Sticks and Stones...
Hey baby, I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. Give me a clean shirt, stinky eau de toilette, a cheap dinner, and… OH YEAH…a stupid harlot and I am getting lucky tonight! I had found my poker lady of the evening, and I was ready to skip the pleasantries and collect my happy ending. He was an overly talkative, know-itall euro trash male with a bad accent and a hot girlfriend (whose presence and low-cut top almost made him bearable).
May I have this dance? The fl op came Ah 7s 4s, heads up with me and my special someone, while I was holding A-Q suited in spades. Someone was going to be sore tonight.
I was playing in the 1-3 NL game at the Wynn, and my “date” for this hand had taken $400 off me earlier in two hands, both with completely insane runner-runner draws. I maintained my usual composed table image, but underneath the surface, I was seething. I wanted it back from him BAAAADD, practically willing to part with important appendages. And after purposely matching his stack on my rebuy, we both had about $800 in front of us. To say the least, I was hoping this was my moment.
The turn brought the beautiful king of spades and, before I could say all in, Harry the Hooker jumped the gun and pushed. What a glorious moment, especially since I wasn’t going to be losing any vital body parts! That was until the board paired the fours on the river, giving Mr. Hotpants a boat — kings full — and I thought I was going to lose my mind! Adding insult to injury, I had to listen to broken English about how bad a poker player I was.
Silence. I didn’t say a word. I could barely breathe. I thought I was gonna pass out.
But I knew the rules. If you win, you’re a genius; if you lose, you’re a jackass. And my donkey self had just given over $1,200 to that happy harlequin! I was a grinder and that was about one week’s pay playing for 40 or 50 hours and it was gone in about 45 minutes.
Now, before I go any further, I know that many of you are wondering…who in the hell is this guy Chris Heifner? Well, unless you were fortunate enough to read the October 2007 article titled “The World’s Wildest Home Game,” by the ever-brilliant scribe Adam Slutsky, then you probably don’t know much about me.
Long story, K.I.S.S. short – I am a former drug cartel member turned good guy/motivational speaker. Using my MBA, my former expertise as a stock/options/futures trader, drug dealer, and DEA informant, I have become an expert analyzing risk and return using statistics and the psychology of behavioral economics in both business and life endeavors. Yes, my life is an interesting story — one that would take too long to explain in this column, but curious folks can fi nd more at www.zyoose.com.
At any rate, as I slowly regained my breath while being dealt the next hand, I desperately wanted to call the police, because I felt raped. How could this happen to me? What were the odds? What had I gotten myself into?
I have the true answers, but I must fi rst digress. While playing in this game, living this moment, I was reminded of a similar thought/feeling I had about seven years earlier.
I was sitting atop my 2001 GSX-R1000 (which means REALLY FAST EFFING BIKE) in Juarez, Mexico at a stoplight. At that moment, I was as paranoid as a bible salesman in the middle of downtown Baghdad, and I noticed this guy in a gray sedan beside me, intently staring at me. Was he going to pull a gun on me like the last mental mashed potato who stared at me ten minutes ago?
While the guy in the second sedan kept staring and staring and staring at me, sweat started to build on my forehead. I carefully checked my mirrors, slowly swiveling my head – hiding my intentions behind my mirrored visor – looking for ANY threat. But I wasn’t taking any chances. The second I saw a clear spot…WHAM…I dumped the clutch and shot through the intersection down Triunfo de la Republica Street, doing a wheelie for about a hundred yards. I WAS GONE! Run, Forrest, run!
To many people, all of this would have been completely terrifying and a total shock. But it was not a mystery to me, because there were 150,000 reasons in U.S. dollars under my seat.
I was a drug dealer and I was on a money run to pay one of my suppliers. Several of us did this trip a couple of times a week, and we always rode “The Beast,” because she had long enough legs to run from most trouble. And as if riding through traffi c in a thirdworld country isn’t dangerous enough, I had to deal with bandits, which are common in the “business.” After all, why steal the drugs when you can steal the money?
As I was speeding off, running for my life, I pondered the obvious in surreal fashion. How could this happen to me? What were the odds? What had I gotten myself into? I kept wondering to myself how a collegeeducated, charming, successful family man could get himself killed by Mexican drug bandits. And the answer was simple: It was my entire goddamned fault. It was as plain as the crazy on Britney’s face. And it was just too painfully obvious to ignore.
But back at the luxurious poker hell in the Wynn, I was faced with exactly the same dilemma and obvious facts. How could I get mad at Whistling Wanda, especially since he was exposing enough chest hair to carpet Utah? He did exactly what I wanted him to do. He played the part of a harlot perfectly and put all of his chips in the pot with no regard to consequence. It was my fault for playing poker to begin with.
The truth of the matter was that I really wasn’t mad at Cinnabun Carrie. I was just pissed in general. Honestly, I didn’t like Sally Spice because I thought that he was a classless turd. In my book, he was just a bad human.
But prejudices and personal grudges aside, the moral of this story is about perspective or the lack of it. I needed to realize that I was playing great poker and that I should be thankful that people like this guy exist. I was actually very lucky to cross paths with him, but that still doesn’t exempt his stupid ass from the occasional name or two.
In fact, the use of a third person perspective is one of my most basic and important tools in the art of strategic analysis. We all need to take a step back to look at the big picture at some point, but most people don’t. Sadly, most people don’t eat right, exercise, or even have a healthy respect for basic personal hygiene either. Is it too much to ask you to take a shower and brush your damn teeth before you sit beside me at a poker table?
The use of a third person perspective will give you clarity in a variety of circumstances, and that is why I told you the two stories about playing poker at the Wynn and my Sunday motorcycle drive in Mexico. It was easy to see what a moron I had been while working for a drug cartel and envisioning a possible fate, but I bet that many of you empathized with my plight at the Wynn. In one instance you had perfect third-person clarity, but your judgment and ability to properly evaluate things became clouded in the other.
Be cautioned — this process is not a painfree endeavor. The truth hurts. I once heard my father opine, “Sometimes, one should look at himself through the eyes of others – and if he is lucky – he will like what he sees.” Well, the pursuit of anything worthwhile is never easy, but the gain should outweigh the pain. Studied practitioners of the third-person perspective should be able to better read their opponents, themselves, and the situation.
I tell you this not because I want you to become a better poker player, but because I want you to become a better person. If used properly, this tool will benefi t you in many areas of your life other than just poker. But fi rst, please go take a shower, brush your teeth (hopefully plural), learn to chew with your mouth closed, and don’t drive while talking on your cell phone. I can only wish… never mind…
