When we left off, I had completed Day 1 of the 2008 WSOP Main Event. This sounds like a bigger accomplishment than it is. Only a little more than half the field was eliminated during the four Day 1’s this year, so we were nowhere near the money bubble, which makes the massive ovation that punctuates the end of Day 1 amusing to guys like me, who have been around the block a few times. Still, alive is better than dead, and although my 37,000 chips were only about average, I felt confident that I’d find some good opportunities on Day 2. But Day 2b was still 48 hours away. I had two days to kill in Las Vegas.

I’m a believer in treating time off as what it is. I’m well past the point where poker feels more like an addiction than a job; the last thing I want after an important 14 hour workday is more work. Also, my game has progressed past the place where “staying sharp” by continuing to play during a short break of no import. The formula for ensuring solid play is simple: I need to be well rested with a clear head.

So after sleeping in, I started my first day off with what I envisioned as a simple, pleasant activity: a leisurely walk to lunch at In-N-Out Burger. This activity was designed to kill several proverbial birds with a single stone.

First, I’d get to eat at In-N-Out Burger. Everyone who knows me well knows that I am peculiarly passionate about cheeseburgers. There’s something about a good cheeseburger that placates me like nothing else can. Yes, a good cheeseburger is the ultimate DZ antidote. That first squishy, greasy bite is my nirvana. I don’t give a shit about how bad it is for me. I don’t wanna hear it. Putting a tasty cheeseburger in front of me is like putting a glass pipe filled with crack rocks in front of Pookie. The genesis of this fixation is likely the nutritionally questionable dinnertime tactics employed by my mother during my childhood: I ate at Burger King or Wendy’s at least once a week, and I never heard a word of the traditional discouragement about junk food. So I’ve been stuffing my face full of fast food cheeseburgers for as long as I can remember. Doing it takes me to my happy place. When my arteries can no longer unclog themselves and I keel over and die a premature cheeseburger-induced death, now everyone will know who to blame.

My new favorite place to do my face-stuffing is In-N-Out Burger. In-N-Out Burger is the most excellent fast food cheeseburger place in America, bar none. The fact that we don’t have In-N-Out on the East Coast makes me even crazier about eating as much of it as I can. All the food is made fresh there every day. The meat is chopped up and salted right there in the back. The potatoes are mauled and turned into fries right next to the meat chopping and salting, and nothing is ever frozen. With all due respect to that Lucky Charms leprechaun, this product (especially when you order your burger “animal style”) is magically delicious.

Although I love cheeseburgers and avoid discussing their supposedly deleterious effect on my health, I am still generally aware of my physical state of being. And during the WSOP, I exercised very little. I therefore decided that I’d give myself a little workout by walking–not cabbing–from the Gold Coast to In-N-Out. If nothing else, I figured maybe a nice brisk walk would offset the rumored effects of the meal I was about to ingest.  Big mistake.

The most direct route to In-N-Out from the Gold Coast is a small industrial road that runs parallel to the Strip. The two buildings are maybe a little over a mile apart, perfect for a short jaunt. Wearing shorts and a t-shirt and carrying only a book (I like to read while I eat), I strolled out the door of the Gold Coast and began. I know I’ve discussed the Las Vegas summertime weather on this blog way too many times already–I’m like an old man sitting on a porch that way–but brace yourself for more. Sorry.

It wasn’t long after I made a right turn onto the industrial round that I realized I had made a grave mistake. I had only covered about a quarter of a mile when I began to sweat profusely. I had chosen the hottest day on the 2008 Vegas calendar for my excursion, which already felt less like a short walk than a desert trek. The industrial road, inaptly named “Dean Martin Way,” had nothing but a wholesale furniture outlet and unoccupied office space on it, so there was no reasonable place to take a break, catch a cab, or even to walk in the shade. No sir. I had to press onward. By the time I was halfway to cheeseburger heaven, I was completely drenched in sweat and had a dusty feeling in my throat. Dry heat my ass.

I paused to squint skyward, and during that moment it occurred to me that all those innate happy feelings we usually associate with sunshine do not exist in Las Vegas, where the sun is stupid, inexorably sitting there destroying everything under it. I theorized that in temperate climes, perhaps the sun needed to win its daily battle against clouds or perhaps against the rotation of the earth in order to elicit happy feelings from people. Yes, without any opposition the game was just too easy for the sun, and it became unworthy of giving us have happy sunshiny feelings! Screw you, sun! I was briefly entranced by these thoughts, but then I realized that they weren’t real; I was hallucinating, it was an emotional oasis of sorts. Back to my 115 degree trek…

When I finally arrived at In-N-Out Burger, my legs were wobbly and my clothes were soaking wet. There was sweat in my ass crack. I looked like an old man after a long game of paddleball. I scowled at everyone sitting around enjoying their food in the air conditioning. They had no idea how much more deserving of a cheeseburger I was than them. I went and waited on line for a bit, then placed my order the only voice I could muster: a raspy whisper. I was handed a receipt with my number on it, along with a paper cup. I made it to the beverage station and filled the cup with lemonade and chugged all 16 ounces. Then I filled it again, and chugged another one. Then another. I chugged three and a half lemonades. Now I was ready to eat. When I was finished, I took a cab back to the Gold Coast, but not before buying an In-N-Out cap to commemorate the experience.

Since I don’t like drama, my next activity is something I’m not going to talk about. Suffice to say it was unpleasant and spanned the hours from around 6pm to midnight.

It was around that time that I received a phone call from one of a limited group of people who I consider “poker friends,” my buddy Felix. He informed me that a bunch of guys were at the Spearmint Rhino, and I decided to join them.

For those unaware, Spearmint Rhino is Las Vegas’ biggest and most famous strip club. Everyone loves this place. It’s always packed and it nevertheless maintains a very high ratio of barely dressed women to patrons. I get incredulous looks almost every time I say this, but I really don’t like Spearmint Rhino. In fact, I don’t like strip clubs generally. I (used to) get way more satisfaction from enticing a normal woman to dance with me for free than I will ever get from paying a woman twenty dollars to gyrate on me with a blank look on her face. I just don’t like feeling like a mark. It’s a psychological power thing, I guess. But poker players in particular seem to love strip clubs. I’ve heard more than one person speculate that Las Vegas’ poker and strip club economies enjoy a symbiotic relationship. And looking around the Rhino after I arrived (between naked sets of incongruous fake breasts), I found anecdotal evidence to support this theory: I recognized several young semi-famous poker pros lounging around the place.

