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“I’m all in.” Three little words. I’m all in. I’ve been playing them in my head for about a month now. When I used to go on auditions, if they went badly I would replay the scene constantly in my head on the way home. I would hit the jokes harder, polish my infl ections, and fi nish with a fl ourish. Finally about the time I pulled into my driveway, I was pitch perfect. However, of course, it was too late. The time to deliver was in the producer’s office, and that’s when I faltered.
Bristol, England. An ancient little town where the slave trade originated. At night the streets are fi lled with chubby drunken girls teetering over the cobblestones in their high heels, shrieking into their cell phones: “You’ll never guess who I’m with!” Even though it is November, they are coatless; their white goosepimply flesh explodes out of their tight clothes.
I am there with a small hardy group of Americans: Jamie Gold, Antonio [Esfandiari], Phil [Laak], and Robert Williamson III compete for the Great British Poker Tour title along with the usual European suspects, most notably the Hendon Mob. The Gala Harbourside Casino where the event is being held is brand new and beautifully appointed. It looks like an elegant nightclub. Because this is its inaugural run, the usual lingering odor of booze and cigarettes is absent.
I am not expecting much out of the experience other than a fun jaunt to England. I have a fitting at Vivienne Westwood, and I’m planning to hook up with some friends in London after the tourney.
Nobody is more surprised than me to discover that after the first two days I am the chip leader. Chip leader! I’ve been in this position before, and it’s amazing how fast it evaporates. I think one of my glitches is a failure to temper the pure unadulterated aggression that gets me to this position. In other words, I don’t know how to pull back the rudder.
I decide to consciously work on that glitch right now. Rather than running over the table, I will cherry pick only the most desirable hands. There is no need to be manic. I am the chip leader. I mean, really the chip leader. I don’t need to row any more. I can fl oat my way to the finish line.
Phil is out, but Antonio is at my table. This makes Phil very anxious. He has two pieces of advice for me and they are diametrically opposed. The first is “Please knock Antonio out of the tournament… that would make me so happy!” followed by “Don’t get involved in any hands with him. He’s like Daniel Alaei. He’s a genius. He’ll take all your chips.”
Antonio looks at me quizzically when I sit down. “No offense, Jennifer, but I am going to take you down… it would cause Phil so much pain.”
“Antonio!” pleads Phil unhappily. “Please don’t hurt my girl.”
Right away Antonio starts torturing me. When I raise, he reraises, and if I fold, he throws down some random hand, like a six high, and laughs. “Can somebody get this on camera?” he’d yell. “I want Phil to see this!”
Despite the mosquito-like presence of Antonio, I am steadily building my stack. I am playing tight squared-away poker according to plan, when suddenly, under the gun, I look down at 3-5 of hearts. I don’t know why, but there is something very sexy about that hand.
I bring it in for a raise. Now, I am not targeting Antonio’s big blind. I have on occasion raised Antonio, but he knows Phil told me to stay out of his way, and fi gures (rightly so) that I would not raise his blind with nothing; and so generally he very prudently folds. It is not his big blind, but Antonio intercepts me now with a reraise. I must have bet about 2,500 because Antonio makes it 7,000. I call. Hey! Suited!
The flop comes 2,5,6. Couldn’t be better. Middle pair and a gutshot. I have put Antonio on two overcards. He couldn’t have caught a piece of that fl op. I bet out 7,000. He calls and reraises 18,000, two-thirds of his stack.
This takes me aback. With my bet I’m saying “I have the best hand.” I know I have the best hand. Why doesn’t he respect that? I don’t know where to go from here. Maybe I should speak to him. Garner information. I try to think of something to say. “How many chips do you have left, Antonio?” I ask weakly. Like a mime, he silently counts them out. About 17 thousand.
I start to count my chips to see what would be left if I call. My hands are shaking. Numbers are fl oating around in my head. How did I get in this position? By calling a big reraise with 3-5 suited, that’s how. I am so rattled I can’t even count correctly. If I call, I will have maybe twenty thousand left. Or is that ten? Somewhere between twenty and ten. Cameras start to gather around, wanting to capture my humiliating exodus on fi lm. I was the chip leader. How did this happen?
And then… Antonio exhibits a classic Joe Navarro tell. I won’t divulge what it is, but it is a textbook tell of weakness. It is so obvious I think it must be a put on. I rub my eyes and look again, and he is still doing it. I want to say “I’m all in” so bad, but I think of other times I made “hero” calls and busted out. Pocket twos vs. John Juanda’s pocket jacks. A pair of threes against a guy who runner-runnered a straight… Do I really want to risk my tournament life on a hand that might not hold up past the turn? I’m only into Antonio for fourteen thousand. If I fold now I will still have a healthy stack. After all he did reraise me twice. Logically, he has me beat.
Bitterly I fold. Cackling with glee, Antonio springs to life and exposes the ace-ten of diamonds. “Where’s Phil, where’s Phil?” he crows. “Can someone tell him I bluffed his girl again!”
Life goes on. I played okay after that. Antonio never really decimated me. He just chiseled away at my net worth. My stack kind of drifted down to nothing. Eventually I went out when my ace-queen ran into Barney Boatman’s pocket kings.
I didn’t have any regrets initially, but over the next few days I kept returning to that one hand with Antonio. It began to niggle and eat away at me. I would wake up at night and see that fl op and be sick. If only I had the courage of my convictions! For sure I would have made the final table.
Even if he had an overpair, I was still 36 percent to catch up. And if he sucked out on me, I still had enough to rebuild my stack. Barney Boatman told me when I was counting my remaining chips that I was making the piles too tall. He wanted to tell me I’d have more left than I thought. “I knew he was bluffing,” said Barney. “I was hoping you’d call.”
“All in.” Like looking at a Polaroid, I see Antonio exhibiting that tell, and me deciding to use logic instead. “Let’s see… he reraised pre-fl op, he reraised post-fl op, he could easily have an overpair blah blah blah…” All in. Why couldn’t I say it? Instead I retreated like a girl, and Phil had to suffer.
Later Antonio told me he truly thought he had the best hand. “You always raise,” he pointed out. “And then you always fi re a continuation bet. And you’re always targeting my blind.”
“It wasn’t your blind,” I said impotently. “It was someone else’s blind. You intercepted it!”
Whatever. Antonio shrugs. He outplayed me. I was using three-part thinking.
1. They’ll never suspect me of raising under the gun with this hand.
2. If I call a reraise for sure he’ll never put me on this hand.
3. Hooray! Connected with the raggedy flop. Time to collect!
But I forgot an essential ingredient: balls. I did not have the balls to close the deal on #3.
The mind is a shadowy mysterious thing. It always creates your worst fear. For example, the day before, I was involved in a hand where I had top pair (queens, king kicker). I bet the flop and check-raised the turn. I really believed I had the best hand. Apparently my opponent believed it too, because he showed two aces and folded. I was astonished as was the rest of the table.
“She had a set,” he insisted.
“Is that true?” demanded someone turning accusing eyes to me. I shrugged as I raked in the pot. Okay, I had a set.
“He made a bad fold, right?” my inquisitor persisted.
Unable to ignore him any longer, I looked up from stacking my chips. “I had him beat,” I said honestly. Because I did. I took his chips. I beat him.
So even though I had the best hand, Antonio beat me. This time. But I will get him back. I have a tell on him. I live for the day that I will knock him out of a tournament. Preferably on TV. And hopefully with a big bluff.
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