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Nassau, Bahamas. Phil and I are here to participate in the WPT “Battle for the Season Pass.” It is a poker bootcamp culminating in a three day tournament where the grand prize is free entry to all the WPT events for a year.
I have never been an instructor before, but it seems like a pretty easy gig. One question and answer session (with Phil, which is great because Phil always has plenty to say), and we go over some hand histories. Then we attend a few VIP parties, and after that we are free to play poker and enjoy the island.
Phil has decided this is a great opportunity to have a family reunion. His brothers, sister, mom, nieces, and cousin all are coming to Nassau. I invite my sister Becky, my brother Ben, and their respective spouses.
At the airport we run into Gavin Smith. Phil is elated. “Out of all the people I would like to run into in the airport, Gavin would be in the top four!” he exclaims. I wander off to get Starbucks. When I come back, they are happily playing ten checker freezeouts with ketchup containers, for two hundred bucks a pop.
Nassau is just like you’d imagine it… all white beaches and vivid blue water. The houses are pastel colored with white lace trim. But when we enter the casino we could be any anywhere: Tunica, Reno, Shreveport… it has the generic carpet, dim lighting and flashing machines that you see everywhere.
The bootcamp goes off without a hitch. The students seem very well scrubbed and optimistic, without the grey patina you see on more experienced players. They are very interested in everything we have to say. Many of them take notes. Phil’s mom sits in the back, beaming, happy to see her son in a professorial role.
Antonio, Phil and I go over some hand histories, Clonie (Gowen) talks about the pitfalls of being a woman in a male dominated profession, and Mike Sexton emphasizes the importance of aggression in tournament poker.
Mark Seif shows a video clip from the PPT where an inebriated player gets progressively more obstreperous, until he eventually loses all his chips. “And the lesson is…?” asks Mark.
“Don’t get drunk!” choruses the audience. “Exactly!” he chuckles.
T.J. Cloutier tells an entertaining story of how he won a big pot without having a hand. Literally. The dealer accidentally mucked his cards, but his opponent didn’t notice. T.J. kept his hand over the spot where his cards should have been and kept betting until the other man folded.
The camp concludes with everyone being asked what they hope the poker gods will say when they reach the pearly gates. Phil: “You’re 20-years-old… go back. Play some more.” My answer: “What a bummer having that heart attack right after winning the main event… but I guess that was a lot of excitement for a 97-year-old.” Karina Jett: “Seat Open!” And Todd Brunson’s was my favorite: “That was funny…”
The whole day has been so fun and painless that Phil wonders if anybody actually learned anything. “Of course they did!” I reassure him. “Some of this stuff is so basic, we think it should be self explanatory, but a lot of people have never heard of these concepts.”
And sure enough, just as we get off the elevator, a woman runs up to me. “There you are!” she exclaims. “I was just explaining to my friend about that hand you played with Isabelle Mercier (a simple call of the small blind aggression, followed by a reraise of her postflop continuation bet) I look over at the friend who waves excitedly. On the table I can see a piece of paper with a diagram illus-trating my cards, Isabelle’s cards, and the flop.
“See,” I say to Phil as we walk away.
That night there is a windy, gusty party at the Gazebo, punctuated by driving needles of rain. It is freezing cold but that doesn’t dampen anyone’s spirits. Shivering bootcampers line up to get their pictures taken with us and ask how they should have played certain hands. Phil’s many relatives drink Bahama Mamas until the liquor cart is wheeled away.
The morning of the tournament, Phil and I are twenty minutes late. Phil had only had two hours of sleep so it was hard getting out of bed. But because the structure is so slow (twenty thousand in chips, one hour levels) we decide it’s okay to arrive late, à la Phil Hellmuth Jr.
When I sit down at my table, right away I realize I’m not in Kansas anymore. Apparently the players have taken Mike Sexton’s advice about aggression to heart. The blinds are 25-50, and people are routinely raising two or three thousand dollars preflop. Sometimes one person will raise it 1,500 and get two callers and then someone else makes it 6,000, causing everyone to fold.
