Not much has been happening with me.  I’ve settled back into playing online, with mixed results.  Also–and this is probably a sign that I’m getting old and feeble–I’ve had a variety of stupid physical ailments, including an ear infection (big up to Janeen’s brother, a.k.a. Dr. Lyle for helping with this one), a strange food allergy and a strained muscle in my neck.  I’m fallin’ apart, I tell ya.

Also, this past Monday morning, I made my first court appearance in about 18 months.  Don’t worry, I’m not busto.  I was doing someone a favor in a rinky-dink case:  a friend of a friend got a citation for pissing on the street, the friend asked me to represent his buddy, so I agreed.

I went through my old routine:  I woke up early, showered, put on a suit, took the subway downtown, and handled the case.  I considered the fact that it was torrentially raining the entire time–which left me completely soaked despite my umbrella–as an omen.

On trips down memory lane, you tend to notice things you once took for granted.  After 18 months of making my own schedule, these were:

-Holy alarm clock!  Jesus… I haven’t used one of these in a very long time, and I did not like it at all.  It felt less like a mild annoyance and more like a very rude intrusion into my happy little dreamworld.  I was truly startled.  Oof!

-My favorite suit was slightly tighter feeling than I recalled.  Crap.  I need to exercise more.

-The subway!  I only take the subway maybe once a week these days, and when I do, it’s not during the morning rush.  Wow.  After passing on the first crowded 6 train, I got onto the second one that pulled into the station.  Getting jostled around on there and looking at all the somber faces, I was torn between feeling nostalgic and annoyed.  Due to its amazing efficiency, the NYC subway system is like the city’s last bastion of populism:  well heeled CEO’s are standing side by side with minimum wage workers, and no one really notices it.  No one really pays attention to anything outside their little personal bubble, as a matter of fact.  Taken largely for granted by New Yorkers, the subway is an amazing benefit of living here.  I had half forgotten how ridiculously fast you can get from one end of Manhattan to the other.  So cool.  On the other hand, being in such close quarters with so many people has its drawbacks.  You’re an 8-1 dog to not encounter any smelly people.

-Going to court.  Downtown Manhattan on a rainy morning is such a dreary place.  There’s no charm to it at all, just a bunch of blank looking faces hustling into ugly concrete buildings.  Court itself hasn’t changed, of course.  My attorney pass had expired, so I had to enter the building along with all the defendants.  But making the appearance was like riding a bike, I hadn’t forgotten anything.  The room was crammed full of people of all kinds, waiting their turn to plead guilty and pay their fines.  I took my spot up in the front row and made idle chit-chat with another attorney while we waited for the elderly judge to show up.  He wanted to talk about the peculiarities of legal procedure in different counties.  I had the urge to explain to him that I wasn’t a lifer and therefore didn’t give a shit, but instead I sat there feigning interest in how Rockland County handles its administrative docket.  When the judge finally showed, they called my case right away.  I got the pissing charge reduced to generic city code violation, my client paid his $50 fine, I got paid, and I left.

The subway home was a lot less crowded.  I bought an egg sandwich at my local deli, ate it, and went back to sleep.  All in all, it was a nice trip down memory lane, but I won’t be back anytime soon. 

I’ve been getting a lot of requests for this, so here goes:

Good news for DZ fans! If you are somewhat computer-savvy and have a couple of spare gigabytes lying around, you can download and watch my entire final table from WSOP Event #12. Here’s how. Click the links to veoh.com that i’m about to provide, download the Veoh Player (an unfortunate but necessary prerequisite), then download my final table in three parts:

Part 1:

http://www.veoh.com/videos/v791364CtCtrpWt

Part 2:

http://www.veoh.com/videos/v788927btEM4HHT

Part 3:

http://www.veoh.com/videos/v793828nJxhcTaA

Notes to those who DL this footage and watch it:

-It was filmed live, which is why there are so many boring hands. Poker on TV is heavily edited. Live poker is more boring, but this is a pretty nice production, considering it was done live. There are hole card cams and announcers. I did edit out the commercials and dead air.

-I do not have a facial tic. i was chewing on a toothpick for the entire final table.

I hope you enjoy it, and I hope you get an idea of how intense and exciting playing a WSOP Final Table is.

In case you’re either not interested in or incapable of those long downloads, here are two short edits that I made.

1. “Poker,” a short film by David Chase:
[kml_flashembed movie=”http://i75.photobucket.com/player.swf?file=http://vid75.photobucket.com/albums/i314/dzeitlin/7970acb7.flv” height=”448″ width=”361″ /]

2. Sug gets lucky, announcers forsee domination:
[kml_flashembed movie=”http://www.youtube.com/v/Mym8RUGPilo” height=”425″ width=”350″ /]

In both 2005 and 2006, one of my personal highlights from the World Series of Poker’s Main Event was writing the long triumphant recaps which are now located in links at the top of this website’s main page.  This year, by necessity, my recap will be shorter.  But I hope you enjoy it anyway!

Because I did not qualify for this year’s Main Event online (which, technically speaking, was impossible for a US resident to accomplish anyway), I was still unregistered for the tournament when I boarded a plane and left for Vegas on Thursday, July 5th.

My first order of business upon arriving in Vegas was to take care of two administrative matters:  1) register for the Main Event, preferably on Day 1b (Saturday) or Day 1c (Sunday); 2) appeal to the higher-ups at Harrah’s to get some compensation relating to an ongoing dispute.

When the plane landed, I discovered–the hard way–that Las Vegas was mired in a heatwave.  A summer heatwave in Las Vegas means that the daytime high temperature is 116 instead of 108.  On a typical July day, exiting a building and walking outdoors in Vegas feels like entering an oven.  Last Thursday, it felt more like being blowtorched.  Even at night, the temperatures were extremely uncomfortable.  Disgusting.

Heightening my digust, I failed to achieve either of my administrative goals on my first day in town.  I arrived at the Rio on the eve of Day 1a and walked into a tidal wave of humanity.  The hallways surrounding the Amazon Room were literally swarming, wall to wall, with the usual suspects:  players, wannabes, poker fans, dealers, representatives from commercial sponsors.  Everyone and their mother.  The people were everywhere; I could barely walk.  Even though I am now accustomed to this scene, the energy level in the hallways still charged me up.  This was my workplace.  It was good to be back.  That is, until I saw the registration line.

The last time I witnessed a line of similar length was quite a long time ago–at the stupidest place on earth—Disney’s Epcot Center in 1984.  Well over a thousand people were queued up, trying to reach the five registration windows inside the Amazon Room.  The line wound in a snakelike formation until it reached the room’s doorway, then stretched out haphazardly into the hallway and beyond.  After confirming that I was actually in the right place, I took my spot at the back of the line, a half mile from the line’s origin, and waited.  It was 4:10 pm.  A $500 supersatellite to the Main Event was starting at 6:00 pm.  The individuals on the endless line were registering for that tournament, along with the Main Event.

Already very weary from a long day of travel but relieved that I was about to register for both the Main Event and the $500 supersat (I’d sell the lammers if I won), I finally found myself only four players from the front of the line at 5:55 pm when a Rio employee appeared and made an announcement:  the supersatellite was sold out.  Anyone wishing to register was shit out of luck.  This pissed me off a great deal; if I had known that this would happen, I’d have gone and taken a nap then registered for the Main Event late that night, when the line was sure to be shorter.  Still, I was now at the front of a two-hour line, so I wasn’t going anywhere.  It was time to take care of Main Event registration and my dispute with Harrah’s.

When I reached the front of the line, I pulled $3500 in lammers and $6500 in cash out of my pocket, along with the required picture identification.  I asked the window clerk for a seat on Day 1B, Saturday, but was informed that they were only selling seats for Friday and Monday.  I had no interest in playing either day.  I was way too tired to perform well the next (Friday) morning, and playing Monday would require missing a Sunday night party that I had circled on my calendar.  After some persistent inquiring, I discovered that Days 1b and 1c were not completely sold out.  The problem was that a disproportionate number of seats had been sold for those days, and the tournament directors had ordered the cashiers to allow Days 1a and 1d to “catch up” before reopening registration for the days I wanted.  So I decided to play their waiting game, passing on Main Event registration for the time being.

Still at the window and now fully frustrated, I turned to my final order of business:  trying to settle a month-long dispute I had with Harrah’s.  I have made a few cryptic references to it on this blog, but haven’t really discussed this matter publicly.  Now I will go into a little bit of (but not much) detail.  In short:  when I finished second in Event 12, I received a check from Harrah’s, the largest gaming corporation in the world, in the amount of for $269,000 and change.  When I tried to deposit the check, it bounced.  The full story can be found here, in a post I made on the 2+2 forums.  Since this ordeal took place, I registered three separate complaints with people at the World Series of Poker cage:  twice on the phone, and once in person.  All three times I was rebuffed, told that there wasn’t anything that could be done beyond refunding my bank’s bounce fee.  Now, for a fourth time, I animatedly described the situation and the trouble it had caused me.  And for a fourth time, I was informed by a Rio supervisor that no one at the WSOP had any authority to do anything for me.  I did receive a ticket redeemable for two free buffets at the Rio.  Whoop-dee-doo.  I also got the name of some suit at Harrah’s who will be receiving a nasty letter from me soon.

Exasperated, I stuck around the Rio until about 1:30 am, waiting in vain for Day 1b and 1c seats to open up, but it never happened.  I returned to the Excaliber, where I was staying for one night with Kevin (who arrived late that evening), and went to bed grumpy. 

However, as the Main Event got underway the following day, my mood improved.  I just needed to take a step back and exhale.  It was the biggest day on the poker calendar, and I was back, a part of it for the third time.  It was my place, my time.  The WSOP was my turf now.  I regrouped emotionally, put the annoyances of the previous day behind me, and was ready to rock ‘n roll.  And so was Kevin, who I met that morning at the Rio, along with his father.  And things began to immediately fall into place:  as promised, seats for 1b and 1c were finally made available at 2:00 pm.  I snapped up a Saturday (the next day) seat and Kevin registered for Sunday.  Now the only thing left to do was relax and get ready to play some poker.

After passing on that evening’s supersatellite, I checked into the Rio and did what I always do before a big tournament.  I went into a semi-meditative state, eliminating all stimuli.  I did some non-poker related reading and lounged around my room.  In contrast to previous years, relaxation came very quickly on the eve of my first day.  I fell into a sound, uninterrupted sleep by 11:00.  I woke up the next day feeling great, with two hours to spare before the cards would be dealt.  I was not nervous.  I was as focused as could be, ready for the (potentially) sixteen-hour day that lied ahead.  I dressed carefully, selecting a well-worn t-shirt, comfortable jeans and sneakers, the baseball cap that had served me so well in Event 12, and of course, my ubiquitous lucky sweatshirt.  Time to go to work.  I headed downstairs at 11:40, twenty minutes before kickoff.