I have my own theory on why poker players love strip clubs. High-level poker is a substitute for competitive sports for many high-school aged guys. These guys are smart but socially outcast or inept. In common parlance, they’re nerds. They’re nerds who are desirous of the social standing enjoyed by the cool kids, but they’re incapable of doing any of the things the cool kids do to gain social standing, such as playing team sports or acting normal. So they do the next best thing: they use their intellect to master something that’s considered somewhat cool, poker. Unfortunately, poker isn’t quite as cool as football, and having the ability to play poker well doesn’t alter your social inadequacies. The end product is a big collection of young nerds with money. A big collection of nerds tripping over themselves to pay for the fake affection of a stripper.

So why would I go to the Rhino then? Well, first of all, I don’t hate the place—I just don’t have any real affinity for it. I’m fine hanging out as long as I’m not blowing my money on lap dances. More importantly, I went there because I’ve recently formed friendships with a small group of East Coast pros whose company I enjoy. I’ve mentioned my reluctance to make “poker friends” before, but this is a group of really solid down-to-earth NY/NJ pros who travel the circuit together. I see them all the time in AC and Foxwoods and was excited to spend some time with them out in Vegas. I’m happy to say that my blog was somewhat instrumental in creating these friendships, as one of the guys, Felix Mok, has been reading and commenting on here for awhile. The other two guys are Gordon Eng and Vinny Pahuja, both great guys. Big up to Felix “mincash” Mok, the Gordo-monster, and Vinny “rungood” P! Good times at the Rhino.

My second day off was spent doing virtually nothing other than a low-key dinner with Jonny Y, who also deserves a special shout-out for unknowingly keeping me sane in the desert. Once dinner ended, I got back into poker mode. When I returned to my room, I looked up my table draw online and was happy to discover that I was easily the most accomplished player of the bunch, and that there would be no huge stacks to contend with. With what I hoped would be a long day of poker ahead of me, I went to bed early.

On the morning of Day 2, I went through my usual paces—some quiet contemplation, comfortable clothes, some phone calls, a very light breakfast with iced coffee—and walked to the Rio. Once again, I drew a table in the Tropical Room. I located my seat, unbagged my chips, stacked them, and was ready to go. We were a long way from the money. I had an average stack of 37,000, a strictly biz attitude, and much work to do.

LEVEL 6 (200-400 blinds + 50 ante)

I picked up nothing playable at all for three full orbits. Then I finally found a nice spot.

Hand #1

The player three seats to my right is openlimping everything. Oddly, the first really clueless player I encounter in this tournament has somehow made it to Day 2. He openlimps for the fifteenth time since we sat down and I have A-3 offsuit in the cutoff. I isolate him, making it 2600 to go. Everyone else folds and the openlimper, who has me covered, calls. The flop comes A-J-5 rainbow and he checks. He seems like the kind of guy who will blindly spew off chips on later streets, so I check behind. The turn brings another five and now he bets 3000. I call. The river is an eight and the guy bets another 5500. I quickly call. He shakes his head and turns over Q-10, total air. Ship. 45,000.

Hand #2

I pick up AQ in middle position and raise to 1100. It’s folded to the button, who I cover, and he calls. The flop comes 10-8-4 with two spades (I have no spades) and I lead for 1500. The button calls. I hit a queen on the turn and bet 2400. The button calls. The turn pairs the eight, I bet another 3300, and the button calls. I show my two pair and the button mucks. 52,000.

Hand #3

The player in second position openraises to 1200. It folds two spots to an older asian man who has been playing very snug, sitting on about 30,000, and he quickly reraises to 5000. Hmmmm… this guy has been a folding machine since I sat down. I know his range is QQ through AA, with AK and JJ being remote possibilities that are also in the mix. There is absolutely no way this old codger is making a move of any kind here. I know he has the goods. It folds to me, and lo and behold, I have two black kings. Normally this would make me ecstatic, but I know that I’m trailing about one-third of the old guy’s range. Still, I have to put more money in, so I make it 17,000 to go. The original raiser folds and the old guy instantly shoves his stack in with the kind of haughty authority that can only be aces. Well, I can’t fold for 12,000 more. I sigh “I call” and toss the chips in. He flips over aces, the board bricks, and I get fucked. 22,000.

Two hands later the table breaks and I dejectedly trudge into the main room to my new seat. I’m the second shortest stack at this table, which has some serious stacks at it. I’m resolved to remain focused and try my best to get back into this thing.

main event mayhem

Hand #4

On the third hand at my new table, I pick up pocket queens under the gun and decide to limp, hoping a big stack will squeeze me in position so I can reraise all in. No such luck, I get four total customers. The flop comes all undercards and I win a small pot. 26,000.

Hand #5

The shortstack at the table openraises from late position. It’s folded to me in the big blind and I have pocket jacks. I announce all in and he snap calls me with pocket sixes. I flop a set of jacks, putting a quick end to his day and eliminating my first player from the tournament. Good game sir. 34,000.

At the first break, I’ve lost 3,000 chips total, but my stack has fluctuated as high as 53,000 and as low as 21,000. I make phone calls to Janeen and my father, during which I mostly complain about running kings into aces.

LEVEL 7 (300-600 + 75 ante, 34,000 chips)

Hand #6

For the first time, I tangle with a very aggressive young player of undetermined (German? Swiss? Norwegian?) European origin. It’s a kid with a lot of chips who has been playing plenty of pots. Even though his face is half covered by his cap and sunglasses, I know he’s just a kid because he’s got a bad case of acne. He has me covered by quite a bit and wants to be in charge of this table. He raises to 1600 from early position and I call him from the button with pocket eights. No one else calls. The flop comes 7-3-2 with two clubs, normally a very nice flop for eights, but then Acne does something very curious: he checks. This check absolutely stinks. This isn’t the kind of player who is going to raise from early position and then decline to make a continuation bet on this kind of flop. I decide that checking behind is better than protecting my overpair because of how stinky his check is. The turn is a jack, and now Acne leads for 3000. I’m happy to call this bet with the intention of possibly bluffraising the river if a third club arrives, otherwise I’m pretty much done. I flip in the three yellows. But then the river is the wackiest card in the deck: the eight of clubs, completing a possible flush and giving me a set of eights. Acne bets 5000, one pink chip. I consider this situation and realize that I’ve got to be ahead. I’m trailing only two hands, a flush and a set of jacks. With a flush draw, Acne would lead on the flop with the intention of three-betting a raise, and with JJ, Acne would protect his hand by leading the flop. So I fiddle with my chips a bit and then raise to 12,500. My raise elicits a physical convulsion from Acne, he literally lifts his ass out of his chair by straightening his arms and pressing them downward on the table in front of him. Then he removes his glasses and begins a very long period of deliberation. I just sit there, looking around. After an inordinate period of time, probably about three minutes, he fixes his eyes on mine and says “nice catch,” trying to elicit a reaction. My response is my best “I’m gonna crap my pants” look. In the end, he exhales deeply and sticks the 7,500 in. I turn over my set, he stares at my cards distastefully and mucks 77 face up. Hmmm. 56,000.

