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Turtles and Cakes |
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December 2007
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This year there is a new stop on the World Poker Tour. A tournament is
being held at Club Med in Turks and Caicos, or Turtles and Cakes as
everyone calls it. Phil and I are looking forward to having a vacation.
I have been stuck in London for a month shooting a movie while Phil was
working on I Bet You. We haven't had the opportunity to play much poker or spend any time together.
We like Club Med. When we arrive we get a glass of champagne and a
little plastic bracelet that means we never have to bring money
anywhere. We can climb out of the water at 2:00 in the morning, wander
over to Sharkey’s and order a hamburger. Every time we pass the outdoor
bar we stop and have a piña colada. I wander through the gift shop
buying things I don’t need: glittery sarongs, necklaces made of beach
glass, candles that smell of nutmeg…
The weather is warm and balmy. The beaches are the softest whitest sand
and the water turquoise blue. During the day we snorkel with
brilliantly colored fi sh and hang out by the pool. At night there are
thrilling electrical storms that buffet the palm trees and churn the
ocean, and then suddenly stop, to be replaced by the calming sound of
cicadas.
After dinner we always convene to the poker room, where rollicking
rum-infused games take place. Phil plays the 50/100 where hundreds of
thousands of dollars change hands. I play the 5/10 (and sometimes the
3/5) where apparently it is a local custom to give money back to the
people when you have taken their stack.
This one kid, covered in tattoos, shows me his full house while I am
contemplating calling his all-in. "Don't call," he advises, flipping
over his cards. "I have the nuts." I am dumbfounded. I wisely take his
advice and fold my three aces, but it makes me feel funny. I wonder if
this means I have to return the favor.
Another time he goes all in pre-flop, and when a guy calls, he shows
him an ace-king. he shows him an ace-king. “Don’t call off your whole
stack, Smokey,” he says. “It’s your birthday. Let’s just play for
twenty dollars.” Smokey happily takes back his chips and they play for
twenty dollars which Smokey loses.
I am bored. On the private plane up here, I played a game that was too
big for me: 50/100 with Phil, Antonio, and the Kellys. It has spoiled
me for the 5/10. Now I feel like I am just pushing around pennies and
nickels. Furthermore, I don’t like taking money from people who can’t
afford to lose it. Every time I win a pot, I have an uneasy feeling I
should be giving it back. I prefer watching Phil’s out-of-control game
where people are going all in blind, triple straddling, and yelling at
each other across the table. The game is so volatile that one minute
Phil is up twenty thousand, and then all of a sudden he is stuck
thirty.
When we attend the opening party and I see all the hopeful faces
mingling around, I am highly optimistic. I don’t see anyone I know. I
hear it is going to be a small field. My dreams of making a WPT fi nal
table seem close enough to touch. Thank God I bought that spangled
orange and gold Pucci dress at the Bal Harbour shops. It will look good
on television.
But then all the pros start filtering in…Haralabob, Gavin Smith, Evelyn
Ng, Mark Seif… I start to realize that far from being a field I can cut
through like butter, this is going to be an event top heavy with
name-brand professionals.
I run into Mike Matasow. He is in a reflective mood, ruminating on the
nature of fame and sadly concluding it’s not all it’s cut out to be.
Encouraged by this new sensitive Mike, I decide to open up. I tell him
about my own experience: when googling myself, all I found were posts
on what a terrible player I was. He interrupts my story, “Yeah, that
hand where you checked the jacks was the biggest donkey play I ever
saw! Roland de Wolfe emailed it to me and said you’ve got to see this!
I’ve been meaning to razz you about it…What were you thinking?!” His
guffaw follows me on the night air, as I suddenly remember somewhere I
have to be and beat a hasty retreat.
Tournament morning. The match was scheduled to start at 12, but Phil
has the inside scoop that it would actually begin closer to 12:30.
“This is the islands,” his sources told him. “Nothing ever stars on
time." So we set the alarm for 12:00 and sure enough by the time we
shower and get down there, everybody is still milling around.
At my table I am not too happy to see Gavin Smith and Lee Markholt. But
the very first hand I look down at pocket aces and, even though I don’t
get any action, it seems like good omen. “Look!” I say after everyone
folds. “Aces!” I try to jauntily toss them on the table, but a wind
from the overhead fan catches them and blows them back in my face. Thus
begins a day where nothing goes right.
