The Main Event
It is late at night. I come home from yet another bust-out to fi nd Phil yelling at his computer. “AND SOME OLD MAN CLOTHES!” he bellows. “LIKE A HOMELESS GUY WOULD WEAR! Can you go to the Salvation Army and pick something up?” “Phil?” I say uncertainly.
He looks up from the computer beaming. He is yelling because he is talking on Skype. He likes Skype because it is 2 cents an hour, but it gets crappy reception. “I just had a great idea!” he announces. “I’ll tell you about it when I get off the phone.”
The idea is this: he is going to go to the World Series of Poker disguised as an old man. It just came to him an hour ago. He has been on the phone ever since making arrangements. A make-up artist is fl ying out from LA to obliterate all traces of Phil and replace him with an old geezer who looks like dead money.
“All in,” says Phil in a hoarse whisper. He moves imaginary chips forward with a shaking hand. “Get the chips mixed up,” I suggest. “Old people can never tell the colors apart.” Phil squints at the board. “How much is the bet?” he asks, confused. He uses a quavery old man voice. “That was good honey,” I say. He is pleased with himself.
His friends are all impressed with his initiative. “Think of the edge you’ll have,” says Antonio admiringly. “Don’t tell anybody until you get to the fi nal table.”
“And then I can peel off my face like Mission Impossible!” Phil hugs himself gleefully. He is happy he thought of this rocking idea.
The day of the Main Event Phil wakes up bright and early to go to the Venetian where Lisa, the make-up artist, is staying. I lie in bed watching the slivers of morning light piercing the room around the edges of the black out blinds.
I have had a horrible World Series so far. Despite playing numerous events I haven’t had a single cash. The fi rst year I had one cash, the second year two, the third year three. I fi gured it was a reasonable assumption that I would cash four times this year. I’m way better than I was and I’m playing more events.
It’s hard work to get up every day and lose, but I manage to do it. Sometimes I lose after one hour, sometimes it takes me ten, but the days always end the same… standing in line to buy my ticket for the next tournament. I keep my spirits up by promising myself I will do really well in the Main Event. I feel like if I go deep in the Main Event it will make the whole summer worthwhile.
When I arrive at the Rio I am perturbed to see Phil is not at his seat. I call him and he is still in make-up. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” he promises. I hang up, feeling a little anxious. I worry about him playing cards with only two hours of sleep, his face encased in a layer of latex.
Luckily, because this is the Main Event, there is a lot of pomp and ceremony before the start. Announcements are read, and Rep. Robert Wexler makes a speech about how everyone has a right to play poker. By the time the cards are in the air, fi fteen minutes have elapsed. I resolve not to worry about Phil anymore and just play my game.
In the three years I have been playing the Main Event I have never made it past the fi rst two levels. Today I resolve to play tight and careful. No crazy moves, no stealing, just wait for quality hands and value bet them. Play like other people play. ABC poker…
Shortly before dinner I am moved to a new table. Right after I sit I look down at pocket queens on the button. The kid to my right has just raised so I re-pop him approximately half my stack. He goes into the tank, and judging by his agonized contortions I know I have him even before he reluctantly folds. A few hands later, a guy in a rock ‘n’ roll T-shirt raises in middle position. I have A-K on the big blind. I come over the top again. He insta-shoves.
Now it is my turn to go into the tank. I just got here. I don’t know how this guy plays but it smells like aces to me. A crowd is beginning to gather. Television cameras poised like vultures waiting to capture my demise on fi lm. I hate A-K. I never want to play it. Even if he has kings I’m still a dog. I suddenly realize I don’t care if he has pocket twos. I don’t want to risk my tournament life on a coin fl ip. So I make the big laydown. I squelch the urge to fold my cards face up, thereby avoiding a potential humiliation. I just quietly tuck my cards into the muck and sit back in my seat.
I sense the kid to my right getting agitated. “Now I’m starting to rethink that hand I folded to you!” he hisses. “I had 10s! It was probably the best hand. I should have called!”