My table was in the area of the Amazon Room that was normally reserved for cash games, right by one of the side doors.  Per my usual custom, I arrived early, but not so early that I’d have to kill an inordinate amount of time.  I had left about ten minutes to spare.  I’ve learned that the ten minutes before a tournament starts are very valuable.  That’s when I take my seat, look to my left and right, and do my profiling.

Profiling people based on age, race and/or nationality has been taboo in the United States since the Civil Rights movement took hold, even though the current administration has done its best to throw things in reverse.  Still, at a poker table, very accurate information about most players can be obtained by simply categorizing them this way.  This concept is not novel.  It has been discussed in many poker books, most notably the otherwise useless book written by Arnold Snyder.  Profiling is especially effective in the Main Event, with its massive field of nobodies who typically fit snugly into a narrowly defined, easily identifiable category. 

The most prevalent categories in the Main Event are the weak-tight nit and the loose-passive nit, both of whom look the same.  Both categories of nit are usually middle-aged or older white males, but they can sometimes be younger white males (often sporting non-ironic goatees).  The nit is usually dressed like he’s on his way to play a round of golf at his local country club, and if it’s one of the younger nits, a baseball cap is mandatory.  Either category of nit is often overweight.  It is not a coincidence that the younger nit looks a lot like Chris Moneymaker.  Neither category of nit is usually comfortable handling his chips. 

If he has a laid back personality, the nit will adopt an “aww, shucks” attitude at the table and will probably become very chatty as the minutes before the tournament tick down.  If he’s more of an uptight guy, he will be visibly nervous as the start of the tournament nears and he will not say a word.  Either way, a big poker tournament is a special treat for the nit.  The tournament is a luxury that he affords himself once, perhaps twice per year.  The Main Event is teeming with these guys.

The only way to tell the weak-tight nit from the loose-passive nit is by watching them play.  This can be done in the span of ten or fifteen hands.  The weak-tight nits don’t enter many pots, and when they do, they have a big hand.  They fold, especially after the flop, at the first sign of aggression.  Three’s nothing complicated about their game.  The loose-passive nit openlimps a lot from all positions at the table, but usually goes away once he feels threatened by a raise.  Some loose-passive nits need to see the flop and face a bet before they’re inclined to go away.

So, at my particular table, as the minutes before the tournament faded away, here’s what I came up with.

Seat 1: Young, conservatively dressed guy.  Expertly handling his chips.  Jury’s out.

Seat 2: Extremely nervous 50-ish guy.  Country club gear.  He seemed to be mumbling to himself.  Nit.  I was 99% sure that this was a positive identification.

Seat 3:  European guy.  Most Americans know what I’m talking about here.  There are certain guys who just look ambiguously Northern European, even when you haven’t the foggiest clue which country they’re from.  Sometimes the country is obvious and sometimes it’s not.  They don’t need to open their mouth and speak another language, they don’t need to be wearing unusual clothes, and they don’t need to look a certain way (this gentleman happened to be blond and unshaven).  It’s just something transmitted by their features and facial expressions—they’re from Europe.  Maybe I’m just used to observing these people since they’re everywhere at poker tournaments (and in New York City), but I instinctively know when someone is of European descent.  The guy in Seat 3 was of undetermined European ancestry, which meant that I couldn’t figure out how he’d play just yet.  He could be a crazy Swede, a timid British guy, or a cunning Dutchman.  It was hard to say.

Seat 4:  I don’t recall this player.

Seat 5:  Me.

Seat 6: A Latino guy, probably from Puerto Rico or Costa Rica.  This is a category of player who is hard to profile, the Latino players don’t really fall into any set pattern.  I’d have to wait and see.

Seat 7:  A crusty old gambler.  These guys are their own special category, and they’re an increasingly rare breed.  They always are over sixty-five years old, have a thick southern accent, and they love to wear ugly jewelry that is probably very expensive.  They either wear a cowboy hat or have treated what’s left of their hair with a foreign substance that makes it nice and firm.  They’re almost always impossible to shut up.  I believe many of them are from Texas and the states which surround Texas to the north and east, which means that they’ve been playing hold ‘em a lot longer than the rest of us.  They’re usually tight players, but tight players who are capable of trickery.  One of these dudes was in the 7 Seat, and he was yammering away.

Seat 8:  Heavy set thirty-ish guy with a nice fitted baseball cap, dark sunglasses and a goatee.  Hi Mr. Moneymaker!  Looked nervous.  Probable nit.

Seat 9:  Another country club gear older guy.  He knows Norman Chad, who came over to wish him luck a couple of times.  Probable nit.

Seat 10:  Middle aged asian guy doing about six different chip tricks, impatiently waiting for the tournament to begin.  I’m not going to be as brutal as the aforementioned author Snyder, who called these players “boat people,” but Asians do tend to play with less fear than whiteboys.

As we drew ever closer to the scheduled start time, I settled in and began to feel some real excitement brewing inside.  I looked around and saw a massive room full of nervous anticipation.  This was it, I said to myself.  The event of the year.  My stage.  Poker’s prom night.  As I chuckled to myself about my prom night analogy (I crack myself up sometimes), I realized that the Main Event really did feel to me like the grown-up equivalent of prom night, New Year’s Eve.

In my post-scholastic world living in Manhattan amidst a lot of good friends, New Year’s Eve has always been a big event.  It is a night subject to a lot of anticipation.  Plans for it are often made at least a month in advance.  It’s a big night both because of what it supposedly portends and also because it’s the one night on which none of my friends will bail out at the last second.  Everyone’s there.  And if it turns out to be a good night, it’s epic.  On the other hand, if New Year’s turns out to be a dud, it fills me with an out-of-proportion sense of disappointment.    In the end, it’s just another night out, but with a magnified sense of importance attached to it.  It’s hard to keep this in perspective when everyone is drunkenly hugging, slurring Auld Lang Syne, but really, it’s just another night.

And so it is with the Main Event.  Everyone awaits its arrival eagerly, booking their trips to Vegas many months beforehand.  The outrageousness of both the field and prize pool is a virtual guarantee.  It is a true event.  Celebrities and weirdos show up by the dozens.  And if your Main Event goes well, you can legitimately claim that you’re on top of the poker world.  However, if you perform poorly, it’s a very empty day, one that you can’t get back for a full year. 

And just as New Year’s Eve is really just another night, the Main Event is really just another poker tournament.  It is crucial to remember this if you want to maintain your sanity in the wake of an early exit.  The nuts and bolts of this tournament are exactly the same as those of any other tournament, down to a lowly $1 entry on Pokerstars.  The same exact pitfalls potentially await every entrant.  If your pocket aces are cracked, you’re gone, that’s it.  If you flop a set of sixes on a 10-6-2 flop, you are going to lose to a set of tens.  You’re gone, that’s it.  I was just finishing reminding myself of this when Penn & Teller appeared on the TV screens above us, telling the dealers to “shuffle up and deal!”  We were underway.

I’m aware that the people who read this blog fall into three categories: 

1) Those who haven’t the foggiest clue about modern poker;
2) Those who are somewhat familiar with modern poker; and
3) Those who frequently play modern poker. 

Since my experience in the 2007 Main Event was such a short one, I am going to now try and give very detailed descriptions of the few hands I actually played.  If you fall into category 1) above, this blog entry will probably cease to make any sense to you from this point forward.  If you fall into category 2) above, I hope that these descriptions will give you an idea of how complex, subtle and demanding tournament no-limit hold ‘em is.  And if you fall into category 3), feel free to constructively criticize or comment on my play.  I am always looking to improve.

As play got underway, the first thing I was able to do was get a better read on some of the players.

The player in seat 1 was definitely a good player.  He wasn’t getting very involved early, but I could tell he knew what he was doing.  I also thought I recognized him from some pictures on 2+2, which is a strong indicator in his favor.

The player in seat 2 was our resident idiot.  He took a very long time to look at his cards and act.  Slow, deliberate play is often employed by decent players who wish to avoid giving off tells.  In this instance, the player in question was not doing this.  He was simply mentally overmatched and was having trouble deciding how to respond to the simplest situations.  This player also minraised in late position after four players limped and shoved all in for 20,000 after the player in front of him limped for 100.  Not good plays.  It was safe to conclude that he had no idea what he was doing.

The ambiguously European guy in the 3 seat was in fact Irish, and he was scared.  He was trembling visibly whenever he played a pot, which was not very often at all.

The Latino in the 6 seat was from Puerto Rico.  He was an unrefined but ballsy player.  He also had the worst tell I have ever encountered in all my time playing poker.  He looked at his cards as soon as he received them (not in turn), and if they were trashy cards, he sat very still, then threw them away when it was his turn to act.  If, on the other hand, his cards were playable, his right leg would tremble uncontrollably, wildly vibrating up and down.  We were sitting in cramped quarters and each time they occurred, I could easily feel his good-card vibrations on my left leg.  Because he was sitting to my immediate left, this tell was quite valuable, and it made my early exit even more revolting.

The other notable reads were that the player in the 9 seat, who knew Norman Chad, was a loose-passive calling station preflop.  He was somewhat tricky in that I saw him softplay big hands twice, i.e., he underbet the pot when he made a strong hand, hoping to induce action.

Finally, the most important read was on the Asian player in Seat 10.  He was a cash game specialist from Los Angeles and was very loose.  For instance, I saw him openlimp with 5-3 offsuit under the gun, openraise with 8-5 offsuit in early position, and make many other very loose plays.  He was actively looking to engage the tigher players at the table.  He liked to squeeze limpers, i.e., to make a raise in late position if there were limpers in front of him, either taking down the pot right there, or by firing a continuation bet on the flop.  He did this with any two cards.  His style contrasted sharply with the other players at the table, as he played over 50% of the hands, while everyone else got involved only occasionally.  He wasn’t a total maniac, however.  As is typical for a strong cash game player, his postflop game was excellent.  He knew when to control the pot size, when to slow down, and when to mix in a bluff.  He did all of these things in the first half hour of play.  His style creates a very high variance, and I personally thought it wasn’t terribly well-suited for early tournament play, but he was extremely dangerous all the same.  I knew that he’d likely be gone or sitting on a big stack by the middle of Level Two.

My tournament started very slowly.  Within the first orbit, I checked my option with Ah9h in the big blind after two players limped and flopped the nut flush.  We all checked the flop, and I put in a small checkraise on the turn, getting no action.  A also chopped a very small pot with 6-5 on a 5-7-8-9-x board.

The first hand of remote interest occurred when I picked up JJ in early position and chose to limp.  I limped because the wild Asian guy was sitting five seats behind me, and I figured he’d raise.  He did exactly that, raising my 100-chip bet to 600.  I didn’t want to play a big pot, so I flat called and saw a flop, which brought all small cards.  I checked, intending to put in a checkraise, but he checked behind.  The turn brought a king, and I once again checked, and so did the Asian guy.  The river was a small card, and when I bet, the Asian player mucked A-Q face up.  Couldn’t trap him at all there.