It starts to sink in that I am not at the kids’ table, when Lee limps
in early position and everybody limps around to me on the big blind. I
look down at A-Q off-suit and make it a thousand to go. Lee looks at me
and starts fingering his stack, counting out money. Heraises three
thousand more.
Now, when he limped in early position he did a funny fumble, which made
me wary of him. I thought maybe he was waiting for someone to raise and
I fell right into his trap. I stare at him, steaming. I mean he
obviously has aces. Or kings. Or ace-king. Even queens is not so great
for me. I want to play my hand, but only an idiot would call there.
I muck my cards. “When you limped in, I knew you had aces,” I say bitterly as I fold.
He tables 6-7 suited. “I don’t like when people raise my limp,” he warns.
Ah ha ha. I guess I was schooled. Anyhow, whatever. I am still going to win the tournament.
“J Tilla the Killa,” yells Gavin apropos of nothing. This is a moniker
he gave me a long time ago. I always liked it because I thought it
sounded tough, but for the first time it occurs to me that he could be
facetious. Suddenly I wonder if everyone is laughing at me.
Fast forward. Gavin has raised from middle position. I flat call the
small blind with 9-10 of hearts and the kid in the big blind also
calls. The flop comes 9-7-4 with two spades. I bet 400, about 2/3 the
pot. The kid makes it 1,200. Gavin flat calls.
Here’s what I think. I lead out a lot. The kid thinks I’m bluffing. Or
maybe he has ace high and thinks it’s the best hand… and Gavin… who
knows what the fuck is going on with Gavin. He’s never seen a raise he
doesn’t like. I make it 3,000. The kid calls.Okay, this is bad news. I
see a pulse rising and falling above the open neck of his shirt. Now
Gavin calls. I’m screwed.
I quickly revise my estimate. The kid has me beat. He either has a
better kicker or an overpair. Gavin is probably on a draw. I will get
to the river as cheap as possible, and try to dodge a spade. The turn —
queen of hearts. I don’t think that helped anybody. Nevertheless I
check. Oddly the kid and Gavin check behind me.
The river — a red three. I check, the kid checks, Gavin makes it 6,000
to go. Now I know the kid has me beat. I think Gavin missed his fl ush
draw and is trying to take down the pot. He doesn’t have a Q. I think
if I flat call Gavin, the kid (who possibly has a better hand than me)
100% will fold and, if Gavin is bluffing or semi bluffing, I will take
down the pot.
So I call like a donkey. The kid instafolds.Gavin throws down his cards
with the assurance of someone who has the best hand. As they fly
through the air the kid stands up to look. "5-6 of spades?" he guesses.
"Or not even spades," says Lee leughing. And sure enough the cards hit
the table, they are 5-6 off-suit.
I sit there for the longest time. How can everyone at the table see
what eluded me? I was so confident he was on a flush draw and missed, I
didn't even notice the straight out there. I feel I should say
something lighthearted like "Nice hand," but I can't. I muck my cards
stonily and put my headphones on. I am out of practice. A month of
inactivity had rendered me rusty. I feel like I am in a play where I
don't know my lines.
My stack is now half its former glory. But I have not given up. I
remember in Monte Carlo playing with Farzad Bonyadi. He lost most of
his chips right away and went on to make the final table. All the Poker
Greats I've played wtih never panic when they lose chips. They know
they have the ability to get them back. “You’re shortstacked because
you’re good!” I tell myself sternly. “You’re not afraid to get in there
and mix it up.” And I almost believe it.
I’m the big blind now. “Jennifer!” yells Gavin from across the table.
“You need to putin another chip… I want it to be the right amount for
when I raise your blind.” And sure enough when the table folds to him,
he raises.
I look down at K-9 suited… a pretty good hand for when Gavin is raising
your blind. I think about reraising, but I have a feeling he won’t
fold. Instead I just call.
The flop comes 9-7-5 rainbow. Top pair! I have an irrational impulse to
go all in, but I suppress it. Gavin is not a supernatural being. He’s a
poker player, and now I have him where I want him. I bet a little more
than half the pot. He calls. That’s alright. I’m pretty sure he is just
floating the flop to try and take it away from me on the turn.
The turn is a six. That does give me pause. I can see as clear as day a
gut-shot straight on board. Could he have an 8? Could he possibly have
an 8? I decide the answer is no. Why? Because the Universe wouldn’t be
that mean. I bet again. He calls.
The river comes a 4. I stare at it. It looks nasty: 9-7-5-6-4. I still
think I have the best hand but I check just in case. Gavin bets 6,000.