Hand #7

I’ve happily discovered that this isn’t a terribly tough table, and I open up my game, TAGing my way to around 65,000 chips. Then I look down and see that I’ve got pocket aces on the button. The action is folded to a conservative player in the hijack and he raises to 1700. Even though he has a nice-sized stack of around 50,000, I decide to get trappy and flat call. Unfortunately, both the small blind and big blind call and we see a flop four ways. The flop is a terrible one for my aces: K-J-8 with two diamonds. The blinds check to the raiser in the hijack and he bets 5000. I hate that there are two players behind me, but I feel like I need to put more money into this pot. I raise to 16,000 with the intention of possibly folding to a shove from one of the blinds. I am relieved when both blinds fold, then the player in the hijack considers my bet and folds K-Q face up. Nice laydown. Hmmmm. Here comes Sug. 67,000.

At this point I’m beginning to sense that the table respects my play and my confidence is rising. I’m on a small run reminiscent of the middle stages of my 2005 and 2006 Main Events, and I’m starting to like my odds. As I survey the room between hands, I notice a large camera pointing in my direction. Peering through it is none other than my good friend Matt, who has made cameos on the blog before. I knew Matt was going to be in town for Day 2b but I was nonetheless surprised to suddenly see him standing there snapping pictures of me. Matt has a pretty cushy job over at MTV. I’m still not positive about exactly what he does, but whatever it is, he’s allowed to take business trips to Vegas whenever it suits him. In this instance, he timed a Vegas business trip to coincide with Day 2. I owe another shout-out, this one to my Director of Marketing Matty C. for his earnest support.

look ma, chips!

 

 

 

 

 

I’ve got the dial turned up now. My stack has grown to the point that I’ve got the third largest stack at my table. I pick up J-9 offsuit in third position and raise to 1700. It’s folded around to Acne in the big blind, who still has me covered, and he nonchalantly calls. The flop connects: J-4-3 rainbow. Acne checks and I bet 2700, which he quickly calls. The turn gives me top two pair, it’s the nine of diamonds. Acne checks again. This time I bet 6500 and again he calls without much thought. He must have a good jack, which is a beautiful thing. The river pairs the three for a final board of J-9-4-3-3. Acne checks to me and I fire a third value barrel—a big one—14,500. Acne hates this bet passionately and goes into another convulsion.

What followed—and this is not an exaggeration—was the longest poker timeout I have ever experienced. Acne thought, and thought, and thought, and thought, and thought, and thought… until fully ten minutes (again, not an exaggeration) had elapsed. My tablemates somehow waited patiently as Acne twisted in his seat, straightened himself, then twisted again, then repeated the process many times. Initially, I filled the silence by trying to elicit a call by looking nervous. For his part, Matt took a few pictures of the action (if you can call it that) but then grew befuddled and bored by the delay, scratching himself and looking around. Around the eight minute mark of the interminable delay, even I gave up. I stopped acting, put my head down between my arms and looked at my lap as I took deep exaggerated breaths (okay, I was still acting a little), waiting for Acne’s decision. Mercifully, after around thirteen minutes had ticked off the tournament timer, someone at my table finally called the clock. A floorperson came over, counting Acne down to his final ten seconds, and still no decision seemed imminent. Finally, with about three seconds left to act, Acne slid his cards forward face down, indicating a fold. An extra 14.5k would have been nice, but still, 82,000. Officially a big stack.

make a decision already!

 At this point in the tournament I made a deliberate decision to throttle down until the next break. I had gone on a serious tear, taking my stack from a negligible 22,000 all the way up to a robust 82,000 in only about two hours of play. I now had the biggest stack at my table and was certainly a contender. Cashing in the tournament had become more likely than not, and I allowed myself to envision a deep run. Since I was very involved and since I had shown down only a few hands, I decided that my table probably viewed me as a loose cannon. Also, I was pretty enamored with the idea of calling Janeen and my father to announce that I had a big stack. So with only 15 minutes left in Level 7, in light of all these factors, I resolved to only play premium hands until after the break.

Hand #9

But then I wake up with pocket kings in the big blind. I re-check to make sure. Yup, two black kings. Even though my plan is to lay low, pocket kings are not a lay-low kind of hand. I want action. The table folds through early position, then through late position, and then even the button folds. Oh well. Only the small blind is left to act.

The player in the small blind is wearing dark shades and Pokerstars gear, indicating that he won his Main Event seat online. He has an interesting routine, designed to combat tells, obviously learned from watching some kind of video or reading a book. When it is his turn to act preflop, he does one of two things: if he intends to fold, he counts to about three then mucks his cards. If he intends to play the hand, he clasps his hands, props his elbows on the table, rests his chin on his hands, counts to about six, then raises or calls. In this instance, with pocket kings in the big blind, I am praying for the small blind to clasp his hands and go through routine #2.

And he does. When it’s his turn to act, Mr. Routine, who has just over 50,000 chips, rests his chin on his hands, counts silently to six, then quietly says “raise,” making it 2200 to go. Yes. My plan is to reraise and hope–based on my image and the possibility that he holds a big hand–to induce a four-bet from him. I announce “reraise” and toss in 7500 chips. Mr. Routine’s hands return to clasped position and his chin is on top of them. He’s either going to call or shove. My stomach begins to churn. This is a big hand.

After exactly six seconds comes his decision. “All in,” he says with a short backhanded wave of his right hand. Holy shit. Can these kings please hold? “I call,” I say in a soft voice. Now Mr. Routine finally turns human.

“You call!?!”

“Yes. I call,” comes my soft reply. I turn my kings over. Mr. R. has a genuine frown as he tables big slick, AK offsuit.

The pot is worth 106,000 chips. If I win, I’ll have well over 130,000, putting me in position to terrorize the tournament. If I lose, I’m way back down to around 30,000, in bad shape. My odds of winning are 69%. I get out of my seat, stand up, tuck my chin against my chest and silently stare at the center of the table, awaiting my fate.

During the short pause before the board cards are dealt in this sort of confrontation in a huge poker tournament, nobody feels comfortable. The guy with AK is miserable. He’s put all his chips in behind. He feels like he’s atop the gallows, awaiting execution. He’s at the end of the line. He’s driven off the cliff and now, unless something unlikely happens, a few seconds will elapse before his bloody end is official.

The guy with KK doesn’t feel any better. He’s got his money in with the best of it, but he still might get crushed. That he’s supposed to win but will nevertheless lose one in three times is a fact that terrifies him. The fear of seeing an ace is all-consuming during those few seconds. He’s traveling through a long tunnel, and the light at the end of it is fast approaching. When he emerges, two out of three times he will do so safely. The third time, he’ll have an anvil unceremoniously dropped on his head.  And I play this stupid game for a living.