When I look down at a 6-7 suited, for the relatively cheap price of six times the big blind, I decide to play. The guy on the button also calls, which makes five players. The flop comes 7-7-8. Rainbow. Everyone checks to me. I check as well, because I don’t think these players are sophisticated enough to understand the “bet your monster so it looks like you’re bluffing” maneuver. The button guy makes it 2,000. Everyone else folds. I call. The turn, a queen. But a queen of spades. Now there is a flush draw. I decide to stop slowplaying. I bet 3,000. My opponent raises to 6,000.
This gives me pause. I push up my sunglasses and stare at him. He looks smug and satisfied. I can tell he thinks he has a good hand. But what does a good hand constitute to these guys? Top pair? Ace-high? I mean, I don’t know. I decide he has an A-Q and he has hit his queen. I call.
River is a blank. I check again. “Please don’t bet,” I find myself thinking, which is not a good sign. But of course he does. 3,000. I feel defeated. I am worried about my kicker. If I were playing with pros, I might fold. But I still think he could just have a pair of queens, or maybe a pocket pair. There is so much money in the pot. I crying call, and I am right. Sort of. He does have a pocket pair… a pocket pair of queens. Which gives him a full house.
Phil is playing at the next table. I lean back in my chair. “Honey!” I say gaily, “I’ve already lost two thirds of my stack!” I try to make it sound like, “Aren’t we having fun here!” but it doesn’t really come out that way. Phil makes his mouth a little reproachful line, and shakes his head imperceptibly.
I tighten up. A few hands later, A-J suited. Late position. In the interest of keeping the pot small I don’t raise. Nobody at this table ever folds to a raise anyway. Best to just try and connect. A guy acting after me repops it. I call.
The flop comes Ace-rag-rag. Knowing I probably have the best hand at this point, I check. The guy bets, I call, the turn, another rag. I check, the guy bets, I call. The river, a queen.
He leans forward even before I have a chance to check. “How many chips do you have left?” he asks eagerly.
This question proves to be a little difficult to answer as the dealer is having trouble making change. I throw in a 5,000 dollar chip, the last one I have left, to complete the bet on the turn, and he returns 400 to me. I am a little dazed at how rapidly my money is disappearing, but I know that isn’t right. I should be getting back, like, three or four thousand, right? A chorus of protest rises from the table. Everyone has a theory how much money I’m due.
“Alright, I bet 2,000,” announces my opponent above the clamor. I have a bad feeling. I stare at the board, which makes no sense whatsoever… no flushes, no straights, no pair. I think he might have a bad ace. It’s the only thing that’s logical with his betting pattern.
“Sometimes it doesn’t pay to get out of bed in the morning,” I say morosely. I throw in the 2,000. “What do you have?”
He has pocket queens. He caught a set on the river.
Now I only have a stub left. 2,600. The very next hand, I look down at two tens. A guy under the gun makes it 300. I know if I make a standard raise I’ll get called in six places. So I push. Even before I’ve completed the motion, out of the corner of my eye I see the original raiser starting to finger his stack in anticipation, so I know I’m in trouble. What I don’t count on is someone else in middle position calling my all in as well.
So there are three of us in the pot. The flop comes jack-high and the two other guys start to go crazy with betting. “You know that’s not a good sign,” comments Phil who is standing behind me. He has momentarily abandoned his game to witness my untimely demise. The river is a king. I am packed up and ready to go. The first caller turns over A-3 suited, for an ace-high. The under-the-gun guy has A-J. A pair of jacks. After an all in and a call, most people would fold an A-J offsuit. Oh, well. What do I know? I’m out of the tournament and he’s tripled up.
I trudge out of the room just as the blinds go up to 50/100.
As soon as I leave the stale confines of the poker room, I feel better almost immediately. My sister Becky is delighted to see me. “Are you out?” she squeals, like I just did something clever. She is waving a strawberry daiquiri and wearing a bikini she bought on eBay. “Hooray! We can hang out!”
I start to see things from her point of view. Why should I spend the next three days imprisoned in an airless room when that time could be better put to use sunning and snorkeling. Only the top five positions pay — top four actually — because the fifth prize is a ticket to the celebrity invitational, and I already get that. I feel bad for all the poker degenerates stuck inside on such a lovely day, meticulously building their stacks. So much better to be on the beach getting my hair braided and buying fake coach purses.
“I’ll have a Pina Colada,” I say.
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