On the last hand of Level One, I picked up A-Q on the button and raised two limpers.  One of them called, and I took down the pot with a continuation bet after the flop missed us both.  I ended level one with 20,250 chips, 250 more than my starting stack.  A very boring level. 

I made phone calls to my father and Janeen on the first break, telling them that nothing had happened yet, which was pretty much what I expected.  I had accomplished the most important goal of Level One:  getting a good read (mostly by extrapolating from my age/race profiles) on my opponents.

Level Two would be more noteworthy.  The blinds were now 100-200.  I began by making a few more openraises, taking my stack up to around 22,000.  And then…

Interesting Hand #1

I picked up A-K offsuit in early position and raised to 550.  Norman Chad’s friend called from the 9 Seat and the flop came A-A-6.  I led at the pot for 1000 chips.  Why did I lead at the pot?  Basically, I was employing some third-level thinking.  When you flop trip aces with A-K, there first three levels of thought are:

Level 1 thinking:  I have a good hand, I should bet. 

Level 2 thinking:  If I bet, my opponent will think I have a good hand.  I should deceive him and check. 

Level 3 thinking:  My opponent is smart enough to know that a check looks strong here.  If I bet, I will look weak and get action from lesser hands.

And that’s why I bet 1000 chips into the 1400 chip pot, knowing that lesser aces and middle pairs would give me action.  Norman Chad’s friend considered my bet and called.  The pot now contained 3400 chips.

The turn was a nine, and I checked.  Why did I check?  At this point it had been established through the action on the flop that my opponent had some kind of a hand, either A-x or a pocket pair.  I checked to feign weakness, to indicate that I was giving up on the hand and to invite him to make a bet, which I intended to call.  Why did I intend to call rather than checkraise?  I intended to call because I felt that 99, 66, and A-9 suited were in Norman Chad’s friend’s range, and I didn’t want to play a huge pot, just a nice big one.

When I checked, my opponent did something curious.  He bet 1000 chips, less than one-third of the pot.  It was a puny bet.  This set off some bells in my head, because I had watched this player softplay two very strong hands in Level One.  Now he was doing it again.  I was now convinced that this guy had AK (for a tie), AQ, AJ, or A-10 (I was beating those), or A-9, 99, or 66 (I was losing to those, which were all full houses). 

I raised to 3500.  Why did I raise to 3500?  Both to get more chips in the pot against the hands I was beating and to gain information.  I wanted to find out now if I was beat, and I was prepared to fold to a reraise.  If the guy flat called my checkraise, I knew that I would probably check/call a reasonable bet on the river if the river didn’t bring a Q, J or 10, all of which would give his likely A-x’s a full house.  Actually, I’d still probably make a crying call on the river if any of those cards fell.  Norman Chad’s friend flat called.  There was now 6900 in the pot, or about one-third of our respective stacks.

The river was a brick, and I checked.  Why did I check?  I checked because this was already a pretty big pot.  I believed I was probably beating AQ, AJ or A-10, but I wasn’t sure.  A-9, 99 and 66 were still in the mix.  Since I wasn’t sure, I wanted to keep my losses under control in the event that I was up against a full house.  It has occurred to me that another small value bet might have been the best play on the river.  I could have then folded to a raise, which would almost surely have indicated that I was beat.

Norman Chad’s friend responded to my river check by checking behind and happily opening his hand:  A-10 suited, which he thought was good.  It was not.  I showed my big slick and raked the pot.  I was up to around 28,000 chips. 

Interesting Hand #2

I had bled away perhaps 1,500 chips since Interesting Hand #1 when I picked up 33 on the button.  The loose Asian player openraised to 600 in second position and got called by the scared Irishman and I.  The blinds both folded, leaving us three-handed.  The flop came A-K-5 rainbow.  Both the Asian guy and the Irish guy checked, and I bet 1200 into the 2100-chip pot.  Why did I bet?

I bet because I believed the Asian guy’s check meant one of two things:  he either hated the flop or loved the flop.  If he had an ace that made one pair, he would definitely have protected his hand by betting.  He was either slowplaying a set or giving up.  And what about the Irish guy?  Well, he was a very straightforward player and I knew he’d have bet if he had an ace, and that he’d check/fold everything else.  So I took a stab.  The Asian guy called and the Irish player folded.  Now what?

I was done with this hand.  I tried to take it down cheaply and was denied.  I was pretty sure I was up against AA or KK.  The turn and river both bricked and the action went check/check both times (this river check foreshadowed the next hand of interest).  The Asian guy showed pocket aces and I mucked my underpair.

Interesting Hand #3

At the start of this hand, I had around 24,000 chips.  The LAG Asian player was in the big blind.  He had really been splashing around, playing like a wildman, and one of his bluffs had just been picked off by the Puerto Rican leg twitcher to my left.  LAG Asian was now the shortest stack at the table, with only around 12,500 chips when this hand started.  I was dealt pocket eights and the action was folded to me.  Raise or call?

In almost all situations, I raise here in middle position.  But this was a special situation, since a player that was very likely to defend was in the big blind.  Therefore, the normal equity from stealing the blinds was absent from this hand, so I considered just calling in an effort to keep the pot small and avoid possibly wasting chips.  I overruled myself, however, deciding that I really wasn’t scared to play a big pot with my LAG-y Asian friend.  I raised to 550 and got called by the Moneymaker lookalike on the button and, of course, the Asian guy in the big blind.

The flop came Ad-Kd-4s, and all three of us checked.  Why did I check instead of representing the ace?  I checked because the double-suited board bothered me, and because we were three-handed, with a player yet to act behind me.  I figured I’d rather check, hope the button also checked, and further hope that the dealer would peel an eight on the turn. 

And that’s exactly what happened.  The turn was a black eight, giving me a set.  The Asian guy bet 1200 into the 1750 pot.  Now what?

This was a really intriguing situation.  The Asian player’s turn bet meant one of three things:

1) He was on a pure bluff;          
2) He was value betting an ace or two pair; or
3) He was betting on the come with a diamond draw.

One thing was certain:  I had the best hand right now.  If one of my opponents held a hand that was beating me (only AA or KK), they would have reraised preflop to avoid playing a three-way flop with those hands.  So, with the best hand, was the correct play to flat call or to put in a raise?  The answer depended on which of the three enumerated possibilities was held by the Asian guy. 

If he was on 1) a pure bluff, the correct play was to flat call and hope he fired another barrel on the river.

If he was 2) value betting an ace, I believe the correct play is also a flat call.  The reason is that Mr. LAG-y Asian he was a good player and would fold most aces if I raised.  Raising on an A-K-8-4 board with two diamonds after checking the flop and openraising preflop is a line that is very consistent with AA or KK.  So, the Asian guy would probably put me on a very strong hand and fold a weak ace if I raised.  Therefore, if I thought the Asian guy had something like A-J, I should also flat call.

But if the Asian guy had 3) a diamond draw, the correct play was a raise, which would  make him pay to draw. 

The more I considered the situation, the more I believed I should raise.  Part of the reason was to make a diamond draw pay, and part of the reason was to define my hand.  If I raised and the Asian guy called, I could be fairly sure that he was on a diamond draw, and I’d know what kind of river cards to fear.  I raised to 3500.  The button folded and the big blind called after thinking for quite awhile. 

I was now fairly sure that I was up against a diamond draw, or possibly a two-pair hand that could call me, such as A-4 or maybe A-Q.  I prayed for a non-diamond river (unless it paired the board) and watched as the dealer produced the queen of clubs.  The Asian guy, who had 8500 chips left, checked.  Now what?

My mind, as it is trained to do, automatically catalogued the hands that beat me.  AA, KK and QQ were out of the question, and the J-10 of diamonds had just hit a gutshot straight, making the nuts on the river.  But could LAG Asian have that hand?  Unlikely, since he had just checked the river.  So should I value bet, and if so, how much? 

Since I was pretty sure I was up against a busted diamond draw, I did briefly consider checking behind here with my set of eights, since the busted draw could not call me, which destroyed the equity in a river bet.  But I had not completely ruled out the possibility of my opponent holding A-4 or A-Q, which he might feel compelled to pay me off with.  I therefore chose to bet 4000 chips on the river, which was just under half of his stack.  My opponent considered this bet for a second before shoving all in, spilling his stack over in the process.  It was 4500 more for me to call, and the pot was now huge, with over 20,000 chips in it.

I felt sick when the guy checkraised all in.  I knew I was probably up against exactly the J-10 of diamonds, based on the analysis above.  Did I have to call?

In my humble opinion, yes.  The pot was laying me huge odds, and there was an outside chance that my opponent had something else in his hand.  He was, after all, a wild player in many respects.  Also, the checkraise on the river was an odd play.  If the Asian guy put me on AA KK or 88, he should have simply shoved the river, knowing that I’d put him on a busted draw and would call.  Why would he check the river, knowing that I’d check behind with hands like A-J and the like?  I wasn’t sure, but I knew that I had to put in 4500 more chips.  I shook my head and despairingly called.  As it turned out, it was the second time this particular player had checked the nuts on the river.  And there it was:  he turned over the J-10 of diamonds.  Fucking revolting.  I winced and mucked the eights.

The non-diamond queen was the worst card that could have possibly fell on the river.  If a diamond had fallen, I would likely have checked behind on the river or called a small value bet.  But the queen really blindsided me, completing a gutshot straight, the only drawing hand that I could not accurately forsee.  I had (in my opinion) played the hand correctly from start to finish, but my stack had been chopped in half nevertheless.

Adding insult to injury, a tournament director immediately broke my table after the completion of the hand.  If the dealer had taken only a few more seconds to shuffle the cards, the table would have been broken before the devastating hand ever took place.  My stack was now down to around 12,000 chips as the end of Level Two approached.

A very quick profile of my new table led me to believe I was once again in nitland, it was all older white guys.  I once again ended up playing the last hand before the break.

Interesting Hand #4

I was dealt AhJc in middle position.  A player with a lot of chips, perhaps around 35,000, limped in early position.  It was folded to me and I made it 850 to go.  I had the sense this guy was your basic loose-passive nit, and I figured he had limped in with some kind of crap.  Everyone else folded and went on break as my opponent called the 850.  The flop came A-Q-x with two hearts and my opponent checked.  With top pair, I bet 1200 into the pot of approximately 2000, and my opponent called.  The turn was the 10 of hearts and my opponent checked again.  I checked behind.  Why?  I checked behind both because the board was ugly, so I wanted to keep this pot small, and also because I wanted to draw at the nut flush for free.

The river was a brick, a small black card, and now my opponent bet 1400 into the roughly 4000 chip pot.  I was having a hard time putting him on a hand since I had just been switched to the new table and had never seen this guy play, and I was getting very good pot odds, so I called with my top pair.  He showed me QQ for a set.  Lovely.  I had around 9,000 chips left as the second break arrived.  The Level Three blinds would be 200-400.