Mr. Routine and I exchange perfunctory “good lucks,” but neither of us means it. I want this hand bad. I want to reverse the last shitty month of my life, during which I never won one of these big hands. I want to erase the self doubt that has crept in during that month. I want to prove to everyone–but mostly myself–that I’m really good at this. Most of all I want no fucking ace.

The flop is ten, six, three. I exhale a tiny bit. The turn… is the ace of spades.

Bitch.

And that’s exactly what I impulsively scream at the top of my lungs as I wheel away from the table. “BITCH!!!” Everyone’s looking at me but I couldn’t care less.

I have no idea what the river is, but it’s not a king. I sit back down and shove my chips at the dealer, saying “here, you count it.” Mr. Routine says “sorry.” He doesn’t
mean it. They hand most of my chips to him, then I fold for the rest of the level. Just like I had planned to do! 28,000.

That brought me to the secon break.  I phoned my father and Janeen and had a lot trouble both adequately describing my ascension and subsequent crash as well as my distress over it. The frustration of being unable to win a big confrontation for over a month was bubbling to the surface, and the break could not have come at a better time.

LEVEL 8 (400-800 blinds, 75 ante)

I did very little during this level.  I no longer had the kind of stack you can speculate with, so I patiently waited for a good spot.  I never found one.  I won a few small pots but mostly bled chips.  25,000.

That brought me to the dinner break.  Again I chose to get the hell out of the Rio for dinner, avoiding the commotion so that I can eat at the quiet Chinese restaurant at the Gold Coast.  When the break ended, I told myself to do what I could given my stack size.  The reality of the situation is that your fate is no longer completely in your hands when you get this short, but I was ready to play shortstack poker.

LEVEL 9 (500-1000 blinds, 100 ante)

Hand #10

I openlimp the A7 of diamonds in middle position. We end up in a five way pot. The flop gives me top pair but otherwise sucks: A-K-10 with two clubs. Everyone checks. The turn is an offsuit 8. Everyone checks. The river is the the 8 of clubs. The big blind bets 5000 and I call. He shows the 5-3 of clubs for a rivered flush. 21,000.

I bleed chips, unable to find a spot to get involved. After about an hour of this, I play my final hand.

Hand #11

I’m down to 17,000 and pick up the A-9 of hearts under the gun. I decide to get tricky, thinking a limp would look really strong. It’s folded around to Acne on the button and he makes a very curious small raise to 2500. What the…? This raise was too small to be a big hand, it was practically inviting the blinds to come along, which they do not. I have to have the best hand here, but for some inexplicable reason, I choose to simply call the bet rather than reraise all in. This makes two mistakes so far in this hand (1. doing anything other than openfolding; 2. just calling the buttonraise). The flop comes Q-9-8 with two clubs. I check to Acne and he bets 4200. I’m in a bit of a weird spot and am not really sure what kind of hand makes sense for him. I think for a couple of seconds and decide that might not have much, maybe a draw. I gather up all my chips and fire them in. That makes three mistakes. Again, Acme is startled, but this time it’s a good startled. He calls and shows me the J-10 of clubs. He has flopped the nuts with a redraw to boot. Oh. My Main Event was over, and so was my grand effort to dominate the Vegas summer. I gathered up my stuff, said “good game, guys,” and took off. That’s all she wrote.

And also almost all I’ve wrote.

That night there was a house music event at the club at the Hard Rock. I went there by myself and got absolutely bombed. I intentionally lost contact with the rest of the world for about 18 hours, a tactic Janeen certainly didn’t appreciate. Then I got blasted again the following night, this time in the company of Matt and Jonny Y. I think they call it “blowing off steam?” Whatever it was, I have to admit that it helped.

That was all the Vegas I could handle. I moved my flight up and flew home the next day, happy to be putting the 2008 World Series behind me.

(i know that this blog entry alternates between the present and past tenses.  poker hand descriptions just sound better in the present tense, and storytelling sounds better in the past tense.  that’s how i like it.  deal.)

THE 2008 MAIN EVENT

When a poker player is constantly telling me that he’s “running bad,” it’s not a good sign. This is because “I’m running bad” is usually a euphemistic way of saying “I’m not good at poker.” This is common knowledge in much the same way that a person “between jobs” is really unemployed or that a person whose recent relationship “didn’t work out” has just been dumped. So when I conclude this blog entry by telling you that I continue to run bad, I will leave it up to you to decide whether or not I can play worth a damn.

This is the story of my 2008 World Series of Poker Main Event.

In terms of its place in my life, the Main Event of the World Series has undergone some natural and intuitive changes along with my career. In 2005 and 2006, this tournament felt to me like a celebration. And it kind of is. The Main Event is the poker industry’s annual party in recognition of its continued vitality, and the frenzied atmosphere at the Rio certainly reflects this. In 2005 and 2006, like the proverbial wild card playoff team, I was “just happy to be there,” having qualified online for a fraction of the tournament’s cost, thrilled to partake in an event that would be the largest I’d ever seen.

But in 2007 and especially 2008, my perspective has changed. This old wild card team is now a division winner, and the Main Event feels less like a party and more like an annual opportunity to win a championship. This was especially true this year, when I spent most of June in Vegas playing in the WSOP prelims. By the time that stretch was finished, I had lost all interest in attending the orgiastic poker party that precedes the Main Event. I intentionally skipped all the festivities and instead flew home to see my fiancée, to take my parents out for their anniversary, and to host my annual July 4th Bar-B-Que.

The July 4th BBQ, which I host annually at my parents house on Long Island, is a long-running institution for my group of friends. Filming this event would make for an interesting time-lapse feature, as the crowd and activities at the BBQ have steadily evolved over time. In summary, what began as an excuse for a group of yuppies to smoke weed and go swimming has become a trip to a day care facility. I think the children may have outnumbered the adults this year, but the BBQ was still fun, which I suppose is a testament to how old and solid the relevant friendships are. The BBQ was also an opportunity to continue another tradition, allowing some of my good friends to stake me for nominal amounts in the Main Event, which most of them enthusiastically did.

With the BBQ behind me and the Main Event already in progress, I flew back to Las Vegas the next day, in time to register for Day 1d, the last of the four Day 1’s. The flight to Vegas is becoming remarkably routine for me. It wasn’t long ago that I despised air travel, but I have grown to enjoy it in the same way I imagine my grandfather enjoyed riding the bus, which he did nearly every day of his life. We’re creatures of habit, and flying across the country is becoming one of my habits. Smushing myself into my preferred window seat, happily resigned to my tiny confines, I’ve learned to relax. Accompanied only by my headphones, a book and the droning of the airplane’s engines, I invariably drift off to sleep, the country’s mostly vacant flyover territory passing beneath me. Then I’m jolted back to reality by the announcement that we’ll be landing in Las Vegas soon.

