Finding My Inner Kamikaze–WSOP Part 1

Posted by davidzeitlin

Well, I’m back from Vegas for the time being. I’ve been having a hard time working up the motivation to write this entry, so forgive me if it sucks. Maybe once I get going it’ll start to flow. So, without further ado, here’s a recap of my stay in Vegas:

I had a bit of a wild weekend in New York and started the trip a day late, in a state of total sleep deprivation. Personally, fatigue is the worst thing for my game. I’m a complete idiot when I’m tired. I play worse tired than I play blind drunk. So it came as no surprise when I didn’t do anything in the $500 second-chance tournament on Monday, the day of my arrival. And to the disappointment of my friend Matt, who happened to be in Vegas on business, my fatigue also meant no partying on Monday night. I was sound asleep by 10:30 PST, and didn’t get out of bed until after 9AM on Tuesday. But I was well rested for my second-ever WSOP event, the WSOP Event #18, the $2000 Pot Limit Hold ‘Em tournament on Tuesday.

Just an hour before the tournament started, I felt a burst of nervous energy. Something about the atmosphere at the Rio’s bustling, colossal WSOP area is kind of overwhelming. Looking around and seeing literally hundreds of recognizable players, I felt a nagging doubt that I belonged there, and it wasn’t going away. It occurred to me that it was a familiar feeling. I used to experience the same sensation before the start of a big, standardized exam, like the LSATs. And for good reason: poker tournaments bear something in common with those tests; they’re really a long series of rapid-fire multiple choice questions. Except you’re gambling, not filling in little circles with a #2 pencil. And if you’re me, that means fun. The start of the tournament couldn’t come soon enough. And when it did, just as I did when I took the LSATs, I calmed down.

The tournament drew 590 entrants, and first place was $311,000 plus a WSOP bracelet. The smallest prize at the final table would be $26,000. Not child’s play. I started out playing very tight, protecting my 2000 chips by entering very few pots. I took a few stabs here and there, and on one occasion flopped a set, which enabled me to pick up a decent pot. Still, in the middle of the third blind level (50-100), about 2.5 hours into the event, my stack had drifted down to the 1500 area.

The most interesting thing about my tournament so far was the player sitting to my immediate left: it was a gentleman in his 50’s with a mostly bald dome, with his remaining locks pulled into a tiny ponytail. He sported a mustache and tinted glasses and I pegged him as an ex-hippie type. It’s hard to put a finger on it, but his countenance was that of an east-coaster, not a Las Vegas resident. He looked less like a poker player than someone you might find sitting at the counter at a diner on Northern Boulevard. I would soon find out that his name was David “The Rabbi” Danheiser (he provided me with his business card stating same), and he was a very chatty fellow.

I normally avoid conversing at the poker table, but that was not an option with Rabbi, who, it turns out, was not an actual rabbi, but was a very nice guy. He was a real old-schooler, a regular on the poker circuit since the days way before poker was chic. Rabbi’s best game is triple draw lowball, and he has worked as a prop both live and online. He knew Stu Ungar in his “Stuey the Kid” days, Lederer in his fat bearded days, Mike Sexton in his pre-corporate days, and pretty much everyone else. He dished the dirt on a lot of well-known pros and we talked about a lot of other things, including New York (I was right, Rabbi is originally from Queens), the strip clubs in Tunica, Mississippi, and of course, his historic bad beats. I later did some homework on Rabbi. He was not full of shit, his resume includes tournament cashes that date back to at least the mid-80’s, but he has very few large scores to his credit. And from what I could gather during my few hours of play with him, this was because he was a very solid player, but one that lacked the inner kamikaze that all poker champions have, and he seemed somewhat aware of it. Perhaps this is why he described himself as a “poker coach” rather than a professional poker player. Either way, I was happy to meet him. If you ever end up reading this, you’re the man, Rabbi.

Back to the tournament. With my attention to detail somehow undiminished by Mr. Rabbi’s constant chatter, I noticed that the player to my immediate right was raising a lot of pots in late position. On my button, this player raised the max, to 350. I held pocket fives and I figured it was ahead of his range. Thinking I’d pick up a few hundred chips, I reraised the max, leaving me with only a few hundred behind. The blinds both folded and to my surprise, the loose guy in the cutoff said “lets just put it all in.” I was committed, so I called and was very relieved to see him table AQ. The board didn’t improve his hand, and I doubled up to a healthy stack size of approximately 3200. Nice.

My next big hand occurred one level later, when I was in the small blind with the QJ of diamonds. A player in early position called 200 and two other players trailed in. I completed from the small blind, and Rabbi checked his big blind. The flop was a pleasing QQ3 rainbow. I checked, and so did everyone else. The turn was a J, making my hand a virtual lock. I checked again, and again, so did everyone else. The turn was an inconspicuous looking 6. Now I led out for 600, hoping that perhaps someone else was slowplaying a queen. It was folded to a player in middle position, who began to contemplate and play with his chips. Hmmm. I tried to look as impassive as possible while I prayed that he’d raise. After a little while, he did exactly that, making it 1800. This left him with perhaps 2000 behind. Having someone raise your river bet when you’re holding the nuts is a good thing. It was folded to me, and I pretended to ponder the situation for about 20 seconds before reraising all-in. My opponent wasted no time in calling and I put him out of his misery by flipping my hand face up immediately. He showed pocket sixes, he’d rivered a full house–then dejectedly left the table as the dealer shipped me his entire stack. I was off to the races.

My stack size made a variety of new plays possible, and I employed one the next time I was in the big blind. It was folded to the cutoff, who raised to 600, and the small blind called. I looked down and found Q8 offsuit, but my actual holding was virtually irrelevant. I sensed weakness in the cutoff and the small blind, so I repopped it, making it 2500 to go. Both players instantly folded. I had employed my first successful squeeze play in a big live tournament. This is a move I would not have conceived of as recently as six months ago, but I have developed my game a great deal since then. Between all the books I’ve read, the instruction I’ve received online, and the thousands of hands I’ve played in that time, I have learned to recognize spots where I can accumulate chips, which is what the early stages of these tournaments are all about. And this Q8 reraise was one such hand. I was very satisfied with this play. It felt like a “coming of age” sort of hand. But it might pale in comparison to what came next.

The blinds had just been raised to 150-300 and I was sitting on about 6000 chips. I had 99 in middle position and I raised to 800. It was folded to the player on the button, a kid who looked like he was about 24 years old, and he thought for a few seconds before separating 8 black chips from his stack of about 4200 and forcefully slamming them into the pot in a single vertical pile. This made an audible thud. The blinds both folded. Next came the flop: JJ6 with two hearts. I led out for 1400, and the button wasted no time in moving all in. Yikes. I was faced with a big decision. A pall came over the table as I began to ponder what the correct course of action was. Even Rabbi fell silent.

Fortunately, I was able to consider this situation with extreme clarity. First, I asked myself if this player had a jack. No. AJ, KJ, QJ and J10 were all very unlikely preflop calling hands with the button’s stack size. AJ might move in preflop or fold, but it probably would not call. The other jack hands were too speculative to call 1/5 of one’s stack with. Did he have a pair higher than my nines? Probably not. Most of these hands would reraise preflop. But perhaps he had slowplayed KK or AA? I discounted this possibility because of what I perceived as a physical tell. When the kid on the button slammed his chips in preflop, I read this as weakness. Why would he do this with a big pair? Players trapping with monster hands do not call attention to themselves preflop. The chip-slam felt more like the culmination of his decision to proceed with a borderline calling hand. So what did this kid have? In my opinion, either a big heart draw (e.g. AhQh) or a middle pair (1010, 99, 88, 77). I knew I’d be in deep trouble if I called and lost, and I wanted to be sure about making this difficult call. I looked at the kid, but he was not offering up any information. I counted out my chips. I’d have about 2000 left if I called and lost. I had to call.

After about 60 seconds total, I slid my chips forward and said “I call.” Before any hole cards were exposed, I saw a look of dismay come across the kid’s face, and I knew I was ahead. I got on my feet and triumphantly revealed my hand first, picking my pocket nines up off the felt, inverting them and slapping them down on the table. The kid also stood up, shook his head, and showed 88. At least three other players muttered some combination of “good call” or “what a call” as the dealer produced the turn and river, neither of which were an 8. As I raked the pot, Rabbi said “Great call. I think I’m gonna be sweating you at the final table tomorrow.” From your mouth to Adonai’s ears, buddy.

Only a couple of hands later, they broke my table. As I was racking my chips, the kid I had busted on the 99 vs. 88 hand approached me. “How did you make that call?” he asked, a look of combined resignation and respect etched on his face. I went through the analysis above, making sure to mention the chip-slam preflop call as a factor. Something about picking up that information and then relaying it so quickly afterward filled me with a sense of pride, and I felt like a seasoned tournament pro rather than the rookie that I am. It was indeed a nice call, and it was a perfectly logical one. I bid Rabbi and company farewell and found my new seat.

I hurried over to my new table and as I unracked my chips, out of the corner of my eye I saw someone pointing at me. At first I ignored him, but he continued to gesture at me and yell “hey buddy!” Huh? I looked over at him. It was the WSOP Main Event’s reigning champion, Joseph Hachem, seated two tables over. I locked eyes with him, completely puzzled as to why he would want David Zeitlin’s attention. “You dropped a chip over there,” he said in his Aussie accent. Sure enough, there it was lying on the floor. A single green chip. I placed it in my pile, thanked Mr. Hachem, and got back to business.

