The Nuts: Part One
The river is an amazing thing. One minute you’re licking your chops at the massive wad of Benjamins soon to be gracing your wallet, and the next you’re a blabbering drunk spilling your bad beat on anyone within ten feet of you.
No-limit Texas Hold’em, the Cadillac of Poker, is a game of Rocky Mountain highs and Death Valley lows. You may start with two good hole cards. You may flop in great shape. You may hit the mother lode on the turn with the dollar bills dancing in your head and the sounds of champagne corks popping all around you in a cacophony of glee and joy, but there’s always the River. “The f*cking river!” I’ve heard more than one cardplayer scream, mucking his bullets in disgust. The river can hurt you. The river’s current always runs against you. The river can sweep you away and, if you’re not careful, that bitch will drown you.
Here I was at the river of the Vegas International Poker Championship with Jake ‘Cowboy’ Matteson staring at me over the top of his custom Oakley’s. Someone at Oakley was a big fan of the World Poker Tour and had put a tiny king card at each corner of the midnight lenses, one of hearts and one of diamonds. Most of us thought clubs and spades would have been more appropriate for the Cowboy. He was that kind of guy, dark in spirit and thought.
The kings on those glasses drew you to that stern face, framed by a jaw of stone. His tanned head was shaved bald daily with a straight razor and he was one of those assholes who actually looked handsome that way. His neck was as muscular as the rest of him, with his large carotid artery standing out like a cord. Yes, those king glasses drew you to Cowboy Matteson, but you were glad he had them on. You didn’t want those piercing blue eyes boring a hole through your soul. You could almost feel his thoughts probing yours to the point where you were afraid to even think about what you had in the hole.
One of the more successful players on tour, Matteson was at the final table of most tournaments he played. He didn’t always win, but he had eight World Poker Tour bracelets on display at his mansion. Eight was far better than my zero.
I was a professional poker player, ‘had been
for the last twenty years or so. I hadn’t won
a bracelet, though I’d made a few final tables.
I hadn’t written a poker book, though there’s
about a zillion out there all saying the same goddamn
thing. What I had done over the last twenty ears
was earn enough money playing cards to buy a nice house,
drive a nice car, make timely child support payments
for my daughter, Sara, who I get to see every other
weekend, and grind out that outrageous goddamn alimony
payment to that cheating bitch I was married to for
eight years. Hello, Bitter? Party of one, your table
is now available.
Throughout the hand, Matteson had been expressionless as always. I rarely bothered trying to pluck a tell from him. Pros love those facial ticks; how someone looks at their cards, how they sit, or any number of behaviors that provide us insight to a person’s hand strength. With amateurs or ‘fish’, their tells are the albatross around their necks. They feign weakness when they have a strong hand and act strong when they’re weak. Their facial expressions, and how they play and bet with their chips, tell the seasoned pro what the Fish holds before he even knows it himself. They might as well put a neon sign around their necks.
You almost feel guilty taking money from the Fish - almost. If some poor schmuck thinks he can play with me because he’s read Super System by the great Doyle Brunson and seen a few episodes of the World Poker Tour, then I’m more than happy to send him penniless back to the kiddie pool of his Friday night home game. They come here to swim with the sharks and have nobody to blame but themselves when we smell their blood and devour them.
I’d raised the $50,000 blind to $150,000 before the flop on this particular hand with two beautiful red aces under my fingertips. With only six at the table I wanted some action, but I didn’t want some garbage hand hitting on the flop. Gus Hansen, with his cool eyes and closely cropped hair, sat to my left and called the pre-flop raise, but mucked his hand with a shrug after the flop came a rainbow ace, seven, king and I bet $200,000 in front of him. Fossilman Greg Raymer, the winner of the 2004 Main Event, sat next to Gus, dwarfing the table and staring at me with these crazy, orange reptile eye sunglasses before mucking his hand as well.
Billy the Kid Payton, a twenty-something internet qualifier had played well enough to get to the final table, but was now simply outclassed. He stared hungrily at the three upcards on the table, then looked down at his short stack. Calling my bet would put him allin. I could tell Payton was tottering on that precarious brink of calling, but he was suffering from the same feeling every poker player who wasn’t holding the Nuts felt.
“I’ve got a good hand. Not the best hand; not the Nuts. Do I want to lie in bed until the wee hours of the morning, staring at the ceiling and wondering ‘What the Hell Was I Thinking?’ ” Payton must have decided the answer was no because he also dumped his cards along with Gus and Greg’s with a disgusted flick of the wrist.
The only remaining player to call my $200,000 bet was Cowboy Matteson who had originally checked to me. He didn’t utter a word or twitch so much as a facial muscle for a good thirty seconds. Then, he nodded his shiny dome and softly pushed one of his large chip stacks toward the center of the table.
“I call,” he said.
Asteely nervousness settled deep in my gut. What in the hell did he have? We’d find out soon enough because I wasn’t letting this thing get away from me - not this time.