When my flight landed, I walked out into the merciless Vegas summer sun and proceeded by cab directly from the airport to the Rio. Once there, I wheeled my luggage right up to the busy registration desk and was greeted by a smiling clerk at one of the fifteen registration windows. I pulled $10,000 in cash and tournament lammers out of my pocket along with my WSOP Edition Harrah’s card, handed the bundle to the clerk, and after all the Benjamins were double counted, claimed my seat. From there I wasted no time watching Day 1c in progress. Instead, I tucked my registration ticket into my back pocket and walked through the Rio, out its West entrance, through a parking lot, and into my digs for the duration of the Main Event: the Gold Coast.

The Gold Coast is not by any stretch “fancy.” Nor does it satisfy any of the various meanings of “high quality.” The accommodations at the Gold Coast are more accurately described as “decent,” and (more importantly for me on this particular trip) as “affordable.”  The Gold Coast prides itself on serving Vegas locals.  The food, drink and gamblin’ are all cheap at the Gold Coast.  Also, it’s located next to the Rio.  As I key-carded my way into my room, I noticed something immediately. It smelled. Not a fragrant smell; rather it was the faint remnants of a once ferociously foul odor. Its exact cause was indiscernible at this point, but I guessed that it was either the smell of thousands of snuffed cigarettes or a major plumbing reversal from about a month prior, or possibly both. It was hard to say. As I sat down to ponder the mystery stench, the bed groaned and sagged under my tired 180-pound frame. The Gold Coast charges me $30 per night.

For the record, I’ve included this last paragraph to dispel any lingering notions amongst my friends that I live a glamorous life.

It was early on Saturday night in Las Vegas, and I was there for business purposes. This did not rule out the possibility of being taken out for dinner, an offer which had been made by my Vegas-resident friends Jon and Jen. I accepted, and we all enjoyed a nice meal at a tex-mex joint west of the Strip.

Also in Vegas that particular weekend were two other friends of mine, Rob and Melissa. They are big UFC enthusiasts and they were attending a championship fight at Mandalay Bay that night. By the time dinner was over, so was the fight, so Jon drove us over to a bar at the MGM where Rob and Melissa were enjoying a post-fight beverage. We found them and listened as they spluttered and frothed on about what an amazing fight they had witnessed as Jon and I sat there somewhat dumbfounded. I think I spotted a bit of foam trickling from the corners of their mouths.

I’m not a big UFC guy. I’ve seen a grand total of one of these fights, on pay-per-view back when the sport first became prominent, and I wasn’t terribly impressed. But being in Las Vegas a lot, I can’t help but notice the impact of this growing sport on the city, which is clearly the world’s undisputed capital of UFC. There are always fights scheduled at one arena or another. More importantly, the fighters (and I’m guessing wannabe fighters) and fans are everywhere: you can’t go anywhere in Las Vegas without spotting one of these beefed up tattooed dudes with his entourage. Also, I’ve noticed that the crowd that follows this sport tends to be a bit… how to put this diplomatically… let’s just say that some of them own houses with wheels.

Apparently the title fight at Mandalay went the distance. Rob took some choice video of the moment of truth on his digital camera, which he proudly showed me. When the judges’ decision was announced, the ring announcer said something, then there was a dramatic pause. Then he announced the winner, who apparently was the underdog and who happens to be Melissa’s favorite fighter. The crowd erupted. Then the camera pans to a close up of Melissa, standing at Rob’s immediate right. Melissa is overwhelmed by the sheer enormity of the moment… and is crying. Hey Rob and Mel: I love you guys, and I wouldn’t put this information in print if I didn’t think you’d take my ribbing lightly. But you’re both a bit weird. I mean, I’d probably cry too if the New York Jets ever won the Super Bowl in my lifetime, but still… you’re weird.

It was approaching midnight at this point and it was time to rest up for the tournament. I bid all parties adieu, strolled out of the bar, deposited my half-drunk Heineken on top of a slot machine, made my way through the bustling MGM casino floor, waited on a very long cab line and hopped one back to the Gold Coast. As I crawled into my creaky bed, I surveyed my mental state: focused and a tad nervous.

Jonny Y and Sug D.  Post fight, pre tourney. (Photo courtesy of Robert Arreola)

Most of the vital skills needed for success in live poker now come quite naturally to me. For instance, I can casually yet precisely observe the other players at my table and get a good feel for their games through their appearance, demeanor and eventually their betting patterns. I can make these observations without being obvious, even while engrossed in conversation with the player next to me. It’s easy for me. I have no problem cataloguing the profiles of all my opponents in this manner and then using that information to my benefit. I don’t need any practice to do this.

Still, for big events like the WSOP Main, I will take extra steps to ensure I’m in the right mental state prior to the tournament. So when I woke up on Sunday, I instinctively went through a somewhat peculiar little routine, pacing around my smelly room and periodically stopping to exhort myself aloud in the mirror with nondescript blurtings like “c’mon!” and “let’s go,” accompanying each of these with the kind of hand gestures often used by NFL special teams coaches. After a few minutes of this, I felt I was ready to shower. And I said Rob and Mel were weird.

After I showered and dressed–topping my tasteful outfit of jeans, t-shirt and pumas off with my now-decrepit but still beloved “Sug D’s” sweatshirt–I realized that it was still over an hour away from “shuffle and deal” time. I filled much of the interim laying down on my back, wide awake but with my eyes closed. I’m not sure exactly what I was doing but I think those who do it regularly would probably classify it as meditation. Once kickoff was under 20 minutes away, I left my room, took the elevator downstairs, bought and consumed a piece of banana bread (I hate playing on a full stomach) with an iced coffee, and headed over to the Rio. After phone conversations with my most trusted confidants—Janeen and my father—it was showtime.

For big tournaments, another extra precaution I take is to arrive at my table at least five minutes before the scheduled start time. I do this so I can take stock of my opponents before the cards even get in the air. This includes attempting furtive glances at their registration cards as they hand them to the dealer so that I might be able to read their names. I do this because I rarely forget something I’ve read, and if you final tabled the big event at the LA Poker Classic in 2006 (a strong indicator that you know what you’re doing), chances are I will recognize your name from having seen it in Cardplayer magazine or somewhere on the internet. In this instance, I neither recognized anyone’s face nor their name in print. I was seated with eight players who were completely foreign to me.

