. Phil, of course, chooses to play The Unabomber. Live Phil beats Computer Phil easily, which causes Computer Phil to register myriad expressions of disgust. He sneers, and mutters, and in general manages to look sinister. At no time does he leave the table to do push-ups.

The next morning I find myself playing with Carlos Mortensen and Mike Matusow. Carlos is very aggressive, winning pot after pot. At one point he is the chip leader with over 70k. Mike keeps up a constant commentary. “Hey, if you’re Carlos, they just give you their chips…I want to be Carlos Mortensen when I grow up!”

Carlos is pretty quiet, but he smiles at Mike’s jokes. Mike says to me, and anyone else who will listen, that he is going back to his old style of playing. “I’m tightening up,” he announces. “That’s what I did in the WSOP and it worked really well for me.”

Carlos has built an impenetrable fortress of chips in front of him. He seems incapable of losing. At one point he calls my bets (big bets, almost the size of the pot) all the way to the river. I have top two pair, Kings and Jacks. He has a pair of fours. Then on the river catches an ace for higher two pair. It tortures me. I want to get inside his mind for a minute. Why would a person call off nine thousand dollars in chips on bottom pair? Unless…there was a flush draw on board…maybe he thought I was on a draw? I don’t know. I would love to crawl inside his mind for just one minute.

There is one empty seat. We are all trying to figure out who it is, because, in the poker world, the bigger the star you are the later you arrive. I’m thinking Phil Hellmuth Jr. Mike volunteers that Layne Flack was out late last night. Finally, after three hours or so have elapsed, a fairly innocuous fellow comes and sits down.

“Did you forget what time it started?” I ask.

“No,” he says meekly. “I couldn’t get off my construction job.” He takes out a tiny pin in the shape of four aces studded with eensy red lights, and puts it on top of his chip stack.

“What’s that?” asks Mike.

“This is my lucky pin,” he says proudly.

“When do the lights go on?”

“When I have aces.”

Two hands later we’re heads up. I have A-K. The flop comes K-rag-rag. I’m positive I have the best hand at this point. I bet 1,500. The newcomer calls. The turn, a blank. I bet 3,000. “Well I think I’m going to have to call that,” he says in a somewhat jolly way. Now I’m puzzled. I think I still have the best hand but why would he call? Is he on a draw? The river, a blank. I check. He goes all in.

I am upset. Most of my chips are in the pot. If I abandon the hand, my chip stack is decimated. But if I call, I’ll be out. It’ll be beyond embarrassing to go out so early. Everybody is quiet, respecting my all-in struggle. I stare at the guy. He looks away. I am on the verge of folding when he picks up his little pin, turns the flashing light on, and puts it protectively on his two cards. Suddenly I know he is unsure of his hand. I call.

“What do you have?” he says anxiously.

“She called you,” says Mike.

I flip over my cards, and he shows… K-9. He only has top pair. I have top pair, top kicker. The table goes wild. My knees are weak. I can’t believe I am still alive. Everybody is talking about what a great call it was. The funny thing about poker is that because I doubled up, it was a great call. If I’d gone out with that call, rather than a genius, I would have been the world’s biggest fish.

I feel sorry for the guy, though. Because he has slightly more than me, he gets two chips back. He sits there for another hour squeezing, until finally he goes all in, and Mike Matusow finishes him off. I feel bad. I picture him saving up for years to go head to head with his poker idols. And then to lose all his chips on the second hand to a girl! But later on Phil says he didn’t pay for his seat, he probably won it online, so then I feel a little better.

After about eight hours I am moved to another table. I can’t say I’m unhappy. Between Carlos and Mike, it was really hard picking up any loose change. The next table isn’t much better. David Benyamine and Amir Vahedi. I am playing tighter now. Even though I have 20,000, which is above average, I haven’t volumed up, so essentially I have four chips. It makes me feel poor. I promise myself I will play looser as soon as I win a hand.

On the button. Everyone limps. I call a queen-seven suited. The flop comes up three hearts. I can’t believe it. I have flopped a flush. My heart starts pounding. I hear Phil’s voice echoing in my brain. “Always bet your monsters.” I bet. To my delight, I get two callers. The guy to my left, and David Benyamine.

The turn, a blank. David bets big, I reraise all in. The guy to my left calls, which puzzles me. Now, like a bad dream, I hear David asking if he can reraise the other guy or if he has to just call. I know that’s not a good sign. I stare at the board. There is no possible full house showing. Maybe I misread my cards. I peek at them again. No, phew! Still suited. I decide to just relax and wait to triple up.

The river comes a blank. I stand and triumphantly turn over my cards, congratulating myself on my patience. But there is something wrong. Nobody is looking at me. They are staring at David Benyamine’s ace-high flush. I don’t even know what the other guy had. I gather my things and flee.