At my new table, which was adjacent to a set of bleachers filled with spectators, the only face I recognized was that of Simon “Aces” Trumper, a highly-regarded English pro who I’d seen on TV a couple of times. Based on the action through the first couple of orbits, I determined that he was playing pretty tight, but was inclined to protect his big blind. The first hand I played at this new table saw me raise with 88, but I laid down the hand when I got reraised. By this time Matt had arrived to support me, camera in hand. I saw that he had found a prime spot in the bleachers.

Just before the dinner break I picked up pocket jacks in the cutoff and made my standard raise to 800. The only caller was Trumper, who was in the big blind. The flop was a good one: J 9 4 with two hearts. Trumper checked, and I figured that I could win a huge pot by making a continuation bet that he might checkraise. I bet 1300, but Simon did not feel like cooperating. He quickly folded. This was a shame, because he gave all his chips to someone else a few minutes later, on the last hand before the dinner break. When we broke for dinner, over half the field had been eliminated, and my stack of approximately 10k was in the top 10% of those remaining. Matt and I watched some of the MLB all-star game and ate burgers while waiting for the action to resume.

When it did, I was in for a treat: Simon Trumper’s seat was filled by the reigning Player of the Year, Men “the Master” Nguyen, who had about 6000 chips. As he arrived, he was greeted by cheers from the bleachers, and he responded by serenading his fans with one of his trademark sayings: “All you can eat, baby!”

I immediately learned that all the rumors about Men were true. Yes, he talks constantly. Yes, he drinks Corona after Corona (after Corona after Corona) while he plays. Yes, he refers to himself in the third person. And yes, he treats all dealers like shit.

The blinds had now been raised to 200-400, and while I was in good shape, all raised pots were starting with at least 2000 in them, and I was only a few big hands away from going broke. It was a treacherous situation, and things did not start off well for me. Over the course of the next 45 minutes, I raised three times and got reraised all three times. I laid down every time. On the final one, I raised on the button with Q-4 to 1200, and the big blind went all in for a total of only 3500. I was getting 2-1 to call, which is normally automatic, but I considered my stack size. The blinds were going up in a moment, to 300-600. If I folded, I’d still have 8000. If I called and lost, I’d be down to 5600. I took the wussy way out and folded to ensure that I’d still have reraise fold equity. I noticed a couple of puzzled looks from players around the table, who undoubtedly were telling themselves that I was the type of nit who didn’t understand pot odds. But they’re wrong. And the next hand I would play would probably be my best moment as a poker pro.

The blinds were still 200-400 and I picked up the Ak10c in the cutoff. It was folded to me, and I decided the hand was worth a raise, so I made it 1100 to go. I got called by an older, tight player in the small blind and also by Men the Master in the big blind. I no longer liked my A10 at all. The flop came down: king of diamonds, king of spades, 8 of diamonds. Men checked, I checked, and the button checked. The dealer dealt the turn: 4 of diamonds, making 3 suited cards. I held the ace of diamonds but otherwise had no part of the board at all. Men led out, making a bet of 2500, which he placed in front of him in 5 stacks of five black chips.

I had only a split second to consider my course of action. Something told me to raise, and raise big. At the time, I could not put my finger on why I needed to raise here, it was a purely instinctive move. It just felt like the kind of move that someone who was going to make the final table would execute. There was absolutely no way my ace high was the best hand at the moment, but there I was announcing “raise pot.” I waited for the dealer to tell me what the maximum raise was, and then I pushed the chips forward: 8200, which put me all in.

This was a WSOP event, not a $100 sit-n-go or a $50 rebuy at the Ace Point Club. What was I doing? This was by far the ballsiest (semi) bluff I had ever made. There were my chips, my $2000, my guts, sitting in little multicolored piles on the felt in front of my expressionless face. What did I just do? I clenched my toothpick, crossed my arms, and laid them on the table’s edge. Men fixed upon me a look of disgust.

But it was not Men’s turn to act. The older guy on the button had the action. And he clearly had a hand, a big hand. I know this for certain because he took a very, very long time to act. He inhaled deeply. Then he looked at his chips. Then at me. Then at the piles of chips in front of me. Then at nothing. Then he re-checked his hole cards. Then he exhaled. Then, once again, he looked things over very slowly. His chips, me, my chips, into space. Fold, jackass! Then the deep inhale and long exhale once again. This went on for about three minutes (not an exaggeration) as I sat stone still, save for a few involuntary gulps, writhing in agony on the inside. This man either held trip kings or a made flush, there was no doubt about it. Finally, after the three tortuous minutes had expired, the old guy removed the chips protecting his hole cards and slid them forward just a little bit. I remained impassive but my heart was pounding out a bassa nova under my sweatshirt. The dealer collected the old dude’s cards and added them to the muck. Ahhh.

Next it was Men’s turn. He took a much shorter time to act, as he had apparently made his mind up during the old guy’s interminable delay. Men flashed me a ten and then a king as he mucked them. Yessssssssssssssssssssss.

I couldn’t conceal a smile as I scooped the pot. What the hell had I just done? In retrospect, I had made a very smart bluff. While the call with 99 was thoroughly reasoned through and made based on a long, logical analysis and this play was made on pure instinct, both were equally sound. The logic on this hand goes as follows: The board was Kd, Ks, 8d, 4d. Because I held the ace of diamonds, it was impossible for either of my opponents to hold the nut flush (in retrospect, I remember reading about this type of bluff on a 3-suited board in both the Omaha section of Super System 2 and on Daniel Negranu’s blog). I had raised preflop, and most of the full house hands (e.g. K8, K4) were hands that were unlikely to call a preflop raise. At the same time, the strongest king, AK, would likely have reraised preflop, so I could rule that hand out. The strongest possible hands were weak kings and non-nut flushes. The dangerous possibilities were really only 88 and 44. And as I stated above, this was a major, large buy-in tournament, a fact which was actually working in my favor, players do not like to bust out of major tournaments, which makes it much harder to call without a super-strong hand.

At the time, I was just happy I had won the hand, but now, I am quite proud of this bluff. It shows that my instincts might be as just as sharp as my ability to reason. In contrast to the 99 call, I had only a few seconds to decide on this play, and I chose correctly. After I raked the chips, I turned to the player to my right and deadpanned: “I just bluffed Men the Master.” This turned out to be a mistake, as he was Vietnamese and probably staked by Men. Oh well. I waited about two hands, then went over to Matt, who was right behind Men in the bleachers. He high fived me as I told him and everyone else around him: “I just bluffed Men the Master with total air!”

The blinds had increased to 300-600 when I next got involved. Men, sitting on about 10K, raised in early position to 1800 and I chose to flat call in the big blind with a pair of kings. The flop came QJ3. I checked, and so did Mr. Master. The turn was a blank–a five, and once again I checked, and so did Men. The river was another jack. This time I bet 3500 and Men quickly called. I showed my kings, Men showed pocket tens, and I won the pot. Men ridiculed my play, asking me if I “thought he would lay down tens,” indicating that I could have stacked him by getting all his chips in preflop. As it was, I had nicely increased my stack. So sowwy, Mista Masta.

But make no mistake about it: Men Nguyen is an awesome player. He would devour me if we sat together for a long time. I saw two examples of his expertise. Both hands took place on the tournament bubble, only a few spots from the money. On the first hand, Men made a standard raise in late position, and the big blind, a young hyperaggressive player, reraised enough to put him all in. Men the Master called in an instant, flipping open QJ before the young player could move his chips in. As the big blind timidly revealed his 84 offsuit, a failed bubble power play, Men cackled and said “you think Men da Master going to lay down to you? You think I care about two thousand dollars? I’m here to win baybee.” He had sniffed out the attempted power play before it even happened. His QJ held up.

The next instance took place only a few hands later, when I was again in the cutoff on Men’s big blind. I once again held A10 offsuit, and I made a standard raise, which represented almost half of Men’s stack, and Men called. The flop came all rags, nine high, and Men went all in for about 2/3 of the pot. I wasn’t going to fold to what looked like a desperation stop-and-go play, so I called. Men showed the 9-5 of diamonds, turned two pair, and once again doubled up. I have no idea how or why he called off a third of his stack with a trash hand, but it worked out very nicely for him. He obviously could somehow sense that all I held were high cards and not a big pair, and therefore knew that his 9-5 wasn’t a big underdog.

Despite taking this small hit, I was the second chip leader at the table. The only player with more chips than me was the player three seats to my right. He was an overweight blond guy with a goatee, and I had him pegged as a weak-tight amateur who was just happy to be there. He was raising a lot preflop and taking down a lot of uncontested pots, but I was quite positive that he had very little experience playing high stakes tournaments. I knew this because of his skittish demeanor; he looked like a cat in a very loud room. If there was a piece of furniture he could crawl under, he’d have done it. Also, his hands were shaking uncontrollably. His case of the shakes became even more exaggerated on one particular occasion when he picked up a big hand and reraised Men the Master.

Anyway, on my big blind, with the blinds now at 400-800, and with the tournament a mere 2 spots from the bubble, Mr. Skittish raised to 2400 on my big blind. It was folded to me. I had J3 offsuit.

I was about to fold when out of nowhere, in the auditorium that is my brain, one or two brain cells in the back row politely stood up to ask a question. I gave them the floor. “Are you here to cash, or are you here to win this event?” they asked. “Are you guys nuts? I have jack-three!” I replied. “So what!” came their comeback. They were getting increasingly agitated “You need to show this douchebag who’s boss! We think you oughta reraise!” I dismissed their query. What in the world would I do if this guy called or re-reraised? But before I knew it, some other brain cells had joined them in support. Uh oh. There suddenly was a torrent of support for the two renegade cells. Then, half my brain was chanting “raise pot, raise pot, raise pot!” All of this took place within 3 seconds, of course.

