Poker Nations
Cardiff, Wales, an unprepossessing little town speckled with castles and ancient churches. We are here to film Poker Nations, a show for English TV. ...
The team captain is Robert Williamson. Over a windy dinner in the Bahamas he squints at us across the table and asks if we want to play for Team USA. Phil and I are thrilled. We already have our tickets for the Borgata, but how much better to fly to Europe for some guaranteed TV time. We are always looking to expand our overseas exposure, since it seems like that is where the future of poker is.
Besides Robert, Phil and me, our team consists of Antonio Esfandiari, Kevin O’Donnell and Clonie Gowen. It’s good because we are all friends. We are looking forward to having a jolly old time.
We convene in London first for a little theatre and shopping. Both Harrods and Harvey Nichols are having their semi-annual sales. We keep running into the Williamsons returning to the hotel, breathless, and rosy cheeked, excitedly clutching large packages.
Robert scores us tickets to Wicked, a musical rumination about the power of good press. When the witch discovers how to use her powers, it makes me think of poker and wonder if it’s possible to tap into the energy of the universe and control the cards.
On Sunday a bus comes to the hotel to drive us down to Cardiff. As we pass Harrods, it suddenly occurs to us we haven’t shopped enough. “Stop the bus,” we shriek. Our driver, an affable Welshman, is somewhat puzzled by our voracious appetite for shopping but he obediently pulls over, and we jump out and happily roam the store for a few more hours.
That night in Cardiff we have a strategic meeting in the bar. The format of Poker Nations is simple. Everyone has one sixhanded match, and the team gets points according to how they go out. First place is sixteen points. Last place is 0. The points dictate how many chips your team gets at the final table. The final table is a tag team concept. Four out of the six players are alternated in. I have already volunteered to not play the final table, and I swear I saw a flash of relief cross Robert’s face. However, I still harbor a secret fantasy that I will perform so spectacularly the team will be forced to use me.
After we cover the important things like what do we wear (blue shirts because white doesn’t look good on camera), we agree that if anyone wins their table the $12,000 bonus will be divided among the players. Also, since the grand prize is only $100,000 for the winning team and everyone else gets nothing, we decide to pool our resources and expand our fiscal position with additional side bets.
The studio is in a quiet part of town. Because the producers want a lot of reaction shots, all the countries are sequestered in a tiny room equipped with television screens that show everything happening in the studio, including the hole cards. It is very exciting to watch the action as it unfolds, but this format also generates a lot of discussion and criticism of how certain hands are played.
I am very anxious when it’s my turn to go under the lights. I can only imagine what my team is going to say about me. When my match starts, it is very early on the second day, so hardly anyone is there yet. Just Robert Williamson, our team captain, and Phil. Before the game starts, Robert takes me aside and schools me on the different styles of play I should expect from the various countries. He tells me Mads Anderson is my toughest opponent, and kindly says I should just play my game. And with that, I’m on my own.
Operating under the theory that no one gets good cards shorthanded, when I look down at A-9 in early position, I bring it in for a raise. Everybody folds until it gets to the big blind, a pink cheeked German kid. He reraises. I am dismayed. You get so few chips in these things, and now I have donked off 300 of them. I try to talk myself into calling, “like maybe he has pocket sevens,” but I am pretty sure he has an ace with a better kicker. I throw my hand away.
Next I pick up K-6 suited on the button. I raise. The small blind, a burly English guy, calls. The flop, Q –J-rag. He checks to me. I bet. He calls. The turn, an eight. He checks. I bet again. He thinks for the longest time. I feel fold energy emanating from him. I am just starting to congratulate myself on my clever bluff when to my horror he calls. The river, a 9. Now he bets out. To salvage my dignity I stare at the board like “Oh, great! He has a straight, now my set of queens is no good,” before I muck. Secretly I am relieved he bet so I don’t have to show my hand.
Now, barely ten minutes into the game, I am down over a thousand. A few hands later I have pocket fours. Mads Anderson brings it in for the somewhat creative raise of 275. Two callers. Me and the German kid. “Please let me flop a set!” I pray. But the flop comes A-8-3.
Mads bets, the kid raises, I fold. Mads goes all in. The kid rubs his eyes and studies the board. “I have to call,” he says out loud. But he doesn’t move. I wonder if that means he’s calling. Is “I have to call” as binding as “I call”? Apparently not. Everybody just sits there. Mads shrugs imperceptibly. In his eyes I see a flicker of defeat. “I have to call,” the kid repeats decisively, and pushes in this time. Mads has A-8. Top two pair. The kid has a set of threes.
I am happy the best player has been eliminated, and, more importantly, now I have earned at least two points for the team. My happiness is short-lived, though. The very next hand, I have A-J suited on the small blind. I raise, the English guy on the big blind reraises to 900.
Now I’m thinking he’s thinking I’m moving in on his blind. Or maybe he thinks I’m a pushover because of our previous altercation. Perhaps he even has a good big blind hand: Q-K, A-rag. Whatever. All I know, is with the amount of money I have left I am not going to flop so he can suck out on me. I reraise 2000. He goes all in. I suddenly realize he has A-K. There are a lot of hands he could have, but I know beyond a shadow of a doubt it is A-K, a brutal scenario for me.
I look at the sad little stub I have left, barely $700. I toy with the possibility of folding, and trying to nurse my chips long enough for someone else to go out so I can limp into third place. But I look at what’s in the pot, and I know I have to call.
He has A-K. A king arrives on the turn and I am drawing dead. I struggle to put my boots on and stumble out of the soundstage. Even though they told us before the telecast which way to leave, I go in the wrong direction and have to be directed out. The exit interview people are surprised to see me so soon. The interviewer struggles to swallow his sandwich. “What happened?” he says scrambling to his feet, “We didn’t see.”
