Tilly gets CASHED at WSOP
I’ve been in
Today I am playing event 47, no limit hold em. The field is huge, 2038 entries. Despite having registered the night before I am in the Pavilion, a huge tent in the back, erected to handle the overflow. I hate the Pavilion. Despite the best efforts of the powers that be, the air conditioning always seems to be malfunctioning. Eskimo Clark collapsed back here. They claim it wasn’t because of the heat, but I’m sure it was a factor.
Aside from the location I have a pretty good table. There is a lot of limping, alternating with crazy nonsensical all ins. In these tournaments, because of the sheer numbers, you really have to double up several times in the first few levels to be able to survive. There is no one at my table I recognize (always good) and they seem to be slightly afraid of me. I win a lot of hands without showdown, and when I do get to the river I almost always have the nuts.
There is an old guy at the end of the table, a bit of a rock, but probably the best player.
Everybody has limped around to me. I look down at Jack 10 of diamonds and limp too.
The flop comes J rag, rag with two hearts. Check check check … I am pretty sure I have the best hand, and I want to shut down the flush draw so I bet the pot. It folds around to the old guy who raises. I call.
Turn, a club. I check. He checks behind me. River, a heart. When he raised me on the flop, I was pretty sure he didn’t have a flush draw. What I think he has, is a jack with a better kicker. I check, and he checks, and sure enough turns over a jack with an Ace. I nod, and lift my cards to throw them away, but decide to take one nostalgic look before I toss them: Holy cow! I don’t have Jack 10 after all! My cards have turned into a Queen 9 of hearts!
“Oh! I have a flush!” I exclaim. The chips have already started their journey to the old guy, but now they make a u turn and head towards me instead.
“She almost threw those away!” remarks the little Asian girl sitting next to me.
I feel horrible. The old guy is a pro and a good sport. Usually I don’t discuss my strategy. I’d rather everybody think I’m a loony tunes, but I feel an explanation is owed. “I’m sorry,” I say, “I didn’t mean to slow roll you. I thought I had a Jack ten of diamonds.”
“That’s what I put you on,” he says mildly. “A jack with a bad kicker. It was kind of obvious you misread your hand.”
Phew! I’d rather be transparent than an asshole. “I’m sorry,” I repeat.
By the end of level 1 I have knocked out several people, and have a huge chip stack. In these tournaments because of the sheer numbers, and the short starting stacks, you have get lucky early on to survive. I feel like I’m in good shape.
In the ladies room during break, I look in the mirror and realize one of my diamond stud earrings is missing. I have a dim memory of something wobbling on my ear when I removed my ipod. I run back to the Pavilion and go under the table looking for it, but it is gone. In a weird way I feel the poker gods have taken it. I feel like they said, Jennifer we will give you a good run of cards, and have you win some races, but we want something in return? How about that diamond stud earring?
Okay, I whisper. That’s fair, but just to be on the safe side, I remove the other one and tuck it way in my purse, so when I turn my head, the poker gods don’t see the other one, and decide they want a matched set. The earrings are D color, flawless, and it’s going to cost a lot of money to replace one, let alone 2.
Late in the day I lose a huge pot, and then the table breaks. I really hate leaving my chips behind. I like my table. I know how everyone plays. I know how to get my chips back. Plus I have them trained. They think I play a certain way, and I know how to exploit that.
My new table has several big stacks, the biggest of all is Mike Mizrachi, the current chip leader. His chips are an impenetrable fortress in front of him. I feel inadequate arriving with only one rack. “I just took a big hit,” I explain to nobody in particular.
From that moment on nothing goes right. I am card dead. Mike raises every pot, and people call, fold or reraise. The cards go around once, twice, three times. I am like a painting watching the game go by without me. I feel an uneasy wisp of fear. The blinds and antes are very high, and my already diminished stack is shrinking.
“You have to play” I chide myself. “You can’t just sit here and let your stack melt like an ice cube in the sun.” But I can’t help it, I’m scared. It reminds me of first grade, standing watching the double jump ropes whip around. All the other girls run in, jump a few beats and run out fearlessly, but I cringe on the sidelines. I know if I run into those ropes disaster will ensue. Much safer to just watch.