Next, I heard my voice saying “I reraise the pot.” The two rebel brain cells had won. Then, I looked on helplessly as my right hand counted out 6000 chips and shoved them forward. The next thing I could feel was my stomach turning, because Mr. Skittish quickly called. Thanks to those two bastard brain cells, I had just committed half my stack against the only player at the table that could bust me. Out of position. With J3 offsuit. I wanted to kill myself, starting with Tweedle Dee and Dum, as I waited for the flop.

It came J-10-4 rainbow. I had no idea what the hell this guy might flat call my bubble resteal attempt with, but now there was no turning back. I wasn’t going anywhere with top pair (3 kicker!), so I moved all in (the pot was larger than my stack at this point) and prayed. My genitals ceased to exist as the fat goateed dude rocked back in his chair and frowned. Then he leaned forward and squinted at the board. Then he rocked back again. What the fuck? Be scared. Go away. Finally, he shook his head and folded.

I raked the huge pot and my testicles descended to their regular position. After stacking all my new chips and folding my next hand, I was overcome with giddiness. I got up and ran over to Matt on the rail and gave him a couple of “jackhammers,” our traditional celebratory dance, which is executed by pumping both fists and one foot downward simultaneously. It is normally reserved for game winning home runs and fits of drunken debauchery. But after that crazy kamikaze resteal gone awry/shove-and-pray routine, the jackhammer was completely apropos. Five minutes later, the tournament bubble burst. With 54 players remaining, I was third on the leaderboard. Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!

To be continued.

Bittersweet.

Posted by davidzeitlin

I’m still recovering from my two day whirlwind in the $2000 Pot Limit tournament. I took a lot of notes and my buddy Matt took a lot of pics, so i’ll write great rundown of the whole thing when i’ve got my head straight.

Right now, I’m proud of finishing 12th. More specifically, I’m proud of making no mistakes through 17 hours of poker, proud of only having to win 2 coin flips the whole way, proud of one very difficult call, proud of running an unlikely bluff on Men Nguyen, and proud to have cashed in my first two WSOP tournaments.

But i’m also bitterly disappointed. Disappointed that I came so close and couldn’t close the deal. And disappointed that I got outplayed on a very crucial hand. It’s been haunting me. Out, out damn spot!

My plan for today is to skip the $2500 Shorthanded event, and play the $500 second chance tournament. Then tomorrow I’ll get back to business in the $2000 No Limit event.

And here’s a pic of me after moving all in vs. Men the Master Nguyen (thanks Matt):

Get your “refresh button” fingers ready (and cross them)

Posted by davidzeitlin

The 2006 WSOP $2,000 Pot Limit Hold ‘Em Event played from 590 players down to 22 today. Yours truly sits in 9th place.

Play will resume at 5:00PM EST today. Tune in to Cardplayer.com and follow my progress!

I obviously have a lot to say about this tournament, but right now I absolutely have to get some sleep. Check out the live updates log from yesterday, because Men the Master was my bitch.

Uncle Sug Hits Vegas

Posted by davidzeitlin

I became an uncle on Saturday morning. My sister had a 9 lb. baby boy. He’s a cute little mushball, and his name is Ezra Arthur Mellor. It’s the first grandchild for my parents and everyone is very excited. And of course, Uncle Sug will teach Ezra how to play cards as soon as the little fella can read.

As for me, I’m out in Vegas right now. I played the WSOP’s daily $500 second chance tournament yesterday and didn’t make a dent. I decided to crash, and I’m heading into the $2000 Pot Limit Hold ‘Em event on ten hours’ sleep.

And now for an anecdote from the $500 tourney:

I found my seat and the tournament began. After a few hands were played, the player directly across from me arrived and sat down. I immediately recognized him as Eric Haber, a.k.a. “Sheets,” my PokerXFactor mentor. Any doubt about his identity was removed when, on the very first hand after he sat down, I heard his familiar voice yelling “misdeal! I have 3 cards.” He did indeed have three cards, and the dealer declared a misdeal. Everyone returned their cards to the dealer. I checked mine to see what might have been. Pocket aces. The only aces I would see all day. Thanks, Sheets.

Mr. Mojo Rizen

Posted by davidzeitlin

Just a couple of days ago, one of the instructors at PokerXFactor, Eric Lynch, a.ka. “Rizen” (pronounced ‘RIZZ-en’) finished third in the $1,500 Pot Limit Hold ‘Em Event at the 2006 WSOP, winning over $100,000. link to results

This is great news not only because Eric is a superb instructor (PokerXFactor is currently offering a free Rizen video, check it out), but also because he seems like a genuinely nice guy.

It’s also very encouraging news to me personally because Eric Lynch is relatively new to high stakes tournaments. Through hard work, mastery of no limit concepts and a good deal of natural ability, he has risen (no pun intended) to the top in a very short period of time. I believe he officially “went pro” around the same time as me, and his success so far is astounding.

I am a realist. I can’t touch Rizen; he’s a ridiculously good player on a plane I can only view from below. But his story is an inspiration to me, and I hope to follow in his footsteps, only a bit slower. Oh, and Eric Lynch’s poker career, along with numerous valuable insights, have been chronicled very nicely in his blog. Check it out, it’s a great read.

Congrats Rizen.

Rewind: May 2006, Part 2–Turning Stone

Posted by davidzeitlin

A mere one day after returning home from Vegas, I set off for my next poker meet: The Turning Stone Classic at Turning Stone Casino in Verona, New York. It was a familiar venue, and not only because I’d played poker there in March.

My first visit to Turning Stone took place in the fall of 1993, at the start of my junior year at Cornell. Word had filtered through campus: a new Indian casino had opened its doors less than two hours away. This was very exciting news. Still more exciting was the news that the casino’s doors were open to anyone over the age of 18. The reason why New York State’s gambling laws (i.e. 21 to gamble) were inapplicable at the new casino was a mystery, but it really didn’t matter to me. All I knew was I was gonna go gamble, and I wasn’t gonna have to use my very amateur fake drivers’ license to do it. One weeknight, selected at random, my buddy Sherm and I hopped into my car and headed off on the very first gambling junket of our lives.

Upstate New York is filled with nice places. These include bucolic expanses like the Catskills and the Finger Lakes Region, charming towns like Saratoga Springs, Lake George and Cooperstown, and crusty old industrial cities like Syracuse, Schenectady and Rochester. But Verona, where Turning Stone is located, is none of the above. Turning Stone Casino is instead situated just to the side of the New York State Thruway’s most boring stretch. It is quite literally in the middle of nowhere. This, of course, was of little significance to me and Sherm. We merrily made our way north from Ithaca to Syracuse, then turned east on the dark vacant highway towards our destination, our pockets containing an unusually large number of $20 bills.

Back in 1993, on the side of the road, an actual turning stone, a large rock, illuminated by footlights, mechanized in some manner so that it rotated, presided over the entrance to the Turning Stone Casino’s parking lot. Recognizing this wondrous landmark as our destination, I pulled my car in and found a space in the surprisingly small lot. Sherm and I hopped out of the car and hurried towards the strangely nondescript building that housed the new casino. Inside, the building was also nondescript, more reminiscent of an Elks Lodge than the busy, ornate Atlantic City casinos I was used to.

We found the casino floor and saw that it offered a grand total of about 30 table games. It also had a large bar set up at one end, but Sherm and I discovered that no alcohol was being served (apparently part of the casino’s deal with New York State, allowing 18+ gambling). Noticeably absent were the noisy rows of slot and video machines prevalent at every other casino I’d ever seen. Also conspicuously missing was the throng of excited customers. There were maybe 120 people in the joint. This was of absolutely no import. Sherm and I were wild-eyed, excited and nervous as we fidgeted with real clay casino chips for the very first time.

The rest of the trip went exactly as expected. First we “scouted” for a good blackjack table. I don’t recall what the “scouting” was expected to accomplish beyond making us more excited about finally plunking down our money. Then we sat down at a $2 table and proceeded to lose about $40 each. We declared ourselves finished there and moved to a $5 craps table. That didn’t go any better, and after about 2 hours, Sherm and I exited the casino each having lost about $80, which is a lot of money when your average cost per meal is less than $5.00.

Still, the experience was strangely invigorating, and as we pulled back onto the highway, I was replaying the blackjack hands and craps rolls in my mind, trying to envision what I could have done differently to alter the result. But then again, I also felt very guilty about my maiden casino voyage. After maybe 5 minutes of driving, I turned to Sherm and said “you know, we just lost $80 of our parents’ hard-earned money.” “I know,” Sherm replied. “Sick.” “Yeah, I feel like shit, it’s disgusting,” I continued. We drove along in quiet contemplation for about a minute before I broke the silence. “So when are we going back?” The answer was ‘in about a month,’ and I believe the results were similar.

Now it’s 2006, and some things have changed at Turning Stone. The illuminated rock at the entrance is gone. A hotel, spa and golf course have been added. The casino now features a poker room (hence this blog entry, I’m getting to the point, don’t worry). And the proprietors have secured a license to install video machines. As a matter of fact, the casino in its current form is predominantly video machines, with very few table games.

On that topic, there is a widely accepted psychological theory that there are two different types of problem gamblers. The first is the “action” gambler. This type of gambler craves the tactile sensations associated with gambling: holding the cards, shaking the dice, writing down the roulette results. This gambler thinks he or she can achieve the impossible, that he or she can “beat the game.” These people are predominantly male, and they favor table games.