Even though I didn’t make it to “In The Money,” I don’t go home empty-handed. While doing an interview on the radio, I volunteer Phil’s opinion that the Borgata Bed is the most comfortable bed in the world. According to him, my own bed, with its overpriced Swedish system of mattress layering, only comes in third, behind the Borgata and the Bellagio.

Apparently Mr. Borgata himself, Bob Boughner, heard me on the radio, and said, “Send that girl a bed!” Phil and I are thrilled. “Honey, soon we’ll be sleeping every night on the most comfortable bed in the world,” says Phil excitedly.

Although the casino is fabulous, Atlantic City doesn’t live up to expectations. It’s kind of rundown. One hot, humid afternoon we go to the boardwalk, because I want to buy saltwater taffy. Besides us, the boardwalk is practically deserted.

At Johnny Rockets, the workers drop what they’re doing to indulge in a joyless line dance to the strains of I Will Survive. Phil gets up and joins them. Only Antonio and I are amused. The workers don’t even notice the addition to their grim chorus line, and the old age pensioners stolidly masticate their food without even looking up.

Antonio and Phil amuse themselves by pretending they are going to play the boardwalk games, taking the free shot and walking away. I give money to all the panhandlers, (I’ve never seen so many amputees in my life). I try to give a dollar to a woman caterwauling horribly out of tune, but Phil won’t let me. “Don’t encourage her,” he says, “She needs to get into another line of business.”

Because of my blinding migraine, I end up at the local Rite Aid, trying to get a refill on my Maxalt. Ahead of me in line is a large, sad woman, trailed by her husband. There is a problem with her insurance, and she is waiting to see if she will be able to fill her prescription. “I just get so depressed,” she is telling the sympathetic pharmacist. “Some days, I just want to take an overdose and end it all,”

“Oh don’t do that…” murmurs the clerk.

“Well, I would,” the lady insists, “but the government won’t pay for that many pills.”

About now my brain is about ready to jump out of my forehead from pain. I sincerely hope there is no problem with my prescription. “Is it ready?” I ask.

The lady with insufficient pills stares at me. “Are you…Bride of Chucky?” she gasps.

“Yes, I am,” I say modestly.

“Bride of Chucky! Bride of Chucky! Omigod! Look honey!” she pushes her husband forward. “It’s Bride of Chucky!”

They both beam at me, momentarily happy again. I collect my Maxalt and escape.

ARUBA
The UltimateBet people are waiting for us at the airport with what is probably the only Mercedes on the island. It is a tenminute ride to the hotel, where we are already checked in. Our room is expansive, with a gift basket of snacks, and a bottle of Dom Perignon chilling on ice. We can’t believe the opulence. “Maybe we got Phil Hellmuth’s room by mistake,” says Phil.

By the time we finish the Dom it is late afternoon. I am astonished to see that the pool and beach are practically deserted. Phil isn’t surprised at all. “These are poker people,” he explains. “Everyone’s playing cards.”

That night Phil goes downstairs to play in the cash games and suffers one bad beat after another. To add insult to injury, a kid with a fake id pulls in eighty thousand. “He’s not even eighteen!” says Phil indignantly. “When I was his age I was making five dollars an hour!”

“Never you mind,” I say soothingly. “You can get the money back tomorrow.”

“With what?” says Phil, “I’m out of cash.”

The next morning we wake up bright and early for us. Noon. As we walk to the tournament room, a gargantuan iguana scuttles across our path. “Look Phil,” I exclaim, “a lucky iguana!” And it suddenly occurs to me that, by saying it, maybe I could make it be true, so that two days from now, when we are settling into the final table, I can say, “Hey Phil, remember when that iguana walked across our path? I guess it really was lucky.”

Later on Scotty Nguyen shows me his wrists covered with angry red slashes. He tried to wrestle that same lucky iguana into submission, and it fought like nobody’s business. “But look!” he announces proudly, “I got the picture!” He clicks the playback on his digital camera, and sure enough there is the reptile and Scotty, seemingly the best of friends.

The iguana turns out to be anything but lucky for Phil and me. Phil goes out early, and I cannot catch a hand to save my life. It’s like trying to start an old rickety car with a sputtering ignition. One guy in particular seems to personally delight in shutting me down. Every time I have a mediocre pair, he calls. Every time I bluff, he raises. I find myself folding again and again.

My final hand pretty much sums up my whole tournament. I am on the big blind with A-10 offsuit. Only one caller. (Not the guy that’s been dogging my footsteps, he’s taken a temporary respite from torturing me and wandered off.)