Phil always says, “Never go broke with just one pair,” but this time
Phil is wrong. Gavin has been waiting for me to blink so he can take
the pot away from me. It took three streets until I fi nally showed
fear, and now he’s making his move (I know, I know…). But I decided on
the turn he didn’t have an 8. That was my read and I’m sticking with
it. I call.
Gavin has 7-3 off-suit. A three for the straight. He raised my big
blind with 7-3 off-suit… and took half my stack. No wonder everybody is
rushing to get involved with me.
Grimly I count out what left. About 6,000. I calculate on my fingers
how many times the big blind that is. The blinds are only 100/200… I
can still win. It looks bad to have such a tiny stack, but there’s no
reason to panic. I just have to double up twice to climb out of the
Stupid Hole I dug.
I squeeze squeeze squeeze, and then like a mirage… on the big blind,
two beautiful jacks. Gavin has already raised my blind of course, and
the guy to his left has taken to entering the pot every time Gavin
does. “Win Jen’s Money.” Well, I’m not going to wait for them to suck
out on me. There is almost 1,500 in the middle. That’s one sixth of my
stack. I’ll take it. I go all in. I know the other guy will fold; I’m
not too sure about Gavin.
He plays with his chips cheerfully. (Thanks in part to me, he now has a
monster stack.) I sit there meekly trying to look like a victim, but
inside I’m pleading, “callcallcall… double me up.”
“Oh, alright,” says Gavin as if he can hear me. He fl ips one grey chip
and one pink chip in the middle, making my tournament life look
trivial. I know he has a marginal hand… I’m hoping it’s pocket twos or
something, but he turns over A-5 suited. That’s okay too… I’m a huge
favorite. I’m counting how many chips are in pot when suddenly an ace
appears on the turn, and it’s all over.
I’m still sitting there waiting for another jack to materialize as the
chips are swooping towards Gavin. I finally realize I should get up,
because I’m done. I’m not going to win the tournament after all. I’m
going to spend the next three days turning over so I can get an even
tan line. “Good luck,” I say unsteadily, and stagger away from the
table. I find Phil in the other room "Why would he call?” I whine like
a baby. I was seventy percent!”
“I don’t know,” says Phil placatingly. “Maybe he thought you were bluffing.”
Michael Kelly is sitting next to Phil, listening sympathetically. (When
you’re new to poker you love bad beat stories.) “He called an all-in
with A-5?” he repeats, shaking his head.
“Yeah!” I say indignantly. “When the blinds were only 100/200! And I
made it 5,000 to go! And then an ace came!” I start to tell them other
illogical things Gavin did, but everyone is getting bored with my
stories. They have their own game to play. I decide to leave before I
inadvertently infect Phil with my bad luck.
I wander off into the bright sunshine looking for fresh meat. A lot of
pros are out already. I ask them how they went out so fast (full house
against a bigger full house, a bluff that got away from them… etc.),
and then after I listen to their story, they have to listen to mine.
That’s the way it works.
Even though I am complaining, secretly I admire Gavin’s laissez faire
attitude towards poker. He gets paid off because people always think he
is playing any two cards. But he’s actually fairly tight. Every time I
called his “bluffs,” he showed down the nuts. Let’s face it; he is the
one sitting on a pile of chips right now while I am in the bar sucking
down drinks with little umbrellas in them.
I go to the room and try to write my article, but I get really tired. I
lie on the bed next to my computer and fall asleep. I have dreams that
I am playing 7-card Stud, and getting all these great hands, but I
can't see them. I sift through the cards going, "Hmmm... I have a 2 and
a 3 ... a 7... nothing really...oh, hold on a seconds... kings! I have
a set of kings!"
I am awakened by a knock on the door. It is Phil. He is also out and
carrying two banana strawberry daiquiris. He is chirpy and excited, not
depressed at all. “I have all kinds of stories for you!” he exults.
They are all war stories of how well he played, of trickery and
trapping and good hands being outrivered, culminating in his being
moved to Gavin’s table and getting knocked out by the same hand that
did me in. Only this time Gavin had the jacks. Phil had ace-king.
Aceking
no good.
“I can’t believe my jacks didn’t hold up,” I say dolefully sitting up
in bed, and reaching for a daiquiri. I am taking one last stab at
feeling bad, but it’s hard to hold the feeling. The indignity is
already starting to fade. The sun is sparkling crazy blue on the water,
the sea is full of coral and fish, and the cocktails are free.
“Baby, who cares?” says Phil happily. “We’re on vacation!”
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