My table was in the “Tropical Room,” which had been used mostly for single table satellites for the duration of the WSOP. A lot of people evidently had the same idea as me– spend the holiday weekend back home and fly in for the last day 1—and so the Tropical Room was pressed into service to accommodate the massive (over 2,200 person) field for Day 1d. This meant that my table would likely be broken pretty quickly as the field compressed itself into the massive main room. I settled in, popped in a toothpick and got ready. And then the cards were airborne.

At this point, I am going to do something I haven’t done on this blog in a long time: I’m going to go through some fairly in-depth discussion of tournament poker play. I have slacked in this area for a long time now for two related reasons: First, most of the situations I continually face in poker tournaments have become kind of routine for me; I’ve seen them all many times and I’ve thus lost interest in discussing them. Second, I don’t have a vivid recollection of most situations any longer. This is probably because (as I just mentioned) they’ve become so commonplace, and because I play so many tournaments. I have attempted to remedy this second factor in the 2008 Main Event by taking notes at the end of each level. I will now see if my scrawlings had the intended effect. Now is a good time to click on something else if you don’t want to hear about poker strategy.  The hands discussed are not a complete list of hands I played, they’re just the fraction of hands that I made notes about at the end of each level.

LEVEL 1 (blinds 50-100, stack size 20,000)

The first thing I noticed was that my table was pretty tough. I expected there to be one or two players who were completely lost, but I couldn’t find any at this table. That isn’t to say there were any superstars present, but there certainly were no pathetically easy marks. This was a bit disappointing. It would be convenient to say that this table composition was reflective of a recent overall increase in the average recreational player’s skill, but the sample size is really too small to make that conclusion.

Hand #1:

I’ve done nothing of import so far. I pick up pocket sevens under the gun and raise to 300. I get called by a guy in the cutoff and everyone else folds. The flop comes Q-9-x rainbow and I fire 450. The guy calls. The turn looks like a nice scare card for me, the ace of clubs. I fire one yellow chip, 1000. The guy calls. I’m done here unless I river a set of sevens. The river brings a blank and we check it down. I say “you win” and he tables QJ offsuit and drags the pot. I guess under the gun raises and scare cards do not mean much to this gentleman. 18,000.

Hand #2:

I pick up two black eights on the button. It is folded to me and I raise to 300. The small blind folds, but the big blind, who had been quiet until now, reraises to 1000. We’re way too deep to fold. I call. The flop comes 9-7-6 with two clubs, giving me an open ended straight draw with a backdoor flush draw. The big blind bets 1400 and I call. The turn is the jack of clubs. The big blind checks, I check behind. The river is the five of clubs, completing my straight but also putting four clubs on board. The big blind checks, and I check behind. He tables two red aces, and I turn over the winning hand, an eight high flush, saying “did I miss value on that river?” Much more on that topic later. 21,000.

For the rest of the level I successfully poke around with periodic raises and continuation bets. At the close of Level 1 I have 22,000.

LEVEL 2 (blinds 100-200, 22,000 chips)

Hand #3

The table is playing somewhat passively, most pots are opened for a raise, but there is relatively little squeezing or reraising. I decide to get a little tricky and openlimp the 8-7 of spades from under the gun. It gets folded all the way around to the small blind, who completes, and the big blind checks his option. The flop is a very enticing 4-6-9 with two spades. Pretty much the best flop imaginable. The blinds both check and I bet 500 into the 600 chip pot. The small blind folds but the big blind calls. The turn is a completely irrelevant red king. The big blind check/calls my 1200 chip bet, which is both a pot builder and a bluff, I suppose. Even with one card to come, I like my monster draw.

The river is a four, pairing the board and turning my once powerful draw into mush. With 2800 chips in the pot, the big blind now leads out for 1000, or about one-third of the money. I know exactly what this is. It’s a blocking bet with a weak made hand, probably a crappy nine or a six. Amateurs shouldn’t make obvious blocking bets into me. I raise. I quickly make it 3500 to go. To my surprise and dismay, Bob (I’d soon be learning his name) makes a nice call. I say “I flopped the world and bricked my draws” and turn over my eight-high. The big blind shows 9-3 and rakes a nice pot, having called down all three of my barrels, including a raise on the river.

The winner of this pot was a middle aged man who was now quite happy with himself. He finished stacking my chips, removed his sunglasses from his face and placed them on the table in front of him. Then, in a gesture that was probably designed to show that he knew that loudly gloating in front of your opponents is poor etiquette, he stepped away from the table. But not nearly far enough. After perhaps a four foot jaunt, he walked in a tight circle behind his chair, pumped his fist and said emphatically “good call Bob! Good call!!” Good call, Bob. 19,000.

Hand #4

I pick up 10-10 in middle position and raise to 550. I get four customers and the flop comes 6-6-4. I make a continuation bet and take it down. I’ve got 21,000 at the second break.

I’m happy that I have more than the starting stack, but I’m growing a bit frustrated and concerned that I can’t make a big hand that will garner me a bunch of chips.

LEVEL 3 (blinds 150-300)

Hand #5

I pick up my first big hand: aces. There are a few limpers and I raise it out of the small blind. No action. Shortly thereafter my table is broken and I’m moved to a different table in the Tropical Room. Later, Bob.  22,000.

Hand #6

My new table has a scraggly, half-deranged looking tall guy with a black goatee and long unkempt hair sitting to my right. I immediately target this guy as a possible source for the chips I’m so desirous of. He likes to openlimp from all positions, and seems content to bleed that way. He is also someone at least semi-famous in the poker world, as members of the vast media crew on hand continually come over to him for an update on his progress. Each time, he tells them he’s “grindin’ it out, man.” There’s no urgent need for me to figure out why this lousy player is famous, but I do briefly wonder.

I pick up the As8d on the button and it’s folded to scraggly in the cutoff. He raises to 900. Let’s see what kind of heat ol’ scraggs can handle. I re-pop it to 2600. The blinds fold but he calls without much thought. The flop comes down king high, all hearts, completely missing me and offering me roughly 0% odds of winning this one at showdown. Scraggs checks, and it’s time to bet and hope he hates the flop as much as I do. I bet 3500 and after a pretty long think, he folds. He’s been very chatty since I sat down and opines that his “pair was either way behind or up against a big draw.” I smile and nod. Something like that. 25,000

Hand #7

I pick up the KQ of clubs on the button and call a 900-chip raise from a player in middle position. He’s got quite a stack for this stage of the tournament, about double what I’ve got. We see the flop heads up and it’s is a nice looking Q-9-6 rainbow. He fires 1300 and I see no sense in raising. I call. The turn is a blank and I call another bet, 2500. The river is a card I don’t like, an ace, and now he moves another 3700 chips in. I am very tempted to call this bet, as a three barrel bluff makes some sense, but I deliberate for awhile and muck my hand. He collects the chips and says to no one in particular, “that ace was a bad card for me.” What he means is that he was leading all along and the ace killed his action (i.e., he flopped a set or held AQ). I have no idea whether to believe him or not. Back to 20,000, and pissed that I can’t make much headway.