The other type of gambler is the “escape” gambler. This person wants to forget the rest of their life and lose themselves for awhile. These people are predominantly female, and they favor slot machines and video games. And Turning Stone has today found its niche with escape gamblers. The place is always rammed full of people staring blankly at the monitors in front of them, lost in the flicker of light, light years away from the cold, boring, painful lives they live away from the glare. As you might guess, I find the 2006 Turning Stone a rather depressing place.

Many things about Turning Stone remain the same as they were in 1993. The place is still in the middle of nowhere. It’s still a rinky-dink operation. Rooms cost $75 per night, and the rate is the same on weeknights and weekends. $5 blackjack and craps are always offered, even on weekend nights. The nicest restaurant on the premises would probably rank fourth on my block at home. In both its 1993 and 2006 incarnations, nothing about the Turning Stone facility feels like a casino except the casino area itself.

But for the purposes of this blog entry, the most important similarity between 1993 Turning Stone and 2006 Turning Stone is the legal gambling age. The place is still dry, you can’t get any alcohol anywhere, and you still can gamble as long as you can prove that you’re 18 years of age. And that had a profound effect on the 2006 Turning Stone Poker Classic.

As I’ve mentioned before, the world of online poker is a very young one. There are thousands of successful high stakes players in their young twenties and late teens. There are even a few 15 and 16 year olds with more skill (and money) than a solid player like me could ever fathom. And the hordes of young online players are able to communicate with one another through online message boards like 2+2 and PocketFives. And, naturally, they are all eager to square off in the real world, to play “brick and mortar” poker with one another. And the Turning Stone Casino, in late May of 2006, offered them that opportunity.

By late March, the online message boards were lit up with plans for meet-and-greets, challenges, and juvenile threats of “ownership” at the ‘Stone. By early May, it had become clear that this would be an unusually well-attended event. And on May 15 hundreds of poker-obsessed kids from all over the country, many of whom were under 21 years of age, flew and/or drove long distances so they could all meet in Verona. They descended upon Turning Stone for what could be accurately billed as the “underage WSOP.” The Turning Stone hotel apparently ran out of rooms. No matter to these kids: all this required was a post to one of the message boards seeking a space on another player’s floor.

Having booked this tournament two months prior, I arrived on May 16th and checked into my room. Then I made my way downstairs. Gazing around Turning Stone’s poker room at the overflowing mass of adolescent humanity, I was an old man in a sea of baby-faced poker savants. The action was fast and furious, and the stakes did not match the ages of the participants. Throughout the room, like Sherm and I thirteen years earlier, enthusiastic kids were experiencing their very first real live gambling. But instead of risking 80 of their parents’ dollars, many of these kids were sitting behind towers of $100 and $500 chips. It was money they had earned playing poker online.

Watching a pimply-faced 18 year old kid calmly call a $1200 flop bet with only a gutshot straight draw is pretty extraordinary, but something else about the scene at Turning Stone made a more lasting impression, and I think it says something about the current state of poker, and something about the nature of the game in general.

As I looked around the room, I noticed that a disproportionate number of the young men in the room (I’m discounting the handful of women for now) suffered from an obvious affliction of some sort. Some were missing limbs, some had a condition which had stunted their growth, some were morbidly obese. There were an unusual number of wheelchairs in the room. But even many of the able bodied kids had another readily identifiable issue: they were nerds. All manner of geeks were present. In short, this was not an attractive collection of people.

Contemplating the assembled mass, it occurred to me that poker and the internet had joined forces to create a real life Revenge of the Nerds.

Poker is a very competitive endeavor. Doyle Brunson has attributed his poker success to the training he received, in the form of competitive athletics, as an adolescent. And poker does bear a resemblance to certain sports. Like many sports, poker is geared towards players who are able to shape an opponent’s behavior through sheer willpower. Of course, poker differs from those sports in that one must be physically capable of competing to participate in the sport, but not at the poker table.

Physically speaking, there are no prerequisites in poker; the playing field is level. Anyone with some cash can sit down and play. But which individuals are most likely to turn to poker to satisfy their competitive desires? The answer: those who are incapable of or have been discouraged from competing in other arenas.

A short, fat, uncoordinated kid cannot be the star of his high school basketball team; he’d be laughed off the court if he even tried out for the team. But that same short, fat, uncoordinated kid can teach himself to play poker well. And if that short, fat, uncoordinated kid has a good intellect, and if he practices enough, he might even develop into a dominant, fearsome poker player. And with the advent of online poker, this exact scenario is playing itself out all the time. Doyle Brunson had to drive from game to game over the course of many years to hone his chops. A modern-day Doyle only needs to sit his fat ass down, turn on his computer, log onto his favorite poker site, open eight tables and settle in. Instant experience.

Fat Billy may not have scored 25 points last night. Fat Billy might not be dating the homecoming queen. Fat Billy might have no friends. But Fat Billy has more money in his bank account than the homecoming queen’s entire family. And Fat Billy has achieved a sort of national fame in certain internet circles. And Fat Billy makes grown men cry on a nightly basis, without ever leaving his bedroom. Fat Billy was at Turning Stone. Looking for his pound of flesh.

Having sized up my opposition for the next few days, I decided I’d play the $300, $500 and $1000 NLHE events. The kids were as good as advertised; all three tournaments were tough sledding all the way. Somehow I ended up cashing in the $300 and $500 events, but despite over 20 hours of hard work, all I had to show for my troubles on the eve of my departure was a few hundred dollars profit.

So I took a break from the tables and drove 40 minutes into Syracuse and treated myself to a sumptuous dinner at the Dinosaur Bar-B-Q. My last visit to this place had been in 1995. It was just as awesome as I’d remembered. Best food, best ambiance, best music, just all-around bad ass. Satiated and hopeful of achieving another measure of immediate gratification, I drove back to Verona, went to the poker room, and sat in a 2-5 NL game.

Immediately I could see that this was going to be an unusual game. It was populated by a couple of whiz kids and a handful of locals (members of each category were easy to identify). The locals were exchanging amazed looks with one another. A large crowd of spectators had gathered to watch. What was going on here? I unracked my chips and sat down.

On the very first hand, an Asian kid, first to act preflop, moved all in for the maximum buy-in of $500. He hadn’t looked at his cards. The action was folded around to a very young kid in a mesh baseball cap and he immediately said “call.” He hadn’t looked either. There were no more takers. “You wanna look now?” said Mesh Cap to Asian Kid. “Nah, let’s wait till after the dealer runs ’em,” came the reply. And so the dealer dealt the flop, turn and river, at which point Asian and Mesh each slowly turned one of their hole cards up. Mesh had a 3, matching with one of the board’s cards. Asian’s jack did not create a pair. Then the second hole cards were turned over. Both had nines. No help for either player. Mesh raked the $1000 pot with a pair of 3’s. They had played the $1,000 pot blind.

On the next hand, Asian, Mesh and a third whiz kid in a baseball jersey tried a new trick. Someone open-limped for $5, then Mesh, without looking at his hole cards, raised to $10. It was folded to Baseball Jersey, who raised blind to $15. It was folded to the original limper, who called $15. Now Mesh reraised to $20. Remember, this was a no-limit game, not a 5-10 limit game. Next, Asian, giggling uncontrollably, blind min-reraised to $25. And so the open limper was whipsawed, caught in the middle of the whiz kids’ hijinks. Realizing that this would continue until his entire stack was committed, the original limper folded. At that point the three whiz kids went all in. Once again, they didn’t look at their hole cards, viewing them for the first time after the entire board was dealt. Mesh won again, smirking as he raked the $1500 pot. Each time one of the whiz kids went bust, he’d laugh, pull a wad of $100 bills out of his pocket, put five of them on the felt, and rebuy. The crowd was going nuts.

They were just passing the time. There were no seats available in the bigger games. So, having already drunk their smuggled six-pack of Coors Light up in their room, these kids were entertaining themselves by playing way below their normal levels. These players had bankrolls that belied their looks (i.e., very young and very nerdy). They were accustomed to playing online no limit games with blinds at the $25-$50 and $50-$100 levels, where pots of tens of thousands of dollars are commonplace. This $2-$5 NL game with a $500 cap was a complete joke to them, so they were having a little fun. Or perhaps they were flooding the table with enough chips to create the playing conditions they were used to. Either way, it was good news for me. While I could not afford to treat 2-5 NL like a joke, I was not scared of losing a few buy-ins. I figured I’d just wait for a solid hand and gamble it up with them. It didn’t take long.

I was seated right in the middle of the three crazy kids. On my button I was dealt A9 offsuit. Asian open limped blind. Mesh min-raised blind. I called. In the small blind, Baseball Jersey min-reraised blind. This pattern continued until I had about $50 invested. When the action returned to me I announced that I was all-in for $500. Baseball Jersey looked at me, laughed, finally checked his hole cards, and mucked them. But Asian was undeterred. He fixed me with a prepubescent stare and a faux-grave expression. Then he said “nice move, I call” without checking his hole cards, and slid his $500 forward. Mesh, having witnessed Asian’s act, was now laughing hysterically. Gasping for breath between his guffaws, he called as well, also without looking at his cards. $500 of his chips went into the middle. I had just bet $1500 on A9 offsuit against two random hands.

The spectators, energized by the audacity of the old man in seat 7 (that was me), pressed forward. One kid behind me asked me for a “hole card cam,” i.e. to see my cards. Without turning around I obliged, flashing my A9 over my left shoulder to the crowd behind me. The dealer burned and turned: a flop of 9s-9c-6h. Nice. I felt someone behind me grab my shoulder and give it a little congratulatory shake. The turn was the king of hearts and the river was the 2 of hearts. I flipped my hole cards up, hoping that neither of my opponents, who still had not looked at their hole cards, held two hearts. They did not, although Asian also had trip 9s, but with a worse kicker. I raked the $1500 pot amid much fanfare. I heard one of the kids behind me tell another that I had made a “sick bet.” Sick dude… sick.