I shake myself out of my stupor. “Just pick a hand, any hand!” I say sternly. Okay, late position, Jack 9 of clubs. I raise. The button reraises. I know from the books, he is just testing me. It’s the first hand I’ve played. He’s pushing to see if I’ll push back. The whole table is watching. I call.
The flop comes Queen high. Trying very hard to look like someone who has a Queen. I bet half the pot. He puts me all in. I do a little half hearted act (is my “Queen” good? Maybe he has a better kicker…maybe he has two pair…) After a suitable amount of time where it looks like I’m battling for my tournament life, I fold. He tables two kings.
“Nice hand,” I gulp.
I sadly count what’s left of my stack. The raise, reraise and continuation bet have cost me dearly. A few hands later I raise in early position with a bad Ace. Everyone folds to Mizrachi in the big blind. He casually picks a few coins off his massive stack, and completes the bet.
The flop 7, 7 rag. He bets. I know he doesn’t have anything. I could have raised in early position with a pocket pair right? And barring that, my Ace high is probably good. I reraise. He puts me all in. This time I don’t even bother to act. I fold. As he rakes in the enormous pot he kindly shows me he had a seven.
To my horror I feel hot tears start to trickle down behind my Cartier sunglasses. I am crying like a girl! This has never happened to me before. I’m always depressed when I play poker, but I never cry! I have just been moved to this table. I can’t let them see me cry. That would wreak havoc with my table image. In poker people are like vultures. If they see you falling apart they don’t want to take care of you. They swoop in for the kill.
I flag down a passing waitress. “Can I have a beer?” I whisper. “And a napkin?” I take the napkin and walk away from the table to an empty corner where I surreptitiously remove my sunglasses and dab at my eyes. Crying! Jesus Christ what is wrong with me! I stop immediately, and return to the table.
Right! I have a new plan. I will not play any more hands until I cash. I pull my chair away from the table, sucking down my beer, and listening to Billie Holliday. Billie is chill music. Her soothing tones remind me that everything is ephemeral and it’s okay to just be mellow and wait for cards. (When I want to wade into battle maniacally raising with deuce seven, and hacking away at everything I encounter, it’s Paul Oakenfold)
By some miracle I make the money, and I am pretty happy again. One of my goals for the World Series was to cash 3 times. Last year I cashed twice, and I wanted to beat my record.
Hand for hand is my favorite time in a tournament. I like wandering around looking to see who has a smaller chip stack than me. I like the excitement when someone goes all in, and everyone rushes over to that table hoping he loses.
And then when he does, everybody cheers, and a collective cry of “Cocktails!” rings out. But the best part about the bubble breaking is the sense of liberation. After I make the money I go on a bit of a tear, and by the end of the day, I am a chip leader again.
* * * * * * *
It is the second day … pretty late at night. My stack has gone up and down. When I cashed, there were 198 people left. At first I was looking at the pay out sheet every now and then to see if I could survive to the next level…but after awhile as people dropped away, I stopped thinking about that. The circle of tables grew smaller and smaller. Now there are only about forty of us left.
At my table is a young kid who started the day as a chip leader but has had a series of setbacks. When I flop a hidden straight on him, I almost feel bad. I bet the flop, and he calls, I bet the turn, he calls…the pot is huge. On the river I peel off 6 red chips (totaling 30 thousand) and toss them in. He thinks for the longest time, and finally pushes 2 enormous stacks of blue chips forward. He doesn’t say anything and neither does the dealer.
I’m confused by all the chips. I think I’ve been raised, but I’m not sure. I’m just about to say “Is that a raise?” when he slowly turns his cards over. My face turns bright red. For the second time in the same tournament I have inadvertently slow rolled someone. I show my straight, and he instantly tries to hide his cards in the muck.
Shortly after that, the kid busts out and before he leaves he comes over to me. “You know,” he says, not snidely, but like it’s been bothering him. “When you get called on the river with the river with the nuts or the near nuts it’s customary for you to turn your cards over first.”
I apologize profusely. I tell him I have trouble counting chips, and I didn’t know what was going on until he flipped his cards over. He accepts my apology, but I feel bad for the rest of the day. Jennifer Tilly, slowroller. One of the worst things you can do to someone. I hope it doesn’t end up on the internet.