Hand #8

An older guy who had been playing pretty normal, making 3x preflop raises, suddenly opens a pot for 5x, or 1500 chips. I’ve seen this one before. His hand might as well be face up—It’s a pocket pair, tens through queens. I’m inclined to just get out of his way but I look down and find the AK of clubs. Hmmm…

If he knows that I know his hand is face up, he will put me on AA or KK if I reraise. If he somehow thinks his odd 5x raise went unnoticed, he will still likely proceed with caution if I reraise, and I’ll have overcards. Let’s do it. I pause and flip four yellow chips in. “Reraise to four thousand.” It’s folded back to the raiser, and he instantaneously mucks two jacks face up, fixing me with a glance that says “you can’t trap me.” 22,000.

Hand #9

Scraggly limps under the gun and I have AQ offsuit. I make it 1050 to go. It’s folded back around to scraggly and he makes the call. The flop is Q-9-7 with two clubs (I have no clubs) and I bet 1500. Scraggly calls. The turn is a red six. Scraggly checks, and I decide to keep the pot small and check behind. The river is a non-club eight, putting four to a straight on the board, meaning that any hand with a ten or a five has now made a straight. Scraggly checks. And this brings me to the topic of value betting the river.

It is a basic poker axiom that the object of the game is to take the most chips possible on your winning hands and sacrifice the fewest chips possible (or win the hand by bluffing) on your losing hands. However, most no limit hold ‘em players blatantly ignore the first part of this equation in a certain situation. That situation is when they have a good but not great hand on the river. Early in their development, in order to simplify the game, most players learn to check behind on rivers such as the one I just described: they have top pair on a threatening board and their opponent has just checked to them on the river. The opponent could easily have a straight or two pair. He also could just as easily have top pair with a weaker kicker. Since we don’t know which it is, and we don’t love our hand, we teach ourselves to simply close out the betting by checking behind on the river. It’s the safe thing to do. But it also violates the precept that you should extract the most value from your good hands.

Making thin value bets on the river is the last piece of my game that has fallen into place. I’m not saying it’s the final piece, as I still have much to learn, but I have added the thin river value bet to my game within the past year or so. Surprisingly few players employ this strategy. This makes them easier to read. On most heads up hands, a bet on the river from the player in position can be only two things: a very strong hand or a bluff. The player who checked the river and then faces a bet has to decide whether to call and hope to snap off a bluff, or to fold (yes, I’m ignoring river checkraises). Adding thin value bets to the mix of possible hands held by the river bettor makes things considerably more complicated for guy who checked the river. Now the bettor can have three possible holdings: a big hand, a bluff, or a decent hand. Making this type of bet makes you much harder to read, and if done properly, will result in more chips being pushed your way when your opponents begin to call your river value bets loosely. Another side benefit of making thin value bets on the river is that you will be forced to show down fewer hands (since you are betting and winning more uncontested pots on the river), making your game less transparent overall.

Anyway, I choose to bet 2700 on this river, which is exactly the type of bet I’ve just written a short treatise on. Scraggly goes into a long, uncomfortable period of audible speculation. Finally, he gathers up the 2700 chips and says “I know you have a ten; show me your pocket tens!” and tosses them in. I show my AQ first and wait for his response. He blurts out “good!” and turns over the 5-4 of clubs for the bad end of the straight (with a flopped flush draw). Sigh. Good hand. Wait, did I just say that thin value bets on the river are smart? 16,000. Not happy.

Hand #10

The player to my left, a kid I have pegged as a tight player, raises to 800 under the gun. It’s folded to my big blind, and I’m holding AK offsuit.  I decide his range and my stack size are not right for a reraise, so I just call. The flop comes A-9-3 and I check/call a 1200 chip bet. The turn is a six and the action goes check/check. The river is another ace and it’s up to me. I’m either betting and getting action from KK through 10-10, a weaker ace, or a hand with a nine, or he has nothing and will fold to my bet. This is likely true regardless of what amount I bet, as long as its reasonable. So the time is right for a sizable value bet. Unfortunately I am suffering from some kind of brain fart and I throw in a fake block-bet of only 1200. He quickly calls and mucks his hand when he sees my trip aces. I have missed river value by betting a bad amount. Back to 20,000. Still not thrilled.

Hand #11

I pick up my second big hand of the day, two black kings in the small blind, but it’s folded around to me and I win only the big blind by raising. I have roughly 20,000 at the end of Level 3, which is the dinner break. I’m playing just fine, but I haven’t caught the kind of break that can make me rich. My stack is substandard, but what’re ya gonna do?

For dinner, I chose to get the hell out of the Rio and ate at the cafe at the Gold Coast. After scarfing that meal down, I returned to my room for another fifteen minutes of that meditation stuff. A few east coast phone calls later, it was back to work.

LEVEL 4 (blinds 150-300 + 25 ante, 20,000 chips)

Hand #12

I’m back at my old table and after folding a few hands I pick up pocket aces. Here we go. I raise it up to 850 and I get one customer, a woman seated a few seats to my left. The flop comes a little more coordinated that I’d like, J-9-7 with two diamonds (I’ve got no diamonds). I bet 1400 and am quickly called. The turn is another card I hate, a black queen. Still, I bet another 2300 and get called. The river completes the flush draw, a small diamond. Time for a final bet, 3500. Again I’m called. I table the aces and the woman mucks her hand. Cool. 28,000

Not long after that hand’s completion, my table was broken and I was moved into the main room. This new table was much more active than my last one, and the important characters were as follows. Four seats to my left, in the one seat, was a gentleman of undetermined European origin. He was wearing a cap and mirrored sunglasses. It occurred to me that he looked familiar. There was something about his face that was very familiar. I thought about it a bit it dawned on me. It likely had something to do with the abnormally long, sloping region between his nose and his upper lip (he could have grown one hell of a featherduster mustache). He looked like Kermit the Frog! Kermit turned out to be a hyperactive presence, he was involved in a ton of pots. After a few orbits I realized that Kermit lacked the selectivity of a good LAG, however. Kermit was sitting on a lot of chips and had come to play a ton of pots.  Let’s call him Kamikaze Kermit.

Two seats to my left was a player that I’m pretty sure was Scandinavian. I knew this from his accent and from the frequency with which he three-betted. I could tell that he was tough and was generally unafraid of tangling. I’m not a fan of these kind of guys for obvious reasons.