I picked my spots for another hour or so, increasing my stack to around $2200. Then, satisfied with my first brick and mortar encounter with Fat Billy and his cohorts, I retired for the night. I drove home in the morning, happy that no travel plans were on the immediate horizon.

And so I had returned to Turning Stone, the site of my very first gambling adventure. And at this sacred site I saw the future face of poker. It was disfigured and nerdy.

Getting kicked around/WSOP qualification

Posted by davidzeitlin

I had a new blog entry planned for yesterday. In it, I was going to admit that I was in the middle of the roughest stretch of my career. I was going to admit that my self confidence had virtually evaporated. I was going to admit that I had endured a three week marathon of bad beats and lost coin flips. I was going to admit that I had reached a mental state I describe as “presumptive loss.” Whenever my chips went in, I expected the worst.

I was going to compare myself to a dog that had been kicked repeatedly. I felt that skittish about things. I think I may have actually whimpered a few times.

One redeeming aspect of all this losing was that I could finally write a blog entry with an unhappy ending. I figured that writing about how bad things were would be therapeutic. At the very least, it would have been honest. But technical difficulties got in the way.

The only thing that kept the “kicked dog” blog entry from being published was my inability to understand HTML coding. You see, in the midst of my losing streak, in an otherwise uneventful sit-n-go, I flopped a royal flush. I won almost nothing on that hand, and didn’t cash in the tournament. But flopped royal flushes don’t come around very often. So in a desperate effort to reverse my luck, I was going to close my catharctic “kicked dog” blog entry with a PokerXFactor flash animation of my royal flush. That would have shook off the bad luck. The problem is, I still don’t know what the hell i’m doing with this website, and my webmaster/mentor Jon wasn’t around to help. So “kicked dog” never made it to press.

I’m sure you’ve noticed that everything above this point was phrased in the past tense. That’s because something very good happened last night. I finally conquored the primary source of my frustration. I won a World Series of Poker satellite.

For over a month now, I have been banging my head against the WSOP wall. For a professional poker player of my stature (i.e. one that can’t afford not to think twice about plunking down $10k), qualifying for the WSOP main event through an online satellite is a formality. Well, it’s not quite a formality, but it’s something you are expected to accomplish.

The fields in the WSOP satellites are weak. These are tournaments full of dreamers who don’t bring that much skill to the table. Someone who plays for a living is expected, given enough chances, to eventually prevail. But for quite a long time, that was not happening for me, and it was creating a heavy financial and emotional drain. I was nearing the point of no return–a place where so much money has been sunk into my futile efforts to qualify that the only sensible thing to do was to give up.

But last night, just as I approached the precipice of that cliff, I entered yet another Pokerstars WSOP double shootout. This was the same tournament through which I qualified last year, but I had been struggling mightily with them this year. Four hours later, I found myself heads up with a very tricky opponent with the seat on the line. Mercifully, a couple of won coin flips (what dog!?) later, I was officially WSOP-bound.

Last year, I was positively ecstatic when I won my seat. I literally danced around, alone, for about half an hour. This year, no ecstasy. Mostly I felt relief. Relief that the “no seat” albatross had been lifted. Relief that this project wasn’t going to drain any more of my bankroll. And especially relief that I wouldn’t have to deal with the disappointment of coming in second. Finishing second in a big satellite tournament that only pays one seat is a fate I wouldn’t wish upon anyone.

When my win became official with a “congrats! you’ve won the tournament” appearing on the screen, I felt only a trace of last year’s giddiness. Instead, I was suddenly cognizant of how tired I was, both physically and emotionally. I hugged Janeen, who was by my side watching, and collapsed. That was that. I guess that’s the difference between being an amateur and a pro.

And now, for good measure, here’s the instant repaly on my royal flush. I held the same hand in both my career royals. Queen-Jack of spades!

[kml_flashembed movie=”http://www.pokerxfactor.com/swf/trainingApp3.swf?xmlHandID=13113&fn=1275_20060622_005801&hn=0&mh=0&sc=1″ height=”375″ width=”500″ /]
Click here to view a larger version on pokerxfactor.com (registration required).

Rewind: May 2006, Part 1: Vegas

Posted by davidzeitlin

As a birthday present to myself, I arranged for an extended leave of absence from NYC. I put together a two week trip of mixed business and pleasure: two fun weekends bookending a five day poker marathon in Vegas.

Besides the obvious: packing (utilizing my enormous Pokerstars bag for the first time), booking flights and hotels, refreshing my supply of tea tree toothpicks, etc., my trip also required that I bring along enough cash to cover my poker play. I calculated the worst-case scenario for the trip, the amount I’d lose if I completely bombed. Then I went to the bank and withdrew that amount: $16,000.00. This might have aroused some serious suspicion had the bank’s employees not been familiar with me and my new occupation. Instead, I was escorted to a private room, where I was given time to thumb through the 160 Benjamins, then everyone wished me luck as I departed. I would spend most of the following twelve days walking around with a four-inch thick wad of $100 bills in my pocket. This would make many people nervous, but all I felt was bad. Not bad meaning bad, but bad meaning good.

The first stop on my trip was Sonoma, California. There, accompanied by the lovely Miss Janeen, I spent a couple of serene days pretending to be a wine snob and generally luxuriating. I also had my first (and probably last) lavender bath. Then, properly decompressed, I boarded a short flight to Vegas for phase two of the trip.

I’ve read almost all the recent literature waxing poetic about Las Vegas, so I don’t recall which author likened the city, geographically, to a strange opulent toy sitting in the middle of an old, empty bathtub. But with the right seat assignment, a passenger on any arriving flight can see how adept this description is. Vegas sits in the middle of a ring of mountains, in a vast desert expanse. After entering the “bathtub,” a birds-eye view first reveals nothing but a brutal uninhabited wasteland. Then, as one slowly moves overhead towards the center of the tub, before you can see the Strip in all its shining, ludicrous glory, a series of neat little yellow-brown grids become visible. Tract housing developments.

On my January trip to Las Vegas, still considering the possibility of moving permanently to the area, I rented a car and drove aimlessly around these places. To the north is Summerlin, and to the south is Henderson. These “neighborhoods” (I use that term loosely) differ so fundamentally from Manhattan that the effect was stunning. While New York offers plain visual evidence of centuries of disjointed, uneven, organic growth, the residential areas surrounding Las Vegas look as if they were copied from an engineer’s computer screen and instantaneously pasted onto the desert plain.

Driving up and down the blocks of identical, freshly minted single-floor residences, I didn’t see any pedestrians. Las Vegas, at least for the locals, is a community of people who move around from one air-conditioned locale to another in the confines of their air-conditioned cars. While its very inhabitability is a marvel of modern engineering, there appears to be nothing remarkable about living in Las Vegas. In January, the prospect of moving into one of the cookie-cutter houses dismayed me. On my second trip in May, I was thankful that it was no longer a consideration.

The attraction of Vegas, at least for me, is that it turns things that are impossible elsewhere into everyday events. One such thing is a big, juicy poker meet. And that was the reason for this trip: the Mirage Poker Showdown.

As I checked into the Mirage on Sunday, May 7, I was ready for action. And that’s exactly what I found. The Mirage had transformed its sports book area into an orgy of no limit hold ’em tournament action. One area was sectioned off strictly for one-table satellites, which ran around the clock. Another area, formerly the sports book caf?É¬©, was transformed into a large multi-table tournament room. In one corner of the room the final table of the previous day’s event was taking place as the early stages of the current day’s tournament was contested throughout the rest of the room. At noon on each and every day leading up to Sunday’s $10,000 main event, a $500+ tournament was scheduled along with a daily 6:00 pm $200 NLHE “second chance” tournament. And if that wasn’t enough, the poker room proper offered high stakes cash games. Viewing this poker nirvana, I was energized. I would step outside into the dry desert air only two times in the next 96 hours.

My first foray was a $100 single table satellite, essentially a live version of a $100 online sit-n-go. Familiar territory. I managed to win the thing, pocketing $1000 in tournament chips. The WPT event the next day, Monday, was a $500 limit event. Feeling my limit game was a bit too rusty, I opted for a short walk over to Bellagio, where I entered that casino’s daily $500 no limit tournament. Unfortunately, I didn’t make a dent there, so I returned to the Mirage for the $200 second-chance event. I fared better in that 97-person event, chopping it three ways for a nice score. Feeling that I was now sufficiently tuned up, I went to bed early in preparation for the next day’s tournament, which would be the largest single buy-in event of my career.

At noon on Tuesday, May 9, 156 people convened to play a $2500 no limit hold ’em tournament (thanks to my single-table win, it only cost me $1500 out-of-pocket). As you might expect, expensive midday, midweek events attract mostly professional poker players. And as I found my seat and looked around the room, I saw many recognizable faces. Barry Greenstein, Mike Mizrachi, TJ Cloutier, Mimi Tran, JC Tran, Scott Fischman, Michael Gracz, Bill Edler, Joe Sebok, Eli Elezra, David Singer, Tony Ma, Billy Baxter, David Pham, David Levi and many others were all milling around. Gulp.

And my table was not a soft one. To my immediate left was “Pistol” Pete Lawson, a young pro with a lot of impressive cashes. Two to my right was another young gun, Theo Tran, who was making a big splash in 2006. Across from me, decked out in cute little trendy outfit, was Jean Gluck, a young attractive Los Angeles-based female pro. And, late to arrive, taking his seat three spots to my right was Gavin Smith, the winner of the $10,000 main event here last year, along with one of the preliminary events. And that was a major problem.

