THAT’S POKER

(Photo by Michal Parzuchowski)

Jay and I stopped by the ATM and withdrew $200 each, then took the drive up 80-West from Vacaville to San Pablo Casino. The 1$-2$ No Limit Hold’em had a $20 buy-in, but Jay and I liked to start with a heftier stack to give our plays a bit more oomph than a one-and-done all-in. We each had two lives of $100, and if we played by the book, that’d be enough to carry us into the night when our opponents were drunker and, therefore, looser with their money. We didn’t speak as we drove up the hills leading into San Pablo. We were both focused, thinking of strategy, preparing for the lucky break we, as semi-professionals, were long due.

They put our names on the board one after the other, but sat us at different tables. I handed a $100 bill to the man that showed me to my seat. He returned with a rack of blue, $1 chips that I organized into stacks of twenty. Still, I was one of the short stacks. One or two players looked tired, drunk, as though they hadn’t left the game for days. Some were pros with pyramids of blue checks and towers of black, $20 chips off to the side. You could spot them right away. Each movement of the hand, each furrowed eyebrow, each sip from a highball glass had a calm, measured motion to it. Their eyes held steady, unflinching at every bet, raise, re-raise, as though they had seen it all a million times before.

One pro had on a cowboy getup. He was old and overweight. We ended up locking horns in the first ten hands. I was dealt a pair of 6’s in the hole and snuck my way into a moderately raised pot. I hit my set on the flop. The cowboy bet. The others folded. I raised. The cowboy re-raised me all-in. We exposed our cards. He had a flush draw, which gave him 35% or so to hit with two cards to come. Fourth street was a blank. My heart began pounding. The dealer peeled off fifth street. I saw the red tip of the diamond and shook my head. Flush. He had cleaned me out. “Lucky.” he said with a southern drawl. “That’s poker.” I said. As he gathered his chips in front of him, he called for service and order a double whiskey for the both of us. Once we had our drinks, he held his up, as did I, and we drank at the same time. It went down smooth and caught fire in my belly. I coughed. He smirked behind his thick white mustache. I slid my second $100 bill to the dealer, who gave me 3 stacks of blue and 2 black chips. Well, it might be a short night after all, I thought.

But the whiskey had steadied me. I played well, stealing what little pots I could from position and avoiding big clashes with the cowboy. For hours, I treaded water with around $200 in chips. I was scooping another small, unraised pot when Jason approached my table. He put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m cleaned out. Jacks versus Queens. There was no way out of it. How much longer are you gonna be?” “Let me buy you a drink.” I said. “No no. That’d knock me right out. Go ahead and finish your game. I’ll watch from the rail.” “Okay.” I said.

The pots grew bigger as the night became early morning. $500. $700. $1000 pots. But I could never get a piece. I’d always be on the draw, either straight or flush, and the cowboy would bet over the top of me, forcing me to make a decision for all my chips. It was stellar play, really. In most cases, the mathematically correct play was to call, but I was too scared he’d clean me out a second time. And he knew it.

It was around 2am that I was dealt aces in the hole. Jay was stretched out over three chairs he had pushed together, sleeping. He was going to miss the fireworks. I shoved my stack and got five callers. The pot was over $1000. Even the cowboy was in for half of his stack. I was only about 30% to win despite having the best hand. Some casinos offered a bad-beat jackpot when your aces got cracked. San Pablo did not, however. But if I was ever going to make a stand, now was the time. We all watched intently as each street was dealt. Rainbow flop, non-coordinated, no sets. Heart flush draw on the turn. The dealer peeled off fifth street like he was pulling teeth… and it bricked. Two of clubs. I swept the main pot and all side pots. My stack was suddenly over $1200, a grand pyramid of blue chips topped by two stacks of black chips. I had to lean over to the side to check my next hand.

I wanted to leave right then, but I was a regular, and it was considered a faux-pas to scoop a massive pot and cash out. “Hit and Run,” the other players called it. And, if they saw you again, they’d either give you no action or collude to bully you out of pots, all the while needling you for as long as you sat at their table. You were expected to stay one or two rounds to give other players a chance to win back their money.

I decided to stay for two rounds and play conservatively. Trouble was, I was dealt a pair of Queens two hands later. I raised from late position. The cowboy re-raised from the big blind. I called. The flop came, and I hit my set. He wasted no time shoving all-in. I called before he finished pushing his stack out. I flipped over my set. He flipped over an up-and-down royal flush draw, with a KQ-suited in the hole. I was actually an underdog to win given his 17 outs twice. The turn was a 2 of hearts. The river… was a 9 of hearts. I cleaned him out, felted him. My stack was over $2000 now. The cowboy leaned back in his chair, tilted his hat, folded his arms. “Well… that’s poker.” he said. “That’s luck.” I said. “What’s the difference?” he said, smiling. “Good point.” I said.

Once the chips were in front of me, I tipped the dealer $20 and ordered two double whiskeys. My cowboy tipped his hat, took the shot, then got up and left. The other players followed suit. I had killed the action. The dealer chipped-up my stack so I wouldn’t have to take so many racks to the cage. I tipped him another $20, and he thanked me.

I folded the stack of $100 bills and put them in my front pocket. Then I went to the rail and pulled Jay up by the hood of his pullover. He stumbled a bit, rubbed his eyes. “What’s with that smile? You clean up, or what?” “I got lucky.” “You bastard. I hate you.” “You sure you don’t want a drink?” “Nah. You straight to drive?” “Two whiskey doubles over an eight-hour span? Yeah, I’m straight.” “Good. I can’t keep my eyes open… and I gotta open tomorrow too.” “Let’s get going then.”

I pulled Jay through the parking lot, cutting between cars to avoid the loiterers who looked angry and desperate in low-light. Thankfully, we made it to our car without being rolled. I set Jay in the passenger seat, closed the door, got in the driver’s seat, and sped off into the night. I felt the thickness of the bills in my pocket. They stood out like a second wallet. They’d make a substantial bankroll, almost enough to transition to professional, almost enough to quit my job entirely. Almost.