Janeen and my father both received another phone call at this break, which came hot on the heels of the last two hands.  I was pretty distressed, and I think that came through in the two short conversations.  Still, after completing the calls, I regrouped emotionally, reminding myself that I had made hundreds of comebacks from similar situations.  I knew exactly how to play a short stack, even this early in the tournament.  Besides, my stack wasn’t desperately short.  I would surely be looking for a place to double up, but I still had enough chips to survive for quite awhile waiting for the right opportunity.

The right opportunity arrived pretty quickly. 

Interesting Hand #5

On the fourth or fifth hand after the break, I was in the small blind.  Everyone on the table had me covered.  A player in early position openlimped for 400, and it was folded to me.  I had the 3c2c.  Call or fold?

Folding is certainly reasonable, but I decided to call, putting 200 more into the 1000-chip pot.  I told myself that I was done with the hand unless I flopped a wheel, a big draw, trips, or two pair.  The big blind checked his option and the flop was a beautiful one for me:  A-3-2 with two diamonds, giving me bottom two pair.  Now what?

The answer is simple:  try to get all my chips into the middle.  The big blind had a random hand, and the early position limper was very unlikely to have a hand that beat me.  Those hands were: 

5-4, which was definitely not an early position limping hand;
 
AA, which was somewhat possible.  I’d just have to pay that hand off;

33 or 22, which fit the early position limp but were very unlikely mathematically speaking since all the threes and deuces would then be completely accounted for;

A-3 and A-2, which were very unusual hands to openlimp with in early position.

All things considered, I felt it was extremely likely that I held the best hand, and the only objective was thus to get all my chips in the middle and double up.  I felt the best way to do this was through a two-step betting pattern:  checkraise the flop and shove the turn.  So I checked, the big blind checked, and the early position limper cooperated by betting 1000 into the 1200 pot.  I followed the plan, checkraising to 3500.  The big blind folded and the early position limper called.  What gives?

The early position limper’s call did not scare me at all.  I tired to get into his head.  Because the board had two diamonds on it, and because my call from the small blind could be a wide range of hands, including different flush and straight draws, his flat call on the flop (rather than a reraise) was consistent with a medium-strength made hand or a draw.  If he had a set or two pair, the common play would be to put me all in so that I would have to pay to draw at him.  Since he had flat called my checkraise, I tried to put him on the various hands that might openlimp and then call a flop checkraise.  The two hands I could envision were a medium suited ace, which gave him top pair, or a diamond draw such as the K-Q or Q-J of diamonds.  What was the plan now?

The plan was to shove all in on any non-diamond turn.  The turn was indeed a non-diamond:  the jack of spades.  I pushed all in for my remaining 5000 chips and my opponent instacalled, flipping over pocket threes for a set.  I was drawing dead. 

I muttered “nice hand” and slowly rose from my chair, gathered my stuff, and trudged off.  My brain was frozen, completely blank.  I was employing a defense mechanism that I learned in early in life and have since mastered:  withdrawal.  There is no pain when you can’t feel anything.  I walked past the tables full of hopefuls, riffling their chips.  I walked through the door, down the hallway crammed with spectators waiting in line, trying to get a glimpse of the action.  Then down two more long hallways, dazedly passing hundreds poker denizens of all kinds.  Then the torpid march through the casino floor with all its persistent noises and lights, then finally into the elevator, then down another hall, through another door, and into bed.

That was it for the 2007 Main Event.  A dud.  

Amusing side note:  I have now busted out of my three Main Events with monster hands–nine high, eight high, and three high.

The concept that 07/07/07 would be a lucky day for me was thoroughly disproven in the last few hours (my lucky number is actually six, in case anyone was wondering).

I ran into some really shitty luck in this year’s Main Event.  I will write up my very short-lived experience in the next couple of days (I’ll only need maybe four paragraphs).  For now, all you need to know is that the river hates me.

I’m not terribly disappointed.  I had a big month out here, and I’ll still be playing poker for the next few days.  Plus, I have 5% of Kevin Wright, who is going to take this thing down. 

Anyway, if all my poker months were as successful as my 2007 WSOP, I’d be rich and famous. 

Hello from Vegas.

It took me quite awhile, and yesterday was one of the more annoying days I’ve had in recent memory (details aren’t worth getting into, but Harrah’s is kind of lame), but I have my starting date for the 2007 WSOP Main Event:

07-07-07, which is tomorrow.

I am in bunker/cocoon mode until noon PST tomorrow, at which point I will offiically be in action.  I haven’t played much poker at all in the last week, but I don’t think there will be any rust to shake off once the cards are in the air. 

I’m staying on premises at the Rio this time, so I am hoping to be able to fire off a few short updates during the day, while I’m on break.  We’ll see.  That’s all for now, hopefully I can make some hands tomorrow!

DZ

The next big tournament I’ll be playing is the 2007 World Series of Poker’s Main Event.

As I’m sure most of you are aware, the Main Event is like poker’s Battle Royale:  Everyone plays, figurative fists are flying all over the place, and the tournament is both wildly unpredictable and a great value. 

The tournament is wildly unpredictable in several ways.  First, a relative unknown wins it pretty much every year.  Trying to pick a winner in this thing is an exercise in futility.  It is going to be the week of someone’s life, and chances are, you’ll never have heard of that person.  Second, and more importantly, my personal performance in this tournament is difficult to predict because it is so dependent on my table draw.  I might end up at a table with Patrik Antonius and J.C. Tran in the two seats to my immediate left, which would be a disaster.  Or–more likely–I might end up at a table with a nine players who can barely tie their shoes.  There’s no way of knowing until I actually sit down.

The Main Event is a great value for me because of the abundance of guys who can’t tie their shoes, who show up in droves every year.  These are sane people who would never think of gambing away ten thousand dollars under normal conditions.  But this is the World Series of Poker’s Main Event, where the average Joe’s dreams can and do come true!  Just plunking down the $10k is a badge of honor of sorts.  So there they all are:  normally sane guys paying $10,000 to play poker with players who are mostly better than them.

In the early stages of the Main Event, the best strategy is to leave higher level thinking on the shelf.  The most important skills are to identify the player types at your table and exploit the bad ones with the appropriate form of A-B-C poker.  In a live setting, I excel at both of these things.  This is a nice way of saying that some players might give away a lot of chips.  This obviously makes the Main Event a great value for me. 

I’ve recently been asked what I’ll be doing to prepare myself for the Main Event.  I’ve thought about the answer, and I’ve come to the realization that this year will be different from my only other Main Events, which were 2005 and 2006.

In 2005, I was playing in the biggest tournament of my life, both in terms of size and importance.  At the time, I had never seen a live field over perhaps 300 players.  In the spring of 2005, becoming a professional poker player was little more than a dream.  As it turns out, my performance in the 2005 Main Event went a long way.  That tournament made me realize that I had a lot of innate ability in poker.  It also allowed a seed that was previously unwatered to germinate.  It is very possible that I would never have changed professions had I not cashed in the 2005 Main Event.

My preparation for the 2005 Main Event reflected my relatively novice abilities.  I was in a phase where I was still absorbing tournament strategy as fast as I humanly could.  My bibles were Sklansky’s tournament book and Harrington on Hold ‘Em.  Especially Harrington on Hold ‘Em.  Despite having been through it cover-to-cover at least five times prior, I read it during most of my waking moments in the days before the tournament:  on the plane to Vegas, poolside at my hotel, while eating dinner, late at night in bed.  I literally slept next to Harrington’s two volumes for the entire trip.  Then I went out and applied them, along with a few instinctive moves sprinkled in, at the tables.  Add a dose of good luck and the result was a surprisingly high finish.

In 2006, I was once again playing the biggest tournament of my life, but I was then more seasoned.  I was a pro with one big cash under my belt, and my strategic thinking extended well beyond Harrington.  I was employing new concepts, ones I had learned mostly from PokerXFactor.com, and I had been testing them out online and in smaller live events.  I still wasn’t completely sure of my fundamentals, so I continued to carry Harrington’s books with me on the road, referring to them liberally during my downtime.  I still had the sneaking suspicion that I would be somehow outclassed for much of the tournament, but Day 1 disabused me of that notion quickly.  Once again, with the help of lady luck, I managed an impressive finish.

Now, things have changed somewhat drastically.  Comparatively speaking, I’m a veteran of the poker scene.  If you compare my 1.5 years of professional experience to the average Main Event participant, I’m a veritable wise old owl.  All the things I’ve gleaned from Harrington, PokerXFactor, 2+2, conversations with smart poker players, etc. etc. are now engrained in my head, forming my basic strategy.  Like a big league shortstop fielding a routine grounder and tossing it to first, the fundamentals of the game are now practically etched in my DNA.  As a result, I actually consciously avoid reading poker manuals in the days and hours before a big tournament.  All they can possibly do is alter the things I innately understand.  Does a professional chef need a cookbook to scramble eggs? 

So I guess the short answer is: 

Beyond asking the poker gods for my third consecutive year of good luck, I’m going to do nothing to prepare for the Main Event.

More to come from Sin City….

Boiyoiyoinnng…

That’s the sound of my confidence bouncing back from the subterranean level.  The last two weeks have left me feeling like I’m really on my game.  When I analyze my play, I either end up feeling sky high or miserable about it.  I think the absence of any middle ground (where the truth likely resides) is due to the relative youth of my poker career.  I’m still not used to the swings, so my self-confidence gravitates in the direction of my most recent results.

I finished exactly 100th in Event #38, which was about as good as was possible with the cards I was dealt on Day Two.

Boiyoiyoinnnnng…..

That’s also the sound of a basketball being bounced.

You see, during the tournament, something occurred to me.  I realized that in these $1500 events with 3,000 person fields, I have way more tricks up my sleeve than the average player.  My experience and study has enabled me to understand how relative stack sizes, position, stack-to-blind ratios, table image, table dynamics, and other factors all combine to create a good strategy for each hand.  In short, I’m a better preflop player than at least 90% of these fields.

It reminded me of something that really has nothing to do with poker:  playing basketball.  When I was a lot younger–throughout high school, and when I came home on breaks from college and law school, I used to play a lot of pickup basketball (also stickball), usually at an outdoor court in Sea Cliff, New York.  The participants varied widely in age, size, and skill level–you were equally likely to encounter an old fat guy wearing kneepads and smelling like Ben-Gay as you were a senior on the varsity team–but any group of three was welcome to play halfcourt ball, provided they called out that they “got next.” 

This was not West 4th Street.  These games were pretty novice, and there was one thing separated the good players from the hopeless ones:  the ability to dribble the basketball.  I don’t mean to say that this was a game full of bozos bouncing the ball off their own legs; most of us were pretty decent.  But there were a couple of guys who really had a “handle.”  That is, they could dribble out of trouble and create opportunities for themselves, even when it meant going between their legs, behind their backs, using a stutter-dribble, a yo-yo dribble… whatever the situation required.  These players, even when they were very small or terrible shooters, usually ended up on the winning team in our little three-on-three games.  There is only one way to acquire the skills these kids had:  combine a modicum of talent with a whole lot of practice. 