Finally, sitting two seats to my right there was a spewtard. Every now and then you will run across one of these guys in a tournament. They can be a huge pain in the ass if you don’t know how to combat them. They play as if they are programmed. In fact “spewbot” might be a better name for this kind of player. They are programmed to raise from the cutoff or the button every single time it is folded to them, no matter what two cards they are holding. This particular gentleman was raising to exactly 2.5x the big blind every time this occurred. This was an interesting development for me, because the spewtard’s button coincided with my big blind, and spewtard’s cutoff coincided with my small blind. This of course meant that he would be systematically attacking my chips for the rest of the night. After sitting through a few orbits at this table it was crystal clear that I would eventually have no choice but to battle the spewtard.

Hand #13

I pick up the Q-10 of diamonds and raise the Scandinavian’s big blind to 900. He calls and we see a flop of 8-7-4 with two spades. He checks and I check behind. The turn is a non-spade deuce and he leads out for 1200. I consider the situation and decide to raise to 3200. This is a horrible play because a good player would never make it. It makes no sense, because there is no hand that a good player would check behind on that particular flop and then raise for value on the turn. If a good player makes the nuts or flops a set on a super coordinated board like the one in this hand, he is almost never going to check the flop, he is going to start to build a pot. Still, the Scandinavian guy doesn’t know a thing about me because I’m new to the table and could be some random donkey, so this retarded play could actually work. And in fact it does. The Scandi looks utterly confused as he mucks his hand.

This stupid play worked because my opponent didn’t know that I wasn’t stupid.  Does that make sense? 29,000.

At the end of Level 4 I’ve bled away some chips and have 26,000. Not a good stack, but I’ve done reasonably well under the circumstances.

By this time it was after 10:00 PST and my cheering section on the east coast was ready for bed. I told Janeen and my dad that I’d text them the day’s final results and settled in for one more level.

LEVEL 5 (blinds 200-400 + 50 ante, 26,000)

Hand #14

I sit around quietly watching Kamikaze Kermit and the spewtard go at it for a few orbits, and then I decide that I’ve finally had enough of spewtard’s act. On my big blind, he raises to 1000 and I reheat him to 3400. My cards are irrelevant, but for the record they were the jack of clubs and the six of diamonds. Spewy calls the 3400. This is getting a little hairy. The flop is monochrome in clubs, king high. I have none of it except a jack high flush draw. I lead for 4700 and spewy reluctantly folds. 30,000.

Hand #15

It’s the very next hand and still spewbot hasn’t learned his lesson. It’s folded to him and he does what he’s programmed to: he tosses in another raise to 1000. I say “same bet” and make it 3400 to go. This time I have the K-8 of spades. Spewy folds. 32,000.

Hand #16

There’s about an hour to play. I lose some chips before winning my biggest pot of the night. Again, it’s against the same opponent.

It’s my button and spewy makes his programmed raise: 1000. I have the 8-6 of hearts and with position I like a call better than a reraise. I flip in the yellow chip. The flop comes down K-10-3 with two hearts. Spewy bets 1800 and I call. The turn is a blank and we both check. As the dealer burns and turns the river, I say to myself “can you just put a fuckin’ heart out there one time?!” He does, the nine of hearts is peeled. Spewy bets 2500 into my smallish flush. What’s my play?

Awhile back, I would have flat called. But as I’ve explained earlier, my new M.O. is to vacuum up every available chip. Value, value, value. The easy play here is to close the betting and call; instead I ponder spewy’s bet for a bit and raise to 5300. He is visibly disturbed by this bet, and I can tell it’s not an act, so I have no fear of a reraise. Spewy thinks it over for a couple of minutes and calls, looking rather pained about it. I flip over the winning hand and he mucks. 39,000.

Hand #17

There’s about two minutes left on the clock and the table is looking pretty weary. The end of Day 1 of the WSOP Main Event plays like a bubble; everyone is tired and wants very badly to play Day 2. I’m in the cutoff and will be raising any two cards if the action is folded to me. The action is in fact folded to me and I’ve got the 7-4 of clubs. I make it 1,200 to go. Unfortunately, the Scandinavian guy in the small blind knows exactly what I’m up to, and he makes it 4,200. I know he has nothing. One of my inner voices is urging a four-bet to 12,500, another inner voice wants to call and play a flop in position, but the voice that eventually wins says “just give it up and call it a night,” and that’s what I do. Stupid Scandis.

I ended Day 1 of the 2008 Main Event with 37,000 chips. This was a bit below average but was still a very playable stack.  I was never all in and I had never put anyone all in.  The first and last hand I made occurred in the last hour of play. It was an honest day’s work.

I bagged up my chips, collected my things, and ambled down the hall, silently picking my way through the throngs of adrenalized guys trading stories about their shared experience. I made it through the casino floor and out the Rio’s doorway. I had two days off before I’d be in action again, on Day 2b. It was a sweltering, unforgiving summer Sunday night in Vegas, the kind of night where heat continues to emanate from the baked pavement long after the sun has set. Still, it felt like too much effort to remove my sweatshirt. I left it on. I completed the short walk back to the Gold Coast, walked inside and wandered over to the bar. I ordered a $4.00 Becks from the past-her-prime barmaid, drained it and went upstairs to my stinky room to sleep.

Part II soon…

I was unable to make the donuts.  This was a vexing, unpleasant Day 2.  And it’s probably the last time I’ll use “make the donuts.”   I hope you enjoyed it; it’s now retired.

As in past years, I will provide a full writeup of the Main Event, so stay tuned.  

I finished Day 1 of the 2008 Main Event with 37,150 chips.  This is a decent stack but nothing special.  We’re still nowhere near the money, but at least I’m still in there.  I play Day 2b on Wednesday.

I guess I didn’t exactly make the donuts.  More like a couple of delicious donut hole munchkins.  I’ll take it.

I’m back in Vegas for the biggest day on the tounament poker calendar.  Time to play the Main Event.

This will be my fourth time in “the big one,” and many of my wide-eyed observations from my 2005 debut remain the same three years later.  My flight out here was once again filled with hopeful rounders.  Much of the airport chit-chat was poker related, and in an interesting twist, no fewer than three New Yorkers on my flight  remarked that I looked familiar to them.  I’m not sure if this is good or bad.  I didn’t recognize any of them.

Over at the Rio, the mob scene that is the WSOP prelims has grown into the rammed-to-the-gills freakshow otherwise known as the Main Event.  So in addition to the standard throng of degenerates, now thoughtfully added are a huge gambling trade show, long queues for autographs from the most famous of the degenerates, various celebrities holding court, and the general commotion of many thousand people hoping to either become or at least witness the coronation of the latest luckbox of the year.

I’m being a tad disparaging, but I truthfully love the Main Event.  I love it because it’s the best value of the year.  I love it because I’ve had a lot of success in this tournament in years past.  I love it because 2005’s version of this tournament made me believe.  And I love it because I feel poised to do something good again.

Here we go!