There is absolutely nothing subtle about Gavin Smith. Physically speaking, he’s a big, burly, ruddy-faced Canadian. Actually, “burly” is probably a little bit too kind. I think the term “bloated” best describes his appearance. It’s patently obvious, at first sight, that Smith doesn’t often say “no thanks” when offered a hot dog and a beer. He sports wild, unkempt, shoulder-length hair, and the top of his balding head is always obscured by a fitted baseball cap turned backwards. He favors old, worn out, haphazard clothing. Despite his age, which I’d estimate to be over 40, he looks like your typical overgrown, overindulgent frat boy.

And somehow his personality is even more imposing than his appearance. Smith is a loud, vulgar, garrulous and indiscriminate torrent of continuous verbosity. A bull in a china shop. But, improbably, his act is charming. Everyone at the table, owing either to the immunity caused by repeated exposure to him or their knowledge that his act was benign, not only tolerated him, but laughed along with him. His first remark after finding his seat: “Ooh, I’m at the same table as Jean Gluck’s tits err, I mean Jean Gluck!” (Ms. Gluck’s rather large breasts were indeed difficult to ignore, crammed into a tight shirt). The comment was not seen as out-of-line, as Gluck, obviously familiar with Smith, responded with a coy smile.

And yet, notwithstanding his physical and verbal dominance, the most extraordinary thing about Gavin Smith is his skill at poker. The statistics suggest that he’s one of the top 3 tournament players in the world right now. And after experiencing him up close for the first time, I can offer nothing to dispute this assessment. This guy is just plain sick.

We started the tournament with 5000 chip stacks and 25-50 blinds. Deep. From the start, Smith used the depth of the stacks as leverage, playing virtually every hand, regardless of position. He had no discernable standard for calling raises or even reraises. At first, this style of play yielded no results. By the end of the first level of blinds, Smith had seen pretty much every flop but was sitting on only about 2500 chips. Then, at the start of the second level, with the blinds at 50-100, the following hand took place:

Someone limped in early position, and about 3 players limped behind. Smith completed from the small blind, and the big blind checked. The flop came J 6 2 with 2 clubs. Smith checked, and someone in middle position bet 300 into the 600 pot. It was folded around to Smith, who responded by hurling his entire stack forward. He was all in. Chips sprayed everywhere, and it was now folded to the original bettor, who, with about 4000 chips, was in the unenviable position of pondering the meaning of Smith’s overbet. I asked myself what I would do in his position, and considering that Smith had been in the small blind and had shown no inclination to fold any starting hand, I decided that Smith probably had 2 pair, and that I’d need a set to call this bet. The original bettor stared at Smith, who was now hunched down low, staring down at the felt in front of him. The bettor then dejectedly re-checked his hole cards and folded. As soon as the cards hit the muck, Smith grinned broadly, cackled a bit, and tossed the 7 and 3 of clubs face up on the table. “Shit, I should have called,” said the bettor. “I woulda caught [made the flush],” replied Smith. And with that, he was off to the races.

Meanwhile, I had built a nice stack, mostly because of the following hand: My stack drifted downward until I was dealt 22 in the big blind. With the blinds at 50-100, a player in middle position raised to 300 and got called by Smith (of course), the button, the small blind, and me. The flop came 10 9 2 with two hearts, and the small blind led out for 800. Hoping that it would look like I was drawing, I moved all-in for about 4000. Everyone folded back to the small blind, who considered for awhile before calling with two red jacks. Bingo. My set of ducks was good, and I was doubled up and in solid shape.

Meanwhile, Smith had kicked it into high gear. No longer short stacked, he was not content to merely play pots anymore. Now he began to either open-raise, reraise, or on select occasions, merely call another player’s raise before the flop. On one hand, he raised in late position and got called by the player right behind him, on the button. The flop came 6 4 4 with two clubs, and he checked. The button made a pot-sized bet and Smith again tossed his entire stack in, a massive overbet of about 9000 chips. The button called instantaneously, flipping over a pair of nines. The nines were no good here, as Smith had raised with 8 4 offsuit. And now the entire table was in deep trouble.

Smith’s freight train routine continued. At one point, he stole the blinds on every hand for an entire orbit. Then he woke up with JJ, made one of his huge overbets, and broke a player who held A7 on a 7-high flop. Later, he broke David Singer, who had been moved into the seat next to mine. At this point everyone else at the table had modest, single, multicolored stacks, and Smith had a fortress of towering stacks in front of him, well over three times the amount anyone else had. And he had built this chip lead in about a single hour. All the while, Smith was yapping away, daring everyone to play a pot with him, ruthlessly prodding away both with his incessant betting and verbal jabs.

The blinds had increased to 200-400, and I had surrendered my big blind to Smith three consecutive turns. And that is when a defining moment in my career transpired. Today, if someone were to ask me to specify the moment when I realized that I was a real live professional poker player, I would not say it was the hand where I won five grand with a straight flush on the river, or the hand that clinched my win Foxwoods, or any of my other modest triumphs. The defining moment of my career occurred when I decided that I was going to make a stand against Gavin Smith.

After Smith stole 400 chips from me for the third straight time, I told myself that I was going to resteal the next time he raised my big blind regardless of what hand I held. Smith had around 40k at this point, and I had about 9k. It was enough to dent his stack if he lost an all-in to me. I had been playing tight and he’d have to respect my reraise, I reasoned. Smith was running us all over, and gosh darnit, I was going to be the first to turn the tables on the bully. The button moved around the table, and I remained resolute in my decision, but felt a bit tense about it. Finally the button was two to my right, and Smith was in the cutoff. This would be the hand. I looked at my cards. The 10 of diamonds and the 6 of diamonds, a.k.a. trash. Bubkis. Suddenly I had serious reservations. I began to hope that the pot would get raised by someone in front of Smith, that someone whose raise commanded more respect would take a stab before Smith did, relieving me of my obligation to put Gavin Smith in his place. But before I knew it, everyone had folded and the action was on him.

As I had now watched him do many times, Smith casually said “raise” and flipped 1200 chips forward. And as the button and small blind folded, I honestly had no idea what I was going to do. Competing forces were at work in my brain. On the one hand, I had the sense that moving all-in was the strategically correct play. But then I imagined how foolish I would look if the ploy failed. What if Smith had a real hand? What if he could sense that I had nothing, the same way that he could seemingly sense when his crazy overbets would get called? I was halfway through a field of pros in a $2500 tournament, which is a lot of money to risk with 10-6 suited

During the fraction of a second between my turn to act and the moment of truth, things got really strange. I experienced a complete disconnect between my brain and my body. My brain was still contemplating a course of action. Then I heard my voice say “raise.” Then I saw my hands calmly press my three stacks of chips together from behind, and then my brain watched my hands push those stacks forward as my voice said “all-in,” in a firm, unwavering tone. As soon as I witnessed the chips mysteriously moving forward, Smith piped “just kidding!” and very quickly mucked his hand. Then I began to feel again. And I felt unmistakably awesome. And then I felt perfectly in tune with my two hands as they gathered Smith’s 1200 chips along with the blinds and antes, and added them to my stack.

On the very next orbit, exactly nine hands later, it was once again folded around to Smith in the cutoff. He had resumed his pilfering, unperturbed by my outburst the last time around. This time, I had about 10k in my stack and held KQ offsuit. And once again Smith raised to 1200. After a very short pause, once again I made the same exact move, pushing all in.

Smith’s reaction this time was very different. The smile faded from his face and he fixed me with a stare. Looking directly at me as I averted eye contact, he launched into a speech. “You know, I’m tiring of you putting that move on me.” I thought he might be kidding around, but when I stole a glance at his face, it was clear that he wasn’t. “Do you want a call? I’ve got a pretty good hand here, so tell me, do you want action?” he continued, talking to me as if he were reprimanding a child. I smirked slightly and continued to look away. Then something came over me. I was feeling rambunctious. I decided to offer up a response, which is exactly what Smith was looking for. “Depends on what you got,” I said, answering his query but continuing to look off into the distance, seemingly disinterested. That was a mistake. A long, uncomfortable silence ensued, as Smith looked at me, then at his chips, then back at me. Then back at his chips, and once again, he fixed his eyes on me for quite a long time. Now I was starting to feel uncomfortable. I felt a tiny little involuntary quiver in my neck, and I silently thanked Neighborhoodies, Inc. for producing the custom designed, neck-concealing “Sug D’s” sweatshirt I was wearing, per usual. Finally, Smith said “I don’t feel like racing against something like king-queen just yet.” Then he flashed me the ace of spades and folded. Wow.

The game proceeded, and Smith was undeterred, raising four of the following five hands. When it was my big blind again, I took a look at my cards and saw pocket 9’s. Uh oh. Then the action was folded around to Smith. No way. I felt a surge of excitement, knowing that the same dance was probably about to take place again. And this time I had a real hand. But to my surprise, when it was his turn to act, Smith peered at his cards, then shot me a glace, raised his eyebrows, grinned, and folded. The button and small blind folded, giving me a walk, and I tossed the two nines face up in Smith’s direction, telling him that “the same move was coming again.” “Well, I got good radar,” he replied. I declined to tell him just how good it was.

They broke our table and I looked down at my average stack of around 13k, then up at the video board. There were only 60 players left in this thing. I was swimming with the sharks! Feeling very confident, I unracked my chips at my new Gavin-free table. But then I took crushing beat.