That’s me in a No Limit Hold-Em tournament with a massive field.  I can dribble circles around the average clod.

I’ve made it to day two of Event #38, $1500 NLHE.  We’re down to around 180 players out of 2,778, well into the money.  I’ve got a medium/shortish stack of 38,100.

I’ll update this post with more specific information when I get up tomorrow.  Cards are in the air at 2:00 p.m. PST.  It’s been a really nutty tournament for me, I’ve withstood some very nasty hands to somehow stay on my feet at this point. 

This also means that I’m batting a downright silly .500 in WSOP tournaments.  I’ve cashed in half of the ones I’ve entered. 

Sunday Update:  There’s not really much to update.  There are actually 170 players left, and I’m sorta near the middle of the pack.  There were two occasions yesterday where I got into big hands that would have made me a serious force in this tournament and significantly increased my chances to make another massive score.  On one hand I lost a race, and on the second I flopped bottom set when my opponent flopped middle set.  I’ve done well to make it as far as I’ve come. 

I will be moving chips today.

When I left off, I had just made the final table of Event #12 of the 2007 WSOP, and I was pumped.  High stakes poker competition really increases the amount of adrenaline in the system—I had no idea how much was coursing through my veins last Friday until play finished for the night.  I was wired.  It was very late on the East Coast, but Janeen was wide awake too, fully aware of what I had accomplished and possibly more excited than me.  We had a breathless, excited phone conversation, and then I also phoned my parents.  News of my final table was on the short list of things big enough to bother them about at 3:00 am.  I also posted news of my accomplishment on this blog and on the message board at rhythmism.com, a NYC-based internet community that I’m a long-tenured member of.  I once again struggled to sleep as I considered my final table strategy.    

This may seem odd to some of you, but making the final table of the Six Handed event was the hard part.  Sitting down and playing out the final table was going to be relatively easy for me.  Although I was positively thrilled to have gotten there, and although it was going to be the highest stakes poker I’d ever experienced, the strategy at the final table was going to be both simple and familiar.  The reason:  I have played thousands of online sit –n-go’s. 

Over the past year, I have bitched a good deal about sit-n-go’s on this blog.  I have called them pointless and equated playing them to beating one’s head against a wall.  But as I mentally prepared myself for the Six-Handed final table, it occurred to me that perhaps all those sit-n-go’s were about to pay dividends.  This is ironic, since the only poker that ever gets televised is at final tables, but I realized that the following day’s final table was nothing more than a glorified sit –n-go with half a million dollars at stake. 

My precise strategy was based on what I knew about the players and those players’ stack sizes.  And here’s what my scouting report said:

I was in the 1 seat with 899,000 chips. 

In the 2 seat was Matt Brady with the shortest stack, 381,000 chips.  This player/stack size combination completely dictated my strategy.  Matt is a strong player and he had a “reshove” stack.  This means that his stack was too big for openshoving, but too small to get really fancy with.  His obvious best play was to reraise someone all in preflop.  If I were to raise on the button or in the cutoff, I knew that he would not hesitate to move all in with hands as weak as A-x or K-J and the like.  If I raised with garbage and he did this, I would find myself in the uncomfortable position of having to either lay the hand down or make a risky “math call” with a hand that I knew was an underdog.  This meant that I absolutely could not openraise light when Matt had yet to act.

In the 3 seat was Brian Miller with 831,000 chips.  This was another good player who had position on me.  I felt that if anyone at the table was going to pull something tricky, it was this player.  The combination of Brady and Miller to my left was bad; both of these players would make me pay for any foolish steal attempts.

In the 4 seat was Steve Olek with 484,000 chips.  I didn’t have a really good feel for this player’s game, but my sense was that he’d play a good, solid, smart game.

In the 5 seat was Jason Warner, the chip leader with 945,000 chips.  From observing him, reading the recaps of Day 2’s play, and from a conversation I had with Brady, I had a full scouting report on Jason.  I knew that he was very aggressive and completely unafraid to make big calls.  There were several instances from Day 2 where he picked up a hand and went with it in the face of heavy betting from his opponent.  I was going to have a hand if I ever went to war with this player.

Finally, in the 6 seat was David Mitchell-Lolis with 736,000 chips.  I didn’t know a lot about David, so I pegged him as a classic TAG player and would proceed under that assumption until I had reason to believe otherwise.

The bottom line was that the player to my left would be itching to move his chips in whenever I raised, and the player two seats to my left was capable of doing something crazy.  So at the outset, I really had no choice but to openraise only with very strong hands and pass on everything else.  Having determined this, I continued to lie in bed waiting for my adrenaline rush to subside.  I managed to get maybe four or five hours of fitful sleep.

When I awoke, I took a shower and selected my clothes:  my favorite jeans, a comfortable blank army green t-shirt, pumas, and of course, my “Sug D’s” sweatshirt.  I repeated my routine from the day before.  I ate breakfast and took a long, hot walk.  Then I sat in my room in a semi-meditative state waiting for the minutes to pass by.  My cell phone was exploding with text messages, and both this blog and rhythimism were filled with messages from well-wishers.  I was proud to have such a big support network and it really charged me up.  I eventually managed to kill off enough time, and it was time to go.  I headed over to the Rio.  I felt exactly the same as I did 24 hours earlier:  excited and nervous, but unafraid.

When I arrived in the poker room, I found the rest of the final table participants grouped together awaiting instruction from the floor personnel, who were conspicuously absent.  We had an open discussion about how charged up we all were.  It was my first real interaction with everyone besides Brady, and all of them were nice guys.  Even though we were about to enter a competition for huge sums of money, there was a collective sense of accomplishment amongst us which created some camaraderie.  Then someone, I believe Mitchell-Lolis, indicated that he was amenable to dealmaking.  The others agreed that the prize structure (481k for 1st, 269k for 2nd, 186k for 3rd, 123k for 4th, 92k for 5th, 61k for 6th) was alarmingly steep.

I was probably the second most accomplished live tournament player in the group behind Brady.  Since he was the shortest stack, I took the lead and proposed a new payout structure.  I took $81,000 off of first place and redistributed it, proposing a 400-294-206-138-102-72 arrangement.  It seemed to appeal to everyone, but after a couple of minutes, Miller demurred, requesting that we play through to the first break and revisit it at that point.  And then the tournament director appeared.

We were led to an area away from the commotion of the main floor, towards a small area encircled with a curtain.  Our final table was not an ESPN final table.  Instead, it was scheduled to be part of a new WSOP feature for 2007:  a webcast aired on a one-hour delay, with holecard cameras and analysts.  Worldseriesofpoker.com had exclusive rights to both the webcast and updates.  This meant that we would play in complete seclusion, and that special precautions had to be taken.  All six of us were ordered to hand over our cell phones and any other electronic equipment on our persons, and then we were all frisked to ensure that we hadn’t smuggled any communications devices in with us.  Then we entered the final table area and had microphones attached to our collars.  We were informed that we would be sequestered on all breaks.  If any of us wished to go to the bathroom, we would be accompanied by a security guard. 

I walked into the little makeshift room.  The black curtains were only a few feet from the table.  There would be no spectators; only the six players, a dealer, the tournament director and a couple of production people.  I found my seat and unbagged my chips.  The production folks made some last minute adjustments as we all nervously waited.  Then it was finally time to get the cards in the air.

Many of you have already watched the webcast, and most of you are already aware of the key hands.  I’m going to try and focus on my reasons for making certain plays and my emotions in the following recap.  It was pretty cool watching the webcast after all was said and done.  I was able to really analyze my decisions and pinpoint my misplays.

As soon as play got underway, I noticed two things:  first, the tournament director was doing play-by-play on a microphone.  This was cool, but it also seemed unusual since there was no audience.  Second, Warner was on a big heater.  Right out of the gate, he won several large pots and emerged as the unquestioned chip leader.  The players he took chips from at first were Miller and Brady, which was a good development for me.

The first hand I played was, in my opinion, my biggest misplay of the entire final table.  It was the very first hand of the final table and I was in the big blind.  The action was folded to Mitchell-Lolis in the small blind.  He raised to three times the big blind and I defended my blind with A-6 offsuit.  The flop came a very dry 10-5-2 rainbow, and he made a standard continuation bet of around two-thirds of the pot.  This was a great spot to either raise, or even better, float (call) and take the pot away on the turn.  Under normal conditions I would float this flop, but instead, I meekly folded. 

I am ashamed to admit that the reason I folded was that it was the first hand of a huge final table and I wasn’t in the flow just yet.  Plain and simple, I tightened up.  I was unhappy with myself, but did not lose focus.  I later learned that Mitchell-Lolis had A-J.  I could have won that pot.

Soon thereafter a huge hand developed.  Warner raised with Kc10c, and Miller defended his blind with Ad-6s.  The flop came 7-8-7 with two clubs, giving Warner two overs and a flush draw.  Miller took a stab, and Warner flat called.  The turn was an irrelevant three of diamonds, and both players checked.  The river was the king of spades, giving Warner top pair.  Miller checked and Warner made a small value bet.  Miller then went into a long period of contemplation before pushing all in, a big bet.  Warner considered for a very long time and made a huge call, busting Miller.  I don’t love the way Miller played this hand, and I believe it might have been one of the only hands he misplayed the entire tournament.  The really important aspects of this hand, from my perspective, were:

-I had just made $31,000.
-A dangerous player who had position on me was gone.
-The rumor about Warner was confirmed:  he calls light.

The next hand busted the shortstacked Brady.  He openshoved K-6, and Warner, still busy stacking his chips from the previous hand, called with A-6.  Again, from my perspective:

-I just made another $31,000.
-A dangerous player with position on me was gone.
-Warner had all the chips.

On his way out the door, Brady, who I am happy to have befriended during this tournament, whispered in my ear a huge compliment:  “You have a great chance of winning this thing.  Go get ‘em.”  Translation: you’re the best player in the room. 

I am not arrogant enough to say that he was right, but I am comfortable admitting that I was quite happy that he and Miller were the first two to go.  My three remaining opponents were all excellent players, but I felt that I had a good read on them.  Namely, this read was that Olek and Mitchell-Lolis were cautious and bluffable while Warner was very dangerous and had neither of those characteristics.

Meanwhile, the tide was about to turn for the previously shortstacked Olek.  After losing another pot to Warner when Warner hit a gutshot straight on the turn (the kid was on fire), Olek began to make up ground.  First he doubled through Warner, JJ over 99.  Then he shoving all in when I openraised on the button with A-10, forcing me to fold (he held pocket sevens). 