The flop comes Q-10-rag, with two hearts. I confidently bet 2,000. My opponent is a tall skinny man who is prone to asking, “How many chips do you have left?” Psychological warfare. Or maybe he really wants to know. In this case, he wanted to know preflop. He raises five. I am sick. I’m tired of laying down hands. Everybody thinks they can push me around. I remember he just called preflop. What could he have? What are the odds he has a Q?

I take off my sunglasses and stare at him. He stares back, his naked eyes pale and blank. I put him on a draw. I don’t know why. I just want him to be on a draw. I want my three thousand back. I remember back at Borgata where I was the master caller. My chip stack is little more than five thousand. “All in,” I say weakly. And then a little stronger. “All in, all in, all in!”

He rolls A-Q. Not on a draw at all. My face turns red with humiliation. What a terrible call. What the hell did I think he had? Did I think he would raise with nothing? He’s shortstacked too. Of course he had a made hand.

“Goodbye” say my new friends.

(This table is slightly more friendly than usual) I gather my stuff and go. I think how gratified my nemesis will be when he comes back and I am gone. “Oh she donkeyed off all her money on a terrible call,” the others will tell him. Everyone will giggle. “Maybe it was that time of month…”

I trudge past John Vorhaus. “You’re out?” he says in surprise. “What happened?”

I want to keep walking, but I stop, trying to put some logic on my demise.

“I…well…I had A-10…and the flop…the flop was...” I pause, hoping he will lose interest, but he seems fascinated. “10- Q …with …with two hearts, so I end up going all in and he, he had a queen.”

“He had a queen?” John seems puzzled.

“I thought he was on a draw…” I say in a low voice.

He chuckles and writes that down. “You thought he was on a draw…famous last words.”

Great. I’m glad he finds my ignominious departure so amusing. I climb the stairs and wander the muggy corridors looking for my room.

Later on I click on the UltimateBet website, and sure enough, there is a picture of me, my mouth open in protest like Mr. Bill, and underneath the immortal words: “ I thought he was on a draw…”

Phil is asleep, but I wake him up. “I made a terrible call.” I say mournfully. He stares at me with bleary eyes. “So did I,” he says. I can tell he is even more depressed than me. It strikes me that being a professional poker player is not such a great vocation after all.

Our plane doesn’t leave until Friday. Now we have nothing to do but stare at the ocean for two days.

Day darkens into night. Phil finally wakes up. “Baby, baby I had a terrible dream!” he cries out. I come running into the bedroom.

“We were all at a final table. I had a boatload of chips. I limped in with a K-6. David Wells calls. The flop comes King, Queen deuce…I bet. David Wells raises me all in…I call. I am worried he has a better kicker, but he has King four. The turn comes a six. But a six of spades. Now he has four to a flush. The river, ace of spades.”

“Wow.” I say, “That sucks.” We lay in reverential silence for a moment, as if his bad beat were real.

“The reason I slept so much is to get away from the grossness that is poker,” says Phil sadly. “But I can’t get away from it…even in my dreams.”

“Never you mind,” I tell him. “Let’s go drink a nice bottle of wine.”

The next two days mainly consist of us scrambling around trying to raise money. We actually go to the airport one day trying to catch someone who owes Phil 27K before he gets on the plane. We find the guy, but we are too late. Not less than half an hour earlier he was waylaid by someone else, and he gave the money to him.

We end up playing a small tournament with our last thousand. I get bumped out early, but Phil makes it to the final table with a massive chip lead. We are exited. If he comes in first, and it looks like he will, we will uptick 27k. Unfortunately, two or three bad beats later, and he is out fifth. After he signs for the cash, and tips the dealers, we only have a thousand more than we
started with. Oh well.

That night is the Ultimate Bet party. It is outdoors. The night is balmy and the drinks plentiful. We run into Phil Hellmuth, who talks us into playing a freezeout with a bunch of people. Once again we entertain the fantasy that we will increase our net worth. But it doesn’t work out that way. I’m not the best of players when I’m sober, but when I have a few drinks in me I get expansive, and elaborate bluffs seem to be a good idea. I am sidelined fairly quickly and then I sweat Phil until he goes out. After that we sit glumly and watch Kenna James take everyone’s money.

“What about Kasey? “ I say hopefully. “Maybe you can borrow from…”

“You know what?” says Phil. “Let’s not play anymore. Let’s go for a walk on the beach.”

The walk on the beach is free. The moon is big and close, and eventually we shed our clothes and end up in the ocean. We float on our backs and stare at the stars remembering all the cool things we’ve done in Aruba… the games of gin at the gelato café, and the perpetually deserted beach…we remember the Dom, and the helicopter ride, and most importantly we remember that we still have two arms. And even though we are stuck 40K, and have lost two tournaments, we feel very lucky indeed.