I am hardly listening to him. I am still reeling from my big hit. “What do you think he had?” I whisper.
“I don’t think he think he had anything,” he says accusingly. “I think he was just reacting to you reraising people all the time!”
I am sick. Maybe I should have called. I am off my game. Fear poker is bad poker. How can you play if you are afraid of going out? I have put too much importance on the Main Event. It’s just another tournament. I should not be afraid to play.
Five hands later in early position I pick up A-K again, this time suited. The kid has already limped, I limp too. I know with the aggressiveness of this table, somebody will raise, and sure enough the button makes it 1,500 to go. The kid fl at calls and I push all in.
The initial raiser folds and the kid stares at me upset. “I should just call!” he threatens.
I sit there serene in the knowledge that I have the best hand. There is a certain peacefulness in being all in. All your decision making is over. Watching the kid go through his tortured contortions I am glad to be beyond all that. He’ll either call or he won’t.
Hopefully he has A-J, A-Q… “I have the same hand I had the last time,” he whines. “I’m tired of laying hands down.” And to my horror I see his chips go over the line. Shit! I hate races! I have a bad feeling. Sure enough, “blankblankblank… blank… blank.”
And just like that I am out of the tournament. As I walk away I think sadly how everything is interlinked. By not folding my A-K face up, I got unwanted action on this hand… or… maybe even if I hadn’t reraised the kid with my queens, the second guy wouldn’t have put me all in, which wouldn’t have given the kid the idea that I reraise with nothing, and well… you get the idea.
Gary Wise fi nds me in the Aces Club, sitting disconsolately in front of the computer. A few members of the media have caught on to Phil’s disguise and Gary is one of them. Since Phil can’t be seen with me and I don’t text, he has become something of a liaison between us.
“I can’t believe my career as a journalist has come to this,” he complains good-naturedly as he plunks himself down beside me. “Phil is going back to the Venetian for touch ups and he wants to know what he should order you for dinner.” “I don’t know if I can eat dinner,” I sniffl e. “I’m too depressed. I might have to go home.”
And then poor Gary has to sit there while I unload the sorry saga of the A-K I should have played followed by the A-K I wish I’d folded. And wound into this narrative is my terrible performance at the World Series this year, punctuated by sorrow at all the money I’ve wasted, and concluding with doubts of my own veracity as a poker player.
I am crying now. Gary doesn’t know what to do so he gives me a hug. It is awkward because he is not used to giving hugs and I am not used to receiving them. The brim of my cowboy hat hits his forehead.
I end up going to dinner after all. I sit on the bed at the Venetian, and eat chicken marsala while Lisa works on Phil’s hand. She didn’t have time to do them earlier so they look really young. She is spreading some kind of paper mache over the back of his hand and drying it with a blow dryer.
I stare at Phil while I eat. He looks really strange. The things glued on his face are oddly waxy. He looks more like a burn victim than an old man. The latex on the side of his face is cracking a little and the corner of his mustache is lifting up. The back of his neck is silver from the stuff she sprayed on his hair. I can’t believe nobody has caught on.
“They don’t look at me,” says Phil. “I look so gross they don’t want to make eye contact.” “What about when you talk?” “I don’t talk,” he says with a small mouth. “If I move my face too much it’ll crack.” “What do you do?” I ask. “I just sit there. Once in a while I say ‘check.’” Dinner goes by quickly. Liz only has time to do one hand before Phil has to go back. “That’s okay,” he says. “I’ll just keep the other hand in my pocket.” “We should have done the right hand fi rst,” says Lisa ruefully. “No it’s better this way,” insists Phil. “Because I’m not good with the left, I won’t be able to stack my chips easily and I’ll knock things over. It’ll be ‘old man-y.’”
We say goodbye at the valet. I wander over to the Palazzo to drown my sorrows in shopping, and Phil goes back to the Rio to continue being an old guy.
Tomorrow is another day. The World Series is over for me, but the Bellagio Cup is just beginning. There is always another tournament.