My next stab at a steal was a few hands later with K-7.  Once again, I was foiled by Olek, who shoved all in, and again I folded (he had pocket aces).  Things were not going well.  Yes, I had crept up the prize ladder and was now guaranteed $123,000, but I was now the shortest stack left.  I had made zero impact on the final table thus far.  And then things got even worse.  I went card dead.  I tossed away trash hand after trash hand as my three opponents traded blows.  The blinds were $15,000 and $30,000, and I had only about $350,000 in my stack.  I found one spot to openshove, which allowed me to pick up some antes and blinds, but then went right back to being card dead. 

Right before the first break, Olek won a strange pot from Warner.  Warner openlimped under the gun for $30,000 with pocket fours.  Mitchell-Lolis called from the button with J-10.  I completed from the small blind with J-6.  Olek, sitting in the big blind with A-9 of hearts, chose to raise the pot to $155,000.  Warner, possibly sensing weakness, reraised to $350,000.  Mitchell-Lolis and I folded, and Olek, sitting on only about $700,000, must have sensed that Warner wasn’t that strong, because he called the reraise.  The flop came 10d-9d-2h, and Olek moved in for his last $400,000.  Warner must have felt committed to the pot, or perhaps he was just continuing with his serial calling.  In either event, he immediately called with his underpair.  I sat there dumbfounded, as I could neither understand the way the hand was played preflop nor comprehend how they both accurately sensed weakness in one another.  Then Warner hit another miracle card:  a two-outer on the turn– the four of hearts–which put him in the lead but also gave Olek a flush draw.  Upon seeing the four, Olek understandably recoiled from the table in horror.  And just when it looked like I was about to guarantee myself another $53,000, Olek re-sucked out on Warner as the five of hearts hit the river giving him a flush!  Olek celebrated, and Warner shrugged.  Whoa.

When went to break, the chip counts were as follows:

Warner:  1.6 million
Olek:  1.4 million
Michell-Lolis:  970,000
Me:  305,000

After the break, the blinds were going to be 20,000-40,000 with a 5,000 ante, putting me in full-blown desperation mode.  Where was I at emotionally?  Nowhere, really.  I recognized that I was playing correctly (with the exception of the very first hand), and that this was not foreign territory for me.  I knew how to pick my spots to push all-in.  I would pick a decent spot and hope for things to fall my way.  I would continue playing my glorified sit –n-go.  Simple as that.

Meanwhile, my three opponents were anxious to work out a deal.  On the break, which was chaperoned by two security guards in a small quiet room in the bowels of the Rio’s convention area, a deal was hammered out.  It seemed that everyone wanted to lock in as much prize money as possible, which was understandable in light of the amount at stake. 

The initial proposal, made by Mitchell-Lolis, was to give the fourth place finisher an additional $26,000, then make the top three spots an even split, with the final two players playing only for the bracelet.  I rejected this idea, saying that I’d prefer that first place make more money than second.  I also prefaced my comment by mentioning that I would likely agree to any deal that included at least $26,000 more for fourth place.  I am a realist, and I knew that my likely destiny at this point was fourth.  I was a big underdog to finish in any other position.  In the end, the four of us agreed that fourth place would be bumped up $29,000 to $152,000, and that second and third would each earn $275,000, with the bracelet and $350,000 going to the champion.  On the walk through the Rio’s catacombs back to the final table, we all shook hands on this arrangement.  I was very happy, as I had just locked in almost $30,000 on the mere fortuity that we happened to go on break at that time.  I was also happy because I understood that we were on a massive bubble right now, since the deal we had brokered significantly widened the gap between fourth place and third place.  I knew that if I got my hands on some chips, I would begin to wreak havoc.

When we got back to business, I was forced to fold the first few hands, knocking me down into super-desperation mode, around $250,000 chips.  Then, at last, I turned up the heat. 

The first shove was with the A-6 of hearts and went uncalled.  Stack. 

Thee second time, Michell-Lolis made the mistake of limping into my big blind, and I shoved with K-3.  He folded.  Stack, stack. 

The third time, I had Q-J in the small blind and Olek didn’t call.  Stack, stack, stack.

The fourth time, I had A-3 on the button.  No customers.  That was four in a row.  Now I had over 400,000 chips.  Stack, stack, stack, stack.  Then came a bunch of folds.

The fifth time, Michell-Lolis limped into my big blind again, and I shoved with K-4.  Staaaaaack.

The sixth was another Q-J in the small blind.  Staaaaaaaaaaack.  Around 360,000 chips.

The seventh was a reshove with AK against Mitchell-Lolis’ raise.  Up to around 600,000.

Then came something special:  the best hand of my life.
  
I was in the big blind, and Olek started the action by raising under the gun to $100,000.  This was a very small raise, only 2.5 times the big blind.  Mitchell-Lolis called from the button, and I looked down at the 6-4 of diamonds.  I was getting very favorable odds and made a speculative call, hoping to flop something big.

I flopped something big:  it came 6-4-3 rainbow.  Yes!  I successfully concealed the excitement brewing inside me and checked.  My heart raced as Olek led at the flop for $200,000.  Then Mitchell-Lolis called very quickly, swelling the pot to over $700,000.  What the hell did that smooth call mean?  Very ominous.  I didn’t like it one bit, but there was a 0.00% chance I was doing anything but shoving all in.  So with my top two pair, that’s exactly what I did.

The next two minutes were bizarre.  Olek took a very long time to make a decision.  He counted his chips, put his hands to his face, he muttered to himself a bit, then he recounted his chips, then he rested his face in his hand and continued to think.  A photographer took several shots of all three of us during the delay.  I realized that I definitely had Olek crushed, but I wasn’t too sure about Mitchell-Lolis.  Even though my action was complete, I took the opportunity to stare Mictchell-Lolis down while Olek deliberated.  Our eyes met a few times, and the conclusion I drew was that I had reason to be worried.  I thought there was a very good chance that I was up against a set of threes.  After what felt like an eternity, Olek folded.  At that point, Michell-Lolis immediately said “easy call” as he pushed his stack in.  “I got the nuts.”  Fuuuuuck.  He turned over the 7-5 of hearts.  Yup.  He had flopped the nuts.      

Televised poker makes a big deal out of the “all in moment.”  While I’m not necessarily sure that all-ins deserve their own sponsor, it is true that when someone moves in and is called, the game changes radically.  When you’re all in and have been called, the poker strategy, which you’ve usually spent many hours and sometimes many days enmeshed with, suddenly ceases to exist.  Your destiny now rests in fate’s hands.  Having no more reason to posture, the player melts away and is replaced by the person.  From behind the emotionless façade that poker requires, the real true-to-life “you” emerges for a few seconds.  Therefore, some people use this time to berate their opponent.  Some use it to berate and punish themselves.  Some use it to exalt themselves.  Some–typically the player who is a statistical underdog–use their few seconds to ask a higher power for help. 

Now, as three days of hard work culminated in an all-in as a 5-1 underdog, I didn’t feel the need to do any of these things.  My player melted away and was replaced by a person who was dejected, to be sure, but also one that was satisfied.  It wasn’t a misplay that got me here.  I had to move in with top two pair.  I was going to win $150,000 even if the board bricked out.  I stood up and turned in my resignation in the form of a handshake with Mitchell-Lolis, then stood and watched as the dealer burned and turned….

The six of clubs!!! 

Holy shit!  I instinctively clapped my hands, wheeled around, away from the table (where an irrelevant river card was being dealt), took a few steps and pumped my fist triumphantly in the air.  I bellowed “ship the money!” as I turned back towards the table with a look of determination fixed on my face.  Not a look of surprise.  Not a look of happiness, but one of determination.  I stood and admired my full house for a moment, then I (literally) rolled up my sleeves and began stacking my suddenly bountiful chips.  Poor Mitchell-Lolis was left with only crumbs.  It dawned on me right then.  I was going to win the bracelet.  We were still playing a sit-n-go, but I had just gotten lucky.  Now we were on a bubble and I had a lot of chips.  That was a horrible state of affairs for these other guys.  Watch out.

I’ve heard numerous accounts of the scenes–at my parents’ house, at Janeen’s apartment, and at Kevin and Carrie’s apartment—where friends and family were watching on the internet when the six hit the turn.  It fills me with a lot of happiness to think about so many people rejoicing in my good fortune, and I’m proud to have provided such a great moment for people who care about me.

Now Warner and I had the most chips.  On the very next hand, I picked up pocket queens in the small blind.  The pot was raised to $100,000 under the gun by Warner, and I chose to flat call.  The reasons for my flat call:  I wanted to proceed cautiously against the other big stack, who was a player I thought was likely to call a reraise, and we were on a big bubble, with the gap between fourth and third place being a whopping $125,000.  Olek called in the big blind and we saw a flop three handed.  It came 9-7-5 rainbow, which was very favorable for me.  I checked with the intention of putting in a checkraise.  Olek also checked, and Warner made a curiously small bet of only $150,000.  I immediately raised to $475,000, and both of my opponents went away.  I showed them my queens and raked the pot.  I was off in first place now all by my lonesome, with over 2 million chips in my possession.  Stack, stack, stack. 

Watching the tape after the fact, I learned that Olek flat called from the big blind with AK suited.  This was a curious play, but it was likely made because of the aforementioned bubble we were on.  Mitchell-Lolis was extremely short, and Olek didn’t want to forfeit the $125,000 that he stood to win by outlasting him.

My strategy now was obvious.  Raise any two cards into Olek and Warner.  I was going to abuse this $125,000 bubble.  I stole the blinds on the next hand, then found pocket 10s on Mitchell-Lolis’ big blind.  I openraised, and he called all in with K-J, then flopped two jacks to stay alive.  Undeterred, I continued to raise every hand, once stealing the blinds, then losing a pot when Warner defended his big blind and made a nice checkraise on the flop.

I then raised A-3 suited on Mitchell-Lolis’ big blind, and he pushed all in with K-7 for not much more than my raise.  I instacalled, and again was outflopped as he hit a seven.  I no longer had the chip lead.  It once again belonged to Warner.  Doh.

The next hand of note was another huge one.  At the start of this hand, I had around 1.3 million chips and Warner had about 1.6 million chips.  I openlimped on the button with the Q-9 of diamonds.  The reason for the limp was that Warner was in the big blind, and I felt he was prone to call lightly on any stealraise attempt I might have made.  Now that he had me outchipped, I wanted get into a pot cheaply in position and outplay him postflop.  He ended up raising to $150,000, which was a small raise from out of position, giving me obvious odds to call, which I did.  The flop put me in a great spot.  It came down Q-Q-J with two hearts, giving me trip queens.  Warner made another small lead bet of $150,000, leaving me with a big decision to make.  How to extract the most value?  I wanted to double through here. 

