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We are in Berthoud,
Colorado, visiting Phil’s
family for the holidays.
Berthoud is a lovely
small town, population
3,000 (but growing),
and home to Josh,
Phil’s number one fan.
He used to have the moniker of Phil’s only fan,
but now Phil has many fans, and so Josh’s fan
status has been upgraded to number one.
He has come to take us to a local tournament,
held every Wednesday at a bar. The
grand prize is a twenty-dollar bar tab. When
Josh broached the subject of us participating,
Phil was toying with the idea. He usually doesn’t
like to play unless there’s money involved,
but there’s not a lot to do in Berthoud.
Josh has brought with him a red plastic
envelope filled with forty dollars in nickels.
Last night I won two freezeouts between Phil
and Josh. Phil handed me the two twenty dollar
bills right away, but Josh promised he
would have it for me the next day and, sure
enough, he does. “It’s all there,” he chortles,
pleased with his joke. “You can count it…
Where’s Phil?”
Phil is sleeping. He was up all night playing
on the internet, and has just dozed off. I know
he will not want to go anymore. But Josh is all
excited. He got the bar to designate half the
room non-smoking, and he says there is a
bounty on both of our heads.
I relay this information to Phil who is laying
in the dark. “They’re expecting us,” I say.
“That’s not my problem,” says Phil obdurately.
“I never said we were coming.” But after a
minute he climbs out of bed, and starts getting
dressed. He even puts on his Unabomber hood,
and mirrored shades.
The Derby Grille is a friendly roadside bar.
Almost all the cars in the parking lot are pickup
trucks. I feel like I’ve wandered onto the set
of North Country. Except there’s nobody here
that looks like Charlize Theron. Turns out the
“nonsmoking section” merely means they
remove the ashtray from the table, and then
everybody just ashes on the floor.
There is no buy in, but as it states quite candidly
in the tournament manifesto, if they
don’t sell a lot of drinks, the game will be discontinued.
To further motivate the drink buying,
you get a lottery ticket with every purchase
(potentially good for more chips).
Chase, the owner’s son, starts the ball
rolling by ordering a round of butterscotch
shots. Phil politely puts his to one side, but I
figure, when in Berthoud…
After about three hands, Phil puts the plastic
chips that say “big blind” and “small blind”
back in the box. “We don’t need these right?”
he asks. “Cause everybody knows who the big
blind and the small blind are?” There is a pause, so he adds helpfully, “They’re the hands
to the left of the dealer.”
No one wants to look like a baby, so the plastic
blind buttons stay in the box.
Phil says that when he plays in charity and
celebrity tournaments, he has to adjust his
play, and I can see what he’s talking about.
Amateurs sure do believe in the power of the
draw. And I’m not talking about the four to a
flush, or open-ended straight draw… I’m talking
about the extremely optimistic “maybe if I
stay in, I’ll hit a pair of queens on the river”
kind of draw.
Action is fast and furious. People are going
out left and right. Every break, Phil and I have
to go stand in the doorway under a harsh overhead
light so we can be immortalized on
numerous camera phones.
I am having a good time. Everybody has
been buying me drinks, beer, kamikazes, butterscotch-
whatevers. I drink them all. I make
little “whooo!” noises after I win each hand. It
seems like the thing to do. The guys high-five
me, and hold out their knuckles insistently
until I knock them with mine.
It feels funny to play this way. I usually don’t
drink around the cards, and because
it’s dark in the bar, I
have abandoned my sunglasses. I talk incessantly.
At one point, I jump up to put Johnny
Cash on the jukebox, and everyone waits for
me to come back. Another time I think it’s 50
dollars to call but it’s actually 350, and they let
me take my bet back. I know I’m not in Vegas
anymore.
“So far we’ve never had a fight in this bar
over poker!” declares the owner proudly, as he
ushers over a drunken surly man clutching a
haphazard tray of chips.
“What are you looking at?” growls the newcomer.
“Nothing!” we all say quickly.
I look down at pocket queens. I am last to
act. Almost everyone one has called a small
raise of twice the big blind. I know I have to
bet big to make this gang fold. I reraise to
2,500. To my chagrin everyone calls. There are
five of us in the pot. The flop comes up king,
rag, rag.
Well, sometimes you win, sometimes you
lose. I check. Checks all around until it gets to
the new guy. He is an extremely loose player,
as well as being drunk. When he bets, I know
what I have to do. I go all in. The whole table
folds. My opponent grumbles and scowls,
and eventually calls… with
a flush draw! Blank,
blank… I am now
the chip leader!
K.Q.. I raise,
another person
reraises all in. Two
callers. I almost fold,
and then I think,
“These people probably
have ace-something,
with possibly
a small pair in the
mix. Why not call?
Two live cards…”
So I call, everybody flips up, and I was
right in my assessment of the situation. The
flop comes four to a flush. By the turn it’s all
over. I have felted three people. Now there
are only ten of us. I have the field seriously
out chipped.
“There’s your competition right there,”
whispers Phil, pointing at Chase. “You should
chat him up and get into his rhythm.”
I agree with Phil. Chase has the second
largest amount of chips, partly because he
bought the most drinks, but also because he
has moves. But I get up to put more money in
the jukebox, and when I come back Chase is
gone. “What happened?” I ask.
“He went all in,” someone shrugs, “pocket
jacks versus pocket queens.”
Now Josh, our ride home, is out. Because
everyone (myself included) is a little boozed
up, Phil is the designated dealer. He moves
the game right along. Not only does he deal at
lightning speed, he pulls in the chips, calls the
bets, and takes the liberty of raising the blinds
every five minutes.
It eventually comes down to a serious looking
kid, and me. He’s pretty good, but I know
it’s just a matter of time. Three minutes to be
exact. I raise with J-10. He calls. The flop
comes 8 9 Q. I am wondering if I should check
or bet, when to my delight I hear him say, “All
in!” A good bet; the kid has queens and nines.
But it’s no match for my straight. I leap up
and triumphantly throw down my cards. Pass
the sugar!
Everybody cheers. We take pictures of me
with all the chips holding up the twenty-dollar
voucher. I haven’t won for such a long time. I
feel exhilarated that I can play against unpredictable
opponents who never fold, without
my sunglasses, while inebriated.
We walk to the car in the icy cold. The puddles
are frozen, and the stars are bright and
hard. I pull my hands inside my sweater to
keep them warm.
“We’re good at these little tournaments
that don’t mean anything,” says Phil.
I am thinking the same thing. Maybe
when it’s too important I get afraid. I don’t go
with the flow, and play too much by the book.
And let’s face it: anybody can buy a book. It’s
the personal energy of a poker player that
makes him special. Channeling that energy
and not having fear is very important. And I
certainly didn’t have any fear tonight.
I think of all the butterscotch shots, and
plates of fries I can buy with that twenty-dollar
voucher, and I feel quite proud of myself.
“You did good,” says Phil.
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