The blinds were now 400-800 with an ante, and a player with about 11k in his stack raised in early position. I was in late position with QQ and moved all in for 15k. My opponent called and showed JJ. The flop was a very good one: Q 10 4. Yes! Ship it! But wait. The turn was an ace, and now I heard my opponent say “how ’bout a king, just because” as he stood up. Wait a minute. A king? What would that do? The river was in fact a king, and the table went ballistic. The miracle runner-runner straight this guy had just pulled on me simply failed to register. I stared at the board for a second, trying to figure out what the hell had happened. Then I finally figured it out. For fuck’s sake.

Now crippled, I made a bit of a recovery by doubling through Billy Baxter (renown as one of the greatest sports handicappers in history and the man who staked Stu Ungar in the 1997 WSOP main event) when his AQ ran into my AK. Then, I somehow doubled up again when my 1010 withstood another player’s AK. I was back to around 12k and there were 36 players left when they broke my table once again and moved me to one of the final four.

The makeup of this table was interesting. Three seats to my right sat Michael Gracz, a young classy poker superstar. Three to my left was a man with bleached blond hair, multiple earrings, a variety of gaudy jewelry and very bad teeth. He was wearing a baby blue hockey jersey. It was confusing, ugly amalgam that only authentic white trash could pull off. But he commanded attention because he had a huge stack. And, seated to my immediate right was a short stacked Jerry Buss, the owner of the Los Angeles Lakers. This big league poker stuff was getting interesting.

It got even more interesting when I sat down to look at my very first hand at the new table and discovered pocket aces. Another player, a visibly drunk man seated between Gracz and Buss limped under the gun. Buss folded and I made a very small “please call me” raise to 2500. Everyone folded back around to the drunk guy who quickly called. The flop was all rags and the drunk guy bet 5000 into a 6000 pot. I raised all in for only about 3500 more. The drunk guy went into the tank for a very long time, finished a Budweiser, and folded, even though he was getting something like 5-1 to call. Nice.

And then, about a half hour later, with 30 players left, it was over. Just like that.

The bleached blond hick had been playing a lot of pots, splashing around, bluffing and being a general menace. Still, I had the feeling that he was a weak player. On my final hand, I was dealt the ace of hearts and the queen of clubs. I made a modest raise to 2400 from early position. The hick called in middle position and everyone else folded. The flop came 9 4 4 with two hearts. I didn’t feel like tangling with this guy, so I just checked, and he quickly checked behind me. The turn was what I believed was a very nice card: the queen of hearts. Now I had two pair, top kicker and the nut flush draw. Completely convinced that I had the best hand, and thinking that my flush draw was a freeroll, I checked, hoping to induce a bluff. The hick responded by overbetting the pot, shoving 6000 in. I read this bet as either a bluff, a weaker Q, or a pocket pair like 66 or 77. I did not put him on a flush, figuring he would have aggressively bet a flush draw on the flop. Happy to lock up the tidy 11k pot, I pushed all in for around 20k. The hick looked at me and said “you got pocket queens?” Umm, why would I check that flop with QQ? Then the hick called and tabled the 6-5 of hearts–a made flush. What the fuck?! The river was not a heart, queen or a four, and I was done. Out in 30^th place.

It was easily the most disappointing knockout blow of my career. Unable to put my solid performance against elite players into rational perspective, I felt only the sting of the final hand. Could I have played it differently? Would a better player have gotten away from that hand? I had no idea. I retreated to my hotel room and I spent the next few hours curled up under the covers.

The guilty pleasure of a meal at In-N-Out Burger later that night eased the pain a bit, and the next morning I began to realize how well I’d played. My sparring with Gavin Smith alone was evidence of how far my game had come. A year ago, I would never have conceived of those resteals. And although I now knew those plays were correct, and although I had made countless similar plays online, actually executing those plays, putting a $2500 tournament on the line with no hand against one of the best players in the world, was a major step for me. Returning to action the next day, I felt more like an honest-to-god professional poker player than I ever had before.

The rest of the trip was relatively uneventful in terms of impact on my bankroll. I final tabled the second chance tournament again the next day, losing on a bad beat with 5 players left. I made no headway at all in the $1500 NLHE event. My bottom line after the five day poker orgy was slightly negative.

I was looking forward to getting away from poker for a few days, and that’s exactly what I did when 3 of my friends arrived on Thursday night. I moved my stuff into a room at The Hotel at Mandalay Bay and spent three days doing the things I used to do in Vegas before I changed careers, things that had nothing to do with poker: lounging by the pool, shooting craps, and cavorting at nightclubs.

On Monday, faced with a couple of empty hours between checkout and my scheduled flight, I returned to the poker table. It was a 2-4 NL game at Mandalay Bay with a $200 buy-in, shortstacked no limit poker. Having just played many hours at much higher stakes, I found the action rather boring and decided to stir things up a bit, just for shits and giggles. I indiscriminately moved all in a bunch of times, showing stellar hands such as 85 offsuit as I scooped $30 pots. On a flop of K J 8 with 2 spades, with a bet in front of me, I moved all in, forced everyone to fold, and showed the A4 of hearts. Eventually the players learned to trap me, and I lost a couple of buy-ins. That’s when something special happened.

I was on the button with the QJ of spades. The under the gun player raised and got called in two places. I called as well. The flop came king of spades, 10 of spades, 7 of diamonds, giving me an open-ended royal flush draw. I was happy when the under the gun raiser bet the pot and someone in middle position called. I shoved all in for roughly three times the bet, saying “let’s play a three-way all in here, fellas.” That’s exactly what transpired; I had the other guys covered and they both called my shove. The turn was a blank, but the river was magnificent: the ace of spades, completing my first royal flush. I proudly slapped my Q-J of spades down on the table and stood up, gesturing wildly in mock surprise. Then I pretended to take a snapshot with a make-believe camera. Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!

I played two more hands, cashed out and headed for home. Leaving Vegas, the formerly 4-inch thick wad of Benjamins in my pocket was now 3.5 inches thick. But I felt my game had increased by more than an half inch.

Hand Analyses: Pocket Jacks.

Posted by davidzeitlin

Pocket jacks are the most reviled hand in hold ’em. They look so pretty, what with the two matching painted cards. But you know the deal: they’re so vulnerable to overcards that they become very difficult to play after most flops, and they’re not quite good enough to play with any confidence against a big reraise. Nobody likes to get too involved with JJ.

Theories on how to handle them vary. Some say to commit preflop, that hands as good as JJ don’t come around very often, and so you might as well gamble with them. Others will tell you to treat johnnies like they were pocket fives. Try to see a cheap flop and catch a set. The truth lies somewhere in between. JJ is a hand that requires a lot of subjective, situation-specific decision making, both before and after the flop.The following are two illustrative hands where I held JJ. As you’ll see, the johnnies didn’t disappoint. Both hands were nasty, treacherous affairs.

JJ HAND #1

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The situation: The Pokerstars $10 rebuy. This is a tournament with a big field and a surprisingly large prize pool. When this hand took place, about half the field was eliminated. The blinds are 300-600 with a 50 ante. My stack of 53,000+ was way up near the top of the leaderboard, in the top 10 total stacks. I’m in the small blind. The only other player at this table with a comparable stack is sitting in the cutoff, with a top 20 overall stack of 48,600.

Preflop action: As advertised, I have been dealt JJ. The action is folded around to the other big stack, and he makes a standard 3x the big blind open-raise to 1800. I was faced with my first decision of the hand. I was obviously playing my JJ. So should I have flat called or raised, and if I chose to raise, how much should I have raised? First of all, I was way ahead of this player’s range. At this point in the hand, I knew nothing about “$portyJ,” but a player in the cutoff with that stack could have been raising with a very wide range of hands. The second consideration was the fact that I’d be out of position after the flop. Third, the stacks were very deep, so trapping with the jacks (dubious idea at best under any circumstances) was out of the question. So I was raising.

How much to raise: All-in would have been ludicrous, risking 46,000 to win 3,000. Basically, I wanted to represent AA and end the hand right there. The number I settled on was 7,000. I thought this would look scary to the cutoff, basically sending the message “the rest of your stack is at risk if you call. ” It also was an amount that would allow me to get away from the hand somewhat cheaply if I was reraised all-in. I made my raise and “$portyJ” called. Hmm.

Analyzing the other player’s possible hands:

AA, KK: Many players would reraise with these holdings, but he certainly could have been trapping with them. I think QQ almost always would reraise all in. Pairs smaller than JJ: Many conservative players would throw away hands smaller than 99 here, but aggressive players have no problem calling off 15% of their stack, knowing they will probably double through if they hit a set. The odds he also holds JJ are so slim that I’m ignoring that possible holding.

AK, AQ: Many, if not most, players would reraise all in with AK here, but calling with it in position is possible. An AQ that wants to see a flop is also possible.

Something else: A conservative player would probably throw away everything else here. But a LAG (loose-aggressive) specialist, a new school player, would have no trouble calling my reraise and trying to outplay me after the flop. At this point I had no idea what kind of player “$portyJ” was, so this is roughly the analysis I did.

Postflop action: The flop came a dangerous, but not terrible, Qd 6s 5d. What now? Well, the flop only had one overcard in it, and since the ace was the overcard that really would present a problem, I felt my hand was best. In an effort to end the hand, I made a solid continuation bet of 10,000. And this is where things got hairy: “$portyJ” raised all in. Now my tournament was on the line. This situation called for quite a bit of analysis. What was going on here? Well, I figured these were the possibilities:

“$portyJ” had flopped a set of sixes or fives;
“$portyJ” had AQ;
“$portyJ” flopped some kind of diamond draw; or
“$portyJ” was putting a move on me.