I wasn’t going to flat call, but how much should I raise?  I thought it over for awhile, but in the end the decision was an easy one.  I made a huge overbet by moving all in.  The announcers on the webcast were initially very critical of this play, but it was the right move.  Here’s why.  First of all, the board was very coordinated.  That meant that it was possible that my opponent could have a draw, and possibly a very powerful one such as the A-10 of hearts.  A small raise could never price out a big combination draw, but an overbet would at least take away his perceived three-bet fold equity.  The coordinated board also meant, that if he held some kind of made hand, that an overbet on my part would look like I held a draw, when I in fact held a made hand.  The other major factor, the one that clinched my decision, was opponent-specific.  This guy was a light caller.  He loved to make the big call.  I knew he’d call my shove with any jack and most pocket pairs.  So it honestly was a no-brainer:  all in and pray for a call.  That’s what I did.  Conjuring the most desperate-looking way of doing it, I thought for about 20 seconds then blurted “all in” with a wave of my hand.  Then I sat back and prayed.

Warner reacted by leaning backwards and saying “flush draw?”  Then he went into a very, very long period of deliberation.  I sat there trying to look as scared as possible, but Warner wasn’t looking for any kind of physical read.  His sat very still, with his head down.  He was thinking things out for himself.  Then he asked for a count, and spoke. “It’s either gonna be a great call or a horrible call.”  Wow.  Then another ten second pause before he said “I think I got the best of it.”  Wow.  Then, thirty more seconds before he pulled his cap down over his eyes.  Then another sixty seconds of silence, followed by a pronounced exhale.  I shot him a glance which I hoped might convey that I was scared, but I don’t think it registered.  And then, after what was probably a four minute delay all tolled, there it was:  “I call.”

I turned over the Q-9 and waited anxiously to see exactly which cards I would have to dodge, and was shocked to learn that the answer was two sevens.  I stood up and clapped my hands.  Then I nervously watched the turn and river cards:  both fours.  Yessssss.  I slowly pumped my fist.  I had just won a HUGE pot from the other big stack.  Holy crap.  I had all the chips.  I was over 2.5 million chips, and no one else had 600,000.  It was pretty obvious now:  I was going to win a goddamned WSOP bracelet.

A few hands later, Mitchell-Lolis moved all in under the gun, and I made an isolation raise from the button with A-6 offsuit.  He had K-5.  The A-6 held, and we were down to three.  A short break was taken, during which I went to the men’s room, accompanied by a security guard.  During the break I neither celebrated nor strategized.  There was no need for either.  I was in the zone, on autopilot.  I’d been the monster stack three-handed in a sit-n-go hundreds of times.  Since both second and third place were guaranteed the same prize money, I knew that my strategy was now to only openraise with value, since Olek and Warner would be looking to reshove with almost anything.  From watching the webcast after the tournament, I know that Olek spoke with Warner, resignedly saying that they “had their work cut out for them.”  They certainly did.

Soon enough, I’d have my opportunity to get rid of another player.  I woke up with A-K on the button and made a standard raise.  Warner moved all in from the big blind, and I snap called.  He had K-8, and he got out of his chair, ready to depart.  If my heavily favored big slick held up, the tournament was all over but the cryin’.  I had it in my grasp, it was time to deliver two to coup-de-graces.  This was going to be the first.

No, it wasn’t.  The flop came J-8-7 and K-8 was good.  Sigh.  Warner was back over a million chips, and my lead over him was only roughly 2-1.  Olek was now the clear shorty, and the landscape had changed.  I once again had to contend with a stack that could seriously hurt me.

I finally put Olek away a few hands later, when I openraised with A-10 and he shoved with K-10.  Unfortunately for him, he didn’t have Warner’s magic touch, and I sent him to the rail.  I was heads up for the bracelet with a 2-1 chip lead.

A very long delay ensued, while the WSOP people brought the requisite bracelet and massive pile of cash to the table.  I considered my heads up strategy.  There was only one against Mr. Warner.  It was so obvious that it barely merits saying:  play smallball and value bet all made hands.  He’ll give me action. 

It was during the long break that I noticed something odd.  The dealer, a bald guy of Middle Eastern descent, was stealing glances at me and tapping the table.  Huh?  I looked up and realized I that I knew him.  I had played poker against him in Atlantic City.  Yes, I remembered him.  He told me back then, probably 18 months ago, that he was not only a player but also a dealer.  I looked at his name tag:  Bassam.

“Hi Bassam, how you doin’?”

“I’m good,” he replied.  Then, in a hushed tone, he smiled and said “way to go, buddy.”  I smiled too, and thanked him. 

After possibly twenty or thirty minutes, the bracelet and the cash arrived.  I was so dialed in that I hardly noticed.  It was time to bring this thing home.

The heads up match opened without any real fireworks.  Warner’s standard openraises were very large:  $300,000–five times the big blind.  It was evident that he was trying to force me to gamble.  But I stuck with the plan and started to grind him down.  Then, with me sitting on around 2.4 million and Warner 1.2 million, on perhaps the seventh or eighth hand of the heads up match….

Warner openlimped on the button.  I had pocket sevens and raised to 300,000.  Warner responded by immediately moving all in.  I shook my head and stood up, leaning over the table.  I really didn’t want it to go down like this, to be forced into a big call, but he was forcing my hand.  I was ahead of his range, which included many combinations of overcards and all the underpairs.  So much for smallball.  If this was how it had to be, this was how it had to be.  This was it. 

“I call.”

Our face-up cards hit the table at the same time.  He had pocket fives and I had pocket sevens.  Fives against sevens.  I loved my hand!  I loved my pocket sevens!  They had landed on the table right on top of one another, so the second beautiful seven was obscured.  I leaned over and separated them with my fingers for the world to see.  Pocket sevens.  Pocket sevens dominate pocket fives!  Holy mother of God.  All in for the bracelet.  I clapped my hands, happy with my call.

I stood at the side of the table.  The weight of the moment took a literal toll, so I leaned forward against the table’s padded rail for support.  All in with a call.  The player melted away, leaving only the person.  The player David Zeitlin slipped away and became the person David Zeitlin.  And the person David Zeitlin wanted to remember.

I remembered what brought me here—not all the hands I’ve analyzed in the space above, but what really brought me here, the real roots of my love.

I remembered discovering playing cards.  As a young child, I loved to touch them.  All alone in my room, I’d sit there touching them.  They were fascinating—their backs with their dizzying innumerable lines that formed a special pattern, fascinating in their complex uniformity. 

The fronts were still more wonderful.  The aces, in their simple solitary omnipotence.  The ace of spades said “Tally-Ho.”  The kings, queens and jacks.  A royal painted family sitting there in their strange, colorful two-dimensional portraits.  And all the other cards, down to the lowly treys and deuces, which when put together in the right combinations, could form powerful alliances capable of destroying the aces and royal paints.  Magic.  I would look at them, shuffle them, turn them, touch them for hours.  All in preparation for this moment.

The flop was the king of spades, nine of spades, ten of spades (no spades in either of our hands).

I remembered poker theory—how, starting in the year 2001, I’d tirelessly studied poker theory, committing it to memory, then applying it in practice, just as I’d done with very different theories for as long as I could remember, first in school and then in my prior profession.  All in preparation for this moment.

The turn was the queen of clubs.

And finally, I remembered the man who hatched my love for poker almost thirty years ago, my Pop-Pop.  I remembered that my training ground, the scene of my very first heads-up matches, was the kitchen table in my grandparents’ row house in Douglaston, Queens.  We used pennies as chips.  I thought about how unspeakably proud he’d be right now if he were watching his grandson.  Watching his grandson not only earn a living at the game he loved, but watching his grandson on the verge of achieving one of the game’s highest honors.  My mind was spinning out of control, spinning through these memories, but it came to rest on a sainted image of my Pop-Pop’s face smiling a placid contented smile.  I missed him.  I was about to cry.  No, I wasn’t.  Yes, I was.  I wasn’t sure.

And then, like a gunshot piercing the quiet of a still night, it came to a sudden halt.  Bassam only had to peel the card off the deck and turn it upward, like the millions of other cards I’ve seen the same thing done to before.  Five pips.  I didn’t need it to be placed on the felt and slid into position.  I already knew it was the dreamcrusher.

Five of diamonds.

I wailed “OHHHH NOOOOOO!!!” and doubled over in pain.  It wasn’t meant to be.

I’m sure many people assume that I was unable to recover emotionally from the beat, and with the chip lead lost, that I played horribly from that point forward.  Quite the opposite is true.  I regrouped and played well.  In fact, I’m very proud of the second to last hand, on which I held pocket aces, but mystified the webcast announcers by not going broke. 

But it was Jason Warner’s day.  On the final hand, I once again led on the turn, only to be rivered one more time.

I was in shock, but I gave a classy exit interview.  When I went out into the hall, I was greeted by Olek and Mitchell-Lolis, who were both ecstatic.  In fact, the entire final table was composed of very classy, nice guys.  I slowly began to come around as well.  $274,000 is a lot of scrilla, and I really should have finished fourth.  In the end, I have nothing to complain about.

The aftermath of the tournament was the best.  I received so many nice messages that I don’t even know where to start.  People with whom I haven’t spoken in years got in touch with me.  I was a mini-celebrity for a week.  I happily wrote a check to Kevin for over $27,000, his fair share of the winnings, then surprised him and Carrie by triumphantly throwing it on the table in the middle of a betting round at our old home game.  My parents, sister, girlfriend, and entire family are proud of me.  I am walking with my head held high.  Second place in a World Series of Poker event. 

If you look at my live tournament resume, there are several serious cashes on there.  One would get the impression by looking at it that not only do i know what I’m doing, but that I’m a closer.  And maybe both of those things are true.

I’m a happy bridesmaid.

. 

I’ve been asked the same two questions many times in the last few days.  The answers are:  1) yes, there are many important hands I skip in my tournament recaps; and 2) yes, I do bluff.  As a matter of fact, I intentionally chose not to mention a couple of hands from Day 1 where I was completely snowing someone.  Part II…
 

In my previous entry, I admitted that my emotional well being was in question at the start of Event #12.  On the morning of Day 2, any emotional weakness was a distant memory.  My Day 1 performance was the elixir.  I had pulled a 180-degree turnaround.  Yes, I had gotten lucky in a couple of spots, but mostly I had outplayed nearly everyone at my tables on the first day, and looking back the morning after, I was quite aware of it.  I had emerged from a morass of self-doubt, my confidence was cresting, and I honestly sensed that I was on the precipice of something big (hence this blog entry).

There would be 62 players left when Day 2 started, and I was sitting in 14th place with 96,000 chips.  At the top of the leaderboard were the monstrous J.C. Tran and a player I respect and have learned a great deal from, Eric Haber.  Was I nervous?  Yes, a bit.  But was I scared?  Hell no.  I resolved to play like a dangerous guy, to take on the role of that player that no one really wants to tangle with.  And that is the correct way to handle the vital stage of the tournament I was about to jump into.

When there’s 62 players left out of 1,400 in a $1500 bracelet event, you’re in rarified air.  Many players freeze up under those conditions, which is a natural reaction with so much money on the line.  But the steep prize structure (almost half a million for first, $62,000 for sixth, much less for positions 7 through 62) and the very fact that many players are naturally constricting their play mean that this is actually the time to accelerate.  I am so well schooled in this important concept that I went into Day 2 without fear.  It was final table or bust.  I would not bother to second guess myself if I kamikaze’d my way to the rail.  It was important, in order for me to summon the guts to make daring plays, for me to feel dangerous going in, and I did.

