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Paul Hannum was the official photographer of the WPT, a familiar fixture at all the tournaments. He was a kind, gentle man with a very pure energy. Once Phil did a photo session with him, and when a magazine needed some shots at the last minute, Paul dropped everything to get them the photos without asking anything in return. Phil was super happy with the layout. “Look at me!” he said proudly, waving the magazine. “I look better than I do in real life!!” Paul had that knack of bringing out the best in people.
You can imagine our shock when we got a phone call during the WSOP that he had passed away very suddenly due to complications from appendicitis. There are people you always think will be there for you, and Paul was one of them. “How can he be dead?” obsessed Phil. “A young good looking man who always took care of his health…”
For weeks after that Phil is depressed. We’d be jogging, or sitting in the hot tub, and all of sudden Phil would wonder aloud how much longer any of us have left. “In one hundred years,” he’d say mournfully, “everyone on this earth will be replaced by a whole new group of people.” We sit in the hot tub, listening to the crickets and looking at the moon, and we feel like we are already ghosts.
Paul has left behind his fiancée Sarah, who is seven months pregnant with their first child. Gavin Smith, who was very close to Paul, with the help of Kristin Cranford, the Bike Club, and the WPT, has organized a charity tournament with the proceeds going to the widow, and baby Hannum.
Everybody is there; the WPT gang: Vince Van Patton, Courtney Friel, Mike Sexton and Steve Lipscomb, plus a lot of the top poker pros, Kenna James, Chris Ferguson, Todd Brunson, and Mike Mizrachi, as well as the random celebrity (Lou Diamond Phillips). The table in the hallway is piled high with giant stuffed animals and other gifts for the baby.
The structure is fairly simple. One thousand dollars in chips and 25-50 blinds that rapidly escalate. As a tournament, it’s basically what Phil likes to call a “donkfest”. No time for subtlety. Barry Greenstein sits down next to me. I barely have time to think “Oh no! Barry Greenstein!” when he looks down at his cards, pushes all in and goes out. After that, three other pros appear and disappear in rapid succession.
Prior to the tournament, a cocktail party has already been raging for two hours. Drinks are seven dollars, but Budweiser is doing a promotion where if you buy the Bud in the red bottle, it’s only a buck. Needless to say, we all become very fond of the one dollar Bud. And what goes good with red bottle Bud? Tequila shots!
“Bring us a round of that red Bud, and some of that harsh tequila!” becomes the constant refrain. What began as a sad reflection of the transitory nature of life turns into a raucous celebration of Paul Hammun’s spirit. The atmosphere is that of an Irish wake.
I look around, and it’s kind of amazing. Nobody is wearing sunglasses and almost everyone is happy and drinking and engaged in loud conversation. The most rambunctious table by far is the one presided over by Gavin Smith. He periodically leaps to his feet clutching a bottle of Goldschlager, gesticulating wildly, accompanied by roars of boisterous laughter.
His table is like a crazy home game. As big pots develop, everyone helps themselves to a few chips out of the middle. With all-in bets in a race situation, the two participants involved withhold a thousand before they run it, and check to the river, so no one has to leave the party prematurely.
The tournament director repeatedly comes around imploring everyone to keep it down. The final table of Legends of Poker is playing on the other side of the room and the excessive noise is disruptive. He might as well have been talking to the wind. We are here to celebrate Paul Hannum’s life, and nothing is going to stop us.
Eventually the party tumbles out into the hallway, where they’ve moved the last four tables. People who are out of the tournament stand around watching, reluctant to leave. Kristen, Gavin and Chris Bell have bought other players’ chip stacks, and re-entered the game. They are determined to win the tournament for baby Hannum’s sake, and parlay the first prize (a seat to the25k event at the Bellagio) into more money for the cause.
Then, all of a sudden, everything stops, and I am at the final table. They move us to Live at the Bike, a special area already set up with lighting and hole cams, and commentators, just like a real tournament. I’m not sure how I got there, but I am super happy.
Someone runs and pulls Phil out of a lucrative cash game so he can sit in the booth and help commentate. I recognize the guy he’s playing with, an uber-wealthy fish from Orange County. “Honey you don’t have to do that,” I protest, “You can play your game.”
“Are you kidding?” says Phil, “I wouldn’t miss this for anything!”