Poker is not such a good game for me, I think, because I want everybody to like me. (That’s why I got into acting.) In Poker, people only like you when you’re losing. Stuey Ungar said he can only win if he hates the person he’s playing with, and I understand that completely. I play much better against a jerk than the sweet old man that’s rooting for me, or the wide eyed tourist. I even play soft against other women.
Half an hour later there is another confrontation. I have 9,8 of diamonds. The flop comes Queen, 9, rag. My opponent entered the pot in early position. He couldn’t have hit that flop. I bet. He goes all in.
Now it’s my turn to go in the tank. There’s a lot of money out there. I want it. I hate folding. It’s one of my flaws. I study my opponent. He is not emanating the confidence that says “I have the best hand” He is locked into place, and seems tense. He is not breathing. But still … Several minutes tick by.
“Can we get a clock?” he says through his teeth. I am relieved he called a clock. Now there is a finite amount of time to make the decision. I recall reading somewhere that when a clock is called, 80 percent of the time, the person in the tank just lets the minute run out and that is probably what I will do. But something about the way he is not moving or breathing makes me think he doesn’t want a call, and so right at the five second mark, I push.
He has pocket jacks. Of course he doesn’t want a call with a Queen on board. I barely have time to formulate the thought “Wow what a donkey I am” when an 8 hits on the turn, and the huge mound of chips is headed my way.
My opponent leaps up white and seething. “Fucking World Series of Poker!” he spits out contemptuously and disappears.
I stack the chips sheepishly. Somehow I have been rewarded for bad play. “I feel bad.” I mutter. “That was a donkey call.”
“Why?” says the guy to my left who just joined the table. “That wasn’t such a bad call,” he remarks nicely. “You had a pair and a flush draw. You had a lot of outs.”
I had a flush draw? I remember a diamond and a heart on the flop. Maybe I misread the board. Fervently I hope it’s true. A pair and a flush draw! That’s a good call! That means I legitimately earned my chips.
I want to say to the guy “Did I really have a flush draw?” Maybe he considers one diamond constitutes that. But I feel to engage in further conversation might give him information he can use against me, so I let it go.
By dinner due to various mishaps I am severely short stacked. Less than 12 times the big blind. “But I won’t feel bad if I go out,” I say waving a glass of wine. “Because I accomplished my objective… to cash three times!”
“Don’t give up!” urges Phil. “Pick a spot and go for it. You just need to double up twice, and you’re back in the game!” He reminds me of the Ladies Event where I had less than three times the big blind at dinner and went on to win it.
I return to the game with renewed vigor. I know I am going to go far, because … well … I gave up my diamond earring didn’t I? When I look down at A7 of spades in late position it seems like an omen. A7 is the hand I won the Ladies Event with. Those are my cards!
I know I’m in trouble when a guy after me insta-calls. He turns over Ace Jack.
Well at least I have the flush draw … But the flop comes with only one spade. “Runner runner?” I say hopefully. The turn is a diamond. “7!” I yell. The river is a King. And thus ends my tournament. Not with a bang but a whimper.
Despite my brave words at dinner I am devastated. The guy who knocked me out comes around the table to shake my hand. I note dully that he is wearing a baseball cap with my signature on the bill. I don’t even remember signing it for him. I stumble away from the table and call Phil. He says he will wait for me outside the payout room.
The payout room is like a morgue. People trickle in like zombies, in shock that they are not still playing.
We greet each other in hushed somber tones. The payout people take us by the elbow and lead us around like nurses.
I finished 30th and cashed for over eighteen thousand dollars, but I don’t feel like a winner. I feel like the biggest loser there is. I was 30 away from a bracelet. I beat 2009 people, why couldn’t I beat 29 more? Why can’t I hold onto a stack?
They say when you terminate a relationship, it takes half the time you were together to get over it. I find this is also true in poker. The deeper you go, the longer it hurts. If I’m out early it doesn’t take long to recover. This was my deepest finish, and I can hardly move. Phil drives me home and puts me to bed. I put my bundles of cash on the nightstand and sleep for almost a day.