“I think I played really bad,” I say humiliated. “I let my team down. I don’t know what happened, I guess I played bad. Sometimes I’m not too good.”
“Oh well,” they say kindly. “We’ll see you at the final table.” I nod, but I know they won’t. Because of the deal I made with Robert I won’t even get a chance to redeem myself. I don’t want to go in the other room and face my team, so I walk really slow. I poke my head around the corner, and Phil sees me, and comes running.
“You played really well,” he tells me.
“I did?” I say surprised.
Turns out the guy I was trying to bluff had nothing until the river, the kid that reraised me had A-K, and as for the last hand…“You had to call for pot odds. Robert and I would never have forgiven you if you folded there. It would have looked so bad.”
Later on Barny Boatman, who is doing commentary, comes out of the booth, and corroborates Phil’s opinion. “You played pair-fectly,” he volunteers. “You wair cold decked.” So then I feel a little better.
Antonio is the next American to have his match, and he too, is second out. We are having terrible luck. Kevin, Antonio and I out second. Phil and Clonie were out third. Vicky Coren, the co-host, stands in front of our motley crew with a microphone. “The Americans are dead last!” she announces dramatically to the camera. “Will they be able to make a miraculous comeback?”
Robert Williamson is the last one to play and he performs brilliantly, ultimately overcoming Ram Vaswani to finish first, netting our team 16 points. We are all thrilled. Not only did the other teams go down in a fashion that will help our side bets, but now we are in a great position, chipwise, heading into the final match. We have renewed faith in our captain and tremendous optimism about our chances.
The next morning everybody goes through makeup and puts on their blue shirts to confuse the enemies. Phil is first up and he chops away, playing a tight, conservative game. Everyone frets and fidgets. Phil is card dead, and picks up nothing worth playing, but watching him fold over and over again is like watching paint dry. We want fireworks and double ups. Everyone is itching to get in the game and be the hero. Robert finally pulls Phil and puts in Antonio.
There is some dissention about this decision. People are worried he will flame out before they get their turn. Antonio makes some kamikaze moves that have everyone on their feet yelling at the screen, but when the dust clears we have doubled up. Clonie goes in next, and almost immediately hits a set and knocks out Marcel Luske. Now we are three-handed, and the chip leader. It is a crucial moment. Robert Williamson goes in to wrap things up, and suddenly there are only two countries left: USA versus Sweden.
Robert has a different style of heads-up play. He hardly ever raises. He usually just calls to see a flop, and then plays it from there. But his unorthodox style seems to be working. Sweden is dominated 90,000 to 10. Victory is within our grasp. Then all of a sudden his opponent flops two pair and doubles up.
We freak out. A time out is called and we rush onto the soundstage. “Be more aggressive!” we urge Robert. “Raise more pre-flop. Never call! Raise or fold, don’t give him room to breathe. Keep the hammer down!”
Robert is confused, but receptive. We high-five him for the cameras and go back into the greenroom. The game resumes. Almost immediately we realize we have made a terrible mistake. Robert is off his rhythm now. We see him struggling to play in a style alien to him and the game is suffering. It is awful to watch. We lose our chip lead, the Swedes double up again and again, and suddenly it is over.
We have not made a miraculous comeback after all. We have lost the match and the side bets. Instead of making 18 thousand each, we are in the hole for God knows how much. The room is going crazy. The cameras are trying to get close-ups of our devastated faces.
“Come on,” says Phil. “Let’s get out of here.” He wants to get a seat on the bus before it fills up with depressed Americans and jubilant Swedes. I help him get all our stuff on a seat, and then go back inside to say goodbye to Robert.
Kevin O’Donnell and I stand next to the rail and watch the winners, a sea of yellow shirts, jumping up and down, waving champagne, and Clonie inexplicably in their midst helping them toast their victory. “This is the happiest day of my life,” one of them is sobbing over and over.
“Team Poker,” says Kevin bleakly. “What a concept!”
Finally Robert comes out. His face darkens when he sees us. “I should never have listened to you guys,” he says, “I should have just played my game.”
“We were wrong,” we admit miserably. I wonder how much money we lost but I don’t think this is a good time to ask. There doesn’t seem to be much more to say, so I turn around and get on the bus. Phil and I ride silently back to the hotel.
We don’t want to go down to the bar, so instead we take a cab out to the sea. It is quiet and misty by the quay. The streetlights shine off of rain slicked cobblestones. We find an Indian restaurant open, and order chicken tikka masala. The waiter recognizes us, and insists on performing a magic trick. He can’t quite remember how it goes, so it takes him three passes before he gets it right.
We don’t mind. The longer he muddles through his presentation, the less we have to talk. When we get back to the hotel, Phil suddenly remembers he has to get his backgammon board back from Mads. “And we should probably have one drink…” I offer. “So we don’t look like bad sports.”
The noise as we approach the bar is deafening. Clouds of cigarette smoke spill out into the lobby. Everyone is there and smashed. “Hooray!” they yell, as we arrive. “There you guys are!” Even though just the Swedes won, all the nations are celebrating. In every corner of the room, poker and other games of chance are being played. Robert has bottles of Dom on the counter, and the skinny kid behind the bar runs to get us glasses.
It turns out, because of Robert’s first place win, and various last longer bets, we hardly lost any money at all. And because we pulled such a tremendous almostupset it will make for great TV. It would have been nice to win some money, but the main thing is we wanted to establish a European presence, and we accomplished that. We clink glasses. “To next year!” we say, and for the first time since we came to Cardiff, we feel like a team.