This was one of those situation where you needed to know something about the player. And so, as my 60-second time bank started to tick down, I opened internet explorer and looked “$portyJ”‘s results up on ThePokerDB.com. I learned that “$portyJ” was a pretty accomplished player, with a lot of final tables in many rebuy tournaments, including the $109 rebuy on Pokerstars, widely considered the toughest tournament currently offered online. The vast majority of the players who do well in these tough tournaments are loose-aggressive new school players who get involved in a lot of hands and apply pressure in big spots. In other words, I felt that “$portyJ” was a player that was capable of calling my preflop reraise with a strange hand, and a player capable of putting a big postflop move on me. So options 3 and 4 were in play.

Next, I considered my standing in the tournament. I noted that I could fold my hand and still have over 36,000 chips, leaving me squarely in the top half of the field. So I would have lost this battle, but I’d be in good shape to win the war. Fine. I actually put the cursor over the fold button before I said “what just one second here,” and reconsidered the meaning of the comfort with which I could get away from my JJ. If I could comfortably fold, wouldn’t an accomplished player know this, and prey on it? Yes! Plus, which hands with a queen in them was I really afraid of? Only AQ. Did he have a set? Meh, not likely. In an instant, I was suddenly convinced that “$portyJ” was full of shit, or at best, on a draw.

And so I called with 12 seconds left on my time clock.He had A8 offsuit. I actually said out loud “what a call!” My exuberance was squelched 1.5 seconds later when an ace appeared on the river. Jesus.

JJ HAND #2

[kml_flashembed movie=”http://www.pokerxfactor.com/swf/trainingApp3.swf?xmlHandID=12035&fn=1275_20060614_053453&hn=0&mh=0&sc=1″ height=”375″ width=”500″ /]

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The situation: A $109 multitable tournament on Party Poker. I have played solid for the first half of the tournament, and later got lucky when I picked up AA on a hand where two others held KK and QQ. I shot up near the top of the leaderboard, but now, with about 80 people remaining, a long run of cold cards has left me with an average stack. The tournament pays 40 players. As is the case in most online freezeouts, the stack-blinds ration is relatively low, i.e. the stacks are not especially deep.

The preflop action: The blinds are 300-600, I have almost 18,000 in my stack and I am 5^th to act with JJ. The player to my immediate right raises to 1500, or 2.5x the big blind. The raiser has almost the same sized stack as me.

Analyzing the other player’s possible hands: With stacks as short as ours, both the raiser and I cannot afford to commit ourselves speculative hands. Plus we have to expect the very short stacks across the table to push all in with a lot of reasonably good hands, so it does not make much sense to get involved with anything but solid holdings. Plus, the raiser is in early position. His range is probably something like all pairs from AA through 88, plus AK, AQ, AJ, and KQ. Even a hyperaggressive player will not get involved with junk under the table conditions I have outlined. He has to have a serious hand here (notice how position and stack size severely alter this player’s range, contrasted with my opponent in example #1).

So what’s my play?: Here is an approximation of what went through my head:

Well, my JJ is ahead of his range (only QQ, KK and AA are crushing me), even though it’s a fairly tight range. Still, we are close the money and our stacks are fairly short, which means I am likely to get a call from many of the hands he could be holding, including AK and AQ. Do I want to race for all my chips so close to the money? Plus, there are still 5 players left to act behind me, and one of them could wake up with AA. So maybe I should just call here and see what flops. But wait, my stack is pretty short, and how many more JJ or better hands are gonna come along? But then again, JJ is so vulnerable, maybe I should just fold. nah. But JJ is so vulnerable ugh. This is a great example of how tough a hand JJ is to play. In the end, I decided I was ahead of the raiser’s range and should raise.

How much to raise: Well, there was 2400 in the pot and I had about 18,000 behind, so an all-in move would have been perfectly reasonable. But, since I was holding JJ and did not want a call, I decided to represent AA. And what would AA do in this situation? AA would make a smallish raise designed to further commit the original raiser to this pot. I gave this player credit for being able to recognize that a smaller than all-in raise signified more strength than an all-in raise, raised to 7500, and prayed for a laydown. Instead, what I got was a push from the small-stacked button and a flat call from the raiser. What does all this mean?

Well, the push from the short stack was of little concern. He could have a wide variety of hands and didn’t have enough invested to hurt me. But the call from the original raiser should have set off an alarm in my head. Why in the world would he flat call for almost half his chips? The answer is simple. Because he has pocket aces. All the other hands in his range don’t want to play after the flop. This is especially true of AK and AQ, which want to see all five cards for the same price, and also true of QQ and KK, which don’t want to have to make decisions when overcards flop. He would shove with those hands. There is an outside chance that he would try and stop-and-go (flat call then shove any flop) with a hand like 1010 or 99, but more likely he’d just fold them preflop. His flat call equals AA and no other hand.

I want to take time out and let you know that the information contained in that last paragraph did not make its way through my brain in that exact format. All that went through my brain when this hand took place (around 2:00 am last night) after his flat call was “hmmm, how peculiar. He must have a big hand.” And that’s a problem. The flop came K 9 6 rainbow. And what happened next was atrocious.

Postflop action: The original raiser checked. I did sense that something was amiss, so I checked too. Fine so far. The turn was the 7d. Now the original raise made a feeler-looking bet of about 2850, leaving him with a measly 5600 in his stack. What now? Well, if I had bothered to apply some simple logic, I would have long since deduced that he held AA and was trying to suck me into this pot. Further, almost every other hand in his range was beating me with that board. KK was now trip kings. AK was top pair. 99 was a set. What was I beating? 1010? AQ? The only logical conclusion was that he had made a suck bet designed to lure me in.

So what did I do? I made a strange, implusive decision to shove all-in, walking right into his trap. Pathetic. What was I thinking? Honestly, I don’t know. Brain farts like these are bad things.

See, I told you I would post hands where I lost. Now I’ve posted one unlucky one along with one where I played like a complete fucking fool.

So what lessons are there to be learned from these hands? Well, I hope that I’ve outlined some of the basic considerations (e.g. stack size, position, etc. ) that go into preflop and postflop decisions, not only with pocket jacks, but in general.

But also, the outcomes of these two hands make another important point. And that is how important it is to concentrate and stay “in the moment” when you’re in a tournament. While I was playing the first hand, I did a detailed analysis of all the evidence in front of me, and reasoned through it. I enabled myself to make a great call (regardless of end result). While I was playing the second hand, I was mentally lost in space. I was perfectly capable of making the detailed analysis I presented in this blog entry in my head as I played the hand. But I didn’t, and I ended up doing something impulsive and incorrect. Maybe I was tired. Maybe I was distracted. Maybe I was drunk. It doesn’t matter.

My point is that a good player will always focus and be able to reason through a hand at his fullest capacity when necessary. A lot of people think that putting an opponent on a specific hand is a gift, a magically acquired ability, but it really isn’t. Those with this supposedly innate quality have the acquired ability to think with extreme clarity when they are under pressure. This is something that can be learned. As you can see, I’m still a work in progress.

The Nightly Coinflip

Posted by davidzeitlin

You probably think this entry is gonna be about racing a pocket pair against two overcards. Nope.

My online play stretches late into the night most of the time. And like most online players, I enjoy having some sort of audio entertainment while I work. I also happen to enjoy sports talk radio. Admitting to this guilty pleasure is kind of difficult, in the same way, i imagine, that admitting to watching professional wrestling or reading Star Magazine or buying shit off of QVC might be difficult. But right now I am willing to admit that I listen to New York’s WFAN while I play poker late at night.

Sports talk radio is not a complex or intellecual medium. And it gets exponentially less complex and less intellectual after midnight. In the early AM hours, many of the callers seem to be drunk or retarded, or both. And after midnight, the hosts aren’t fooling anyone. The pretense that they are sharing their informed opinions and shaping the callers’ statements is dropped. A drunk retard dials the number. The production guy picks up the call and puts the drunk retard on the air. Then the drunk retard rambles on for awhile about how pathetic Randy Johnson pitched that night. That’s the format. However, the host still makes a difference.

At 1:00 am each night, one of two hosts comes signs onto WFAN’s airwaves. It’s a coinflip, you see, a 50/50 proposition. If I’m lucky, the 1:00 host will be be this guy Evan Roberts. He’s funny, knowledgable, sharp, and a Mets fan. And best of all, he’s self-deprekcating about his role as overnight host, able to laugh at how drunk and retarded everyone is. But if the coin comes up tails, like it did tonight, then we have trouble. Tony Paige.

Tony Paige is the worst sports talk show host of all time. In fact, he is so bad that I am going to go back and underline that last statement. There.

Tony Paige brings nothing to the table. His voice is boring. His delivery is boring. He sounds like he’s having about as much fun as a toll booth operator. And he knows less than you or I about sports. He’s allegedly an expert on professional boxing, but I have yet to hear him say anything of remote interest relating to that or any other topic. His on-air persona is hard to describe because he’s just…. there. He’s like a slab of concrete or some other stupid pointless thing that is just… there. The only decent thing I can say about Tony Paige is that he shares his name with a man who played fullback for the New York Jets in the 1980’s. Not that this Tony Paige even knows that. I can’t stand him.

And I know i’m not the only one who feels this way. ‘Cause when this guy does the graveyard shift, hardly anyone bothers to call. So Tony drones on and on about nothing until someone finally does. And then, the contrast is amazing–drunk retards never sounded so wonderful. But then they hang up and leave me alone with Tony again.

Please, whoever is in charge at WFAN: do me a favor and fire Tony Paige.