Aside from Gavin, Chris and Kristen, the only other person I recognize at the table is Ted Lawson, a pro I met in Costa Rica. At first I am just happy to be there under the bright lights surrounded by a cheering crowd. When the first guy gets knocked out and receives an Oakley Thump, I realize I am “in the money.” An Oakley Thump! That’s a pretty good prize.
But then as other people fall by the wayside, I start to get an overwhelming feeling that I am going to win. Never mind that I am the short stack at the table and probably the worst player. The feeling that I am invincible starts to grow and grow. It begins when I push with K-7offsuit, get called by an A-K and hit a flush on the river.
It intensifies when I go all in with top two pair causing Chris to fold his flush draw, and a rabbit hunt shows he would have got there. By the time I am heads up, it is a certainty in my mind. I can do no wrong. I am a card rack. I get the best hands preflop, I always connect post flop, and fueled by red Buds and cheap tequila, I am fearless.
I look at the show on the computer next day bemused. I don’t remember most of it. Curiously, Phil remembers everything. “Here’s where you push with K-7 and suck out…” he tells me. “Oh here’s where you get the ace on the river and become the chip leader…” He’s like the geeky guy at the Star Wars screening who tells you everything before it happens.
I am astonished at how happy I look. I am waving my drinks and I keep up nonstop infield chatter. Even the hands I am not involved in, I have plenty to say. “Blahtidy blah blah…” I am like Olive in Bullets Over Broadway. After the first five minutes, they have the presence of mind to turn my mike down, but you can still hear me shrill and exited in the background.
When they cut to an overhead shot of the flop my hand enters the picture, jabbing insistently at the board while I shriek out what card I prefer to receive. The only time I am quiet is when Phil in the booth says to the cohosts, “We should listen to the banter; these guys are really funny.” Then all of a sudden I have nothing to say.
Gavin also is feeling no pain. “We are Drunk and Drunker!” I tell him happily. Gavin and Chris Bell are playing the same stack in a tag team concept. Gavin plays six hands and then Chris plays six. I know they are both genius players, but I slightly prefer to play with Gavin. You know what they say… better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.
Gavin is a fellow Canadian; I know how Canadians think. Plus, at the WSOP, I got him to lay down aces by representing trip kings. The flop came king, rag, ace. I checked, he bet, I called. The turn, a blank. I checked, he bet, I called (but kind of uncertainly, because I had nothing). I must have been on some sort of draw. I admit I was playing really bad poker. At this point I knew he had aces. The river, another king. I check, Gavin bets.
I’m about to fold, when suddenly I have a flash of clarity. The way I’ve played so far is exactly how a girl would play with middle pair that she’s not sure is good. Doyle Brunson says every good bluff has to tell a story, and unknowingly, I have blundered onto the perfect bluff. I reraise all in. I sit there motionless, my heart pounding, until finally Gavin shows me his hand and folds. It’s a big ass pot. I like that he was smart enough to lay his hand down. You could never run that bluff on a lesser player.
“I should have Phil do a tag team with me,” I complain, only half joking. I change my mind when they leap at the suggestion. “Yes, do!” they plead. “We both have a tell on Phil!” I don’t know if this is true, but I decide not to. I’ve come this far, I want to finish. Besides I have unknowingly stumbled into “the Zone.” I’m hardly ever in the Zone. I want to enjoy it.
It is all over when I pick up an A-4 offsuit. Gavin, on the button, has a 3-6 of hearts. Shortstacked, he goes all in, I insta-call. As it so often happens, there is a three on the flop so I have to sweat it out a bit, but then an ace arrives to clinch the victory. I have won the first annual Paul Hannum tournament.
Gavin is going to play the second place prize (a 10 thousand dollar seat to a WPT tournament) and he and Chris will give 50% of the winnings to Baby Hannum. I would do that, but I am no Gavin Smith. Given my spotty record of cashing, I figure Baby Hannum’s best bet is to take the money and run. I donate my 25k entry fee back to the cash pool.
The Live at the Bike hosts pull me into the sound booth for a post show wrap up. Phil is hugging me saying over and over, “I can’t believe you won. Nobody ever wins these things!” Gavin hijacks the mike and makes a little speech about how he’s seen me grow as a poker player. “I don’t think the world has even begun to see how great a poker player you’ve become,” he says, which makes me really happy.
“Come on baby,” says Phil, “Let’s get you home.” We walk out of the almost empty casino into the chill of a late summer night. He puts an arm around me protectively as we wait for our car. I am empty-handed, not even an Oakley Thump to show for my efforts, but I feel like the richest girl in the world.
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