Play was scheduled to begin at 2:00 pm, but I was ready to rock by 10:00 am.  I killed some time first by eating breakfast, then by websurfing in my hotel room, and then finally by exiting my hotel and talking a long, destination-less walk up Tropicana Avenue.  If you’re anywhere but the center of the Strip, taking a stroll in Las Vegas is virtually pointless.  The place is simply not built for pedestrians:  every building is at least a half mile from the next one, on many roads they don’t even bother providing sidewalks, and within five minutes your throat and clothes are both coated with a thin layer of dust and you’re pouring sweat.  But if your only goal is something inane like killing time and getting some blood flowing, then taking a walk in Vegas can do the trick.

When play began, I discovered that there were a surprising number of railbirds sweating the tournament, the most I’d ever witnessed from inside the rail, except for when I’ve played the main event.  There was a silent acknowledgment of how much was at stake, and the crowd, like the players, was surprisingly pensive.  That was fine by me, since my intention was to immediately start making a lot of waves in an otherwise quiet pond.

Once the cards were in the air, however, it quickly became apparent that I would be doing no such thing.  The reason was a fellow New Yorker in the 1 Seat by the name of Alex Balandin.  Alex started the day with only 14,000 chips but was taking the play away from the rest of the table by relentlessly shoving all in.  He rapidly chipped up to around 40,000, and then when someone looked him up with A-7, his A-4 sucked out.  And he didn’t stop there, he continued to mercilessly raise one hand after another.  I openraised once on his big blind, and he promptly shoved all his chips in, forcing me to fold.  Hmmmm. 

Out of nowhere, Alex’s maniacal play had pushed him up among the chipleaders with around 50 players remaining.  I languished around the middle of the pack with 80,000 chips.  The field thinned to 45, then 40 players as I bided my time, watching Balandin gobble up every chip in sight.  I was card dead; all I could do was sit back in a sleepy-looking state and wait for a good spot to finally tangle with him.

And then, for the first time in the tournament, when I looked down at my hole cards I was greeted by pocket aces.  I was in the small blind, licking my chops as the action was passed to Balandin, but he folded his hand.  It got folded all the way around to me, and I chose to simply complete the 4000 chip big blind.  This was par for the course for me, as I had been willing to play small pots out of position in blind-vs.-blind confrontations all tournament.  The big blind, a very nice guy (with impeccable jewdar) by the name of David Slan, shoved all in for around 40,000 and I immediately called.  He had 10-7 offsuit and my aces held up, giving me some more chips to work with.  Into Slan’s vacated seat was moved the aforementioned Garrett Beckman.

Next, I finally got involved with Balandin.  And to be perfectly honest, I have no idea what I was doing on this hand.  I raised to 11,000 from the cutoff with Ac8h, and Balandin protected his big blind.  The flop came K-J-8 with two diamonds, giving me bottom pair with no draw.  Balandin checked, and so did I.  I did not like my hand, and my first instinct was to just try and show it down.  The turn card was the 10 of diamonds, completing about 50 possible draws.  I still had bottom pair, i.e., dogshit.  Balandin checked again, and since he had shown no aggression so far, I fired a 20,000 chip bet, leaving me with 90,000 behind.  Balandin called without any thought.  Ugh.  The river was a black seven, creating a very messy board that included a three-flush and numerous connected cards, a myriad of possibilities.  I still had dogshit.  Balandin considered for a moment and checked.  I was in the middle of nowhere with this hand and faced with a choice:  concede the hand and work with my 90,000 chips or take another wild stab and pray for a fold.  For reasons I’m not sure of, I chose the latter, pushing two full 20,000 stacks forward and announcing “forty thousand.”  I maintained my sleepyfaced exterior, but several internal organs were doing cartwheels as I prayed for a fold.  My opponent considered for a little while, then folded and said “I either completely botched that hand or I got away cheap.”  I exhaled and gathered enough composure to tell a bold-faced lie:  “you lost the minimum.”  I was up to around 140,000 with about 30 players left.

Next came a really pivotal hand.  I mentioned in the previous entry that Beckman would “come in handy” later in the tournament.  I discussed his habit of making very small preflop raises to entice action, and that is exactly what transpired next.  It was my big blind and I held a monster:  the 8-2 of diamonds.  Under the gun, with the blinds at 2000-4000 with a 500 ante, Beckman raised to just over 10,000.  He got called by Balandin on the button, and the small blind folded.  My hand was total garbage, but I was getting very enticing odds.  Plus, it was sooooted garbage.  If Beckman had raised just one thousand chips more, or if Balandin had folded, or if my 8-2 was unsuited, I would have passed on this hand.  But under these exact conditions, against two deep stacks getting favorable real and implied odds, I chose to toss another 6000 chips in and look at a flop.  And it was a dream flop:  jack of diamonds, ten of diamonds, two of clubs, giving me bottom pair and a flush draw. 

My turn to act.  How to proceed?  I figured that my hand was unlikely to be currently winning, but I couldn’t have hoped for a better flop with 8d-2d.  I had too many outs.  The hand needed to be played aggressively.  Since both of my opponents had me easily covered, I decided to lead at the pot, with the intention of three-betting all in if I got raised.  I bet 30,000.  Beckman folded, but when the action got to Balandin, he foiled the possibility of a three-bet by simply shoving all in.  Sheesh.  It was time for a big decision. 

A few years ago, when I was just beginning to play no-limit hold ‘em at an advanced level, I had a huge leak in my game:  I usually folded in this situation.  When I held a draw, even a powerful one such as a pair + flush draw, I tended to give up in situations where my fold equity was taken away from me, regardless of the odds the pot was laying me.  In other words, my game had no “gamble” to it.  But a fold here is usually incorrect.  My opponent either had a made hand without a draw, in which case I am about 50% to win the pot, or a weaker draw such as a straight draw or a flush draw without a pair, in which case I am in the lead with a better than 50% chance of winning.  Sometimes you just have to call even when you think you’re behind.  With the 60k already in the pot, my decision was easy.  Call and turn my fate over to the poker gods.  And that is what I did.  Balandin had QJ with no diamonds.  My nerves from my previous confrontation had faded.  I felt remarkably calm and remained seated as the dealer revealed the turn card:  the nine of diamonds.  Hand over.  I win.  For some reason, I just sat there in a state of complete zen-like tranquility, even as everyone at the table had just finished saying “nice hand,” and a mountain of chips was collecting itself in the center, in preparation for shippage in my direction.

It was at that exact moment that I first noticed that Kevin’s face was among those in the crowd on the rail.  We made eye contact, then he shrugged and turned his palms upward with a resigned look on his face.  Likely because I was sitting there looking practically comatose in the wake of a big hand, he thought I had lost.  No sir.  I disavowed him of that notion by giving him a subdued ‘double thumbs up,’ and then confirmation arrived in the form of a fat pile of chips being shoved in my direction.  Kevin’s look abruptly changed to one of wide-eyed excitement.  He silently mouthed “three hundred?” and I nodded, then Kevin started busily texting someone.  I was indeed over the 300,000 chip mark, way up near the top of the leaderboard.  Woot!

My strategy at this point became selective aggression.  There were two very dangerous players whom I respected at my table, two guys that would not hesitate to reheat me.  So I decided not to take any unnecessary risks and try to remain up in the top 5 as the dinner break approached.  But sometimes my competitive spirit takes over. 

With the blinds at 3000-6000, a hand was dealt in which the dealer accidentally exposed a ten while distributing the hole cards.  He announced that the exposed ten would be the burn card, and we proceeded in the customary fashion.  I then picked up pocket fives under the gun and raised to 17,000.  It was folded to Balandin, who had quickly regrouped to around 300,000 chips, and he reraised me to around 60,000.  For some reason–likely his overall level of activity at the table–I felt like he was just fucking with me, so I announced that I was all in.  His reaction really startled me:  he fired his cards, face up, all the way across the table, in my direction.  They slid all the way across the felt and came to rest less than a foot from my cards:  pocket tens.  Gulp.  My heart fell as I realized I was way behind.  It was only after about three additional seconds elapsed, and Alex started bitching, that I realized that his card-fling was a frustrated fold—the exposed ten took away one of his outs and he had chosen to throw his hand away.  Yikes.  Carry on…. Stackity stack stack!

And with that, we broke for dinner.  There were only 20 players left, and I was cruising along in third place with 381,000 chips.  As we left for dinner it dawned on me that my guaranteed take was now approximately $12,000.  Enough for a haircut, no matter what my fate!  But I had my sights set much higher. 

The dinner break was a little odd:  Not only had my ability to sleep deserted me during this tournament, but I found that I had almost no appetite.  Kevin and I went to a restaurant on the other side of the Rio, where I picked at a salad.  Our conversation was sparse and subdued.  Kevin was treating me with the same way that a teammate treats a pitcher who has a no-hitter in progress.  There was no need to disrupt things, and I appreciated it.  This would all change after the dinner break, as Kevin was joined on the rail by my good friend Jonny Y and his girlfriend Jen.

For a few years now, Jonny Y has been my primary partner in crime.  Almost all of my good friends have long ago given up on the idea of going out late at night, which has always been one of my favorite pastimes, and one that I’ve yet to outgrow.  Jonny Y is a notable exception.  He and I share a particular characteristic:  once we are out on the town with a few drinks in us, we’re getting silly and we’re not going home.  Jon and I have had more wacky late nights in NYC together than we can possibly count.  And this unhealthy fact is probably part of the reason that he’s moving with his girlfriend to Las Vegas, which is what brought them to the rail on Day 2 of the tournament after a long day of apartment hunting in their new home town.  If Las Vegas strikes you as an odd location for a person who wants to stop partying so much, you’re not alone.  But I think it’ll all work out for Jon and Jen.  I’m gonna miss me some Jonny Y.  Cheers to you, buddy!

In any event, Jon’s style on the rail differs markedly from Kevin’s.  After the dinner break, when I looked over to the rail, I saw two contrasting images:  Kevin, anxiously but inconspicuously peering down at all the action, and Jonny Y, wobbling around double-fisting two cups of free Milwaukee’s Best Light and belting out “Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhooggrrrrr Deeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!” every time I raked a pot.

Unfortunately, my first step after dinner was really more of a stumble.  We redrew for seats with three tables remaining, placing me at a table full of players with whom I was unfamiliar.  With the blinds now a lofty 4000-8000, my small blind was raised to 30,000 in late position by a player in a University of Miami cap named Steven Olek.  I looked down at pocket nines and reraised to 100k, and he immediately went all in for 120,000, which I of course called.  He had pocket queens and they held.  I tumbled down from the top of the leaderboard to a spot closer to the bottom.  Then I blinded away chips until I had only around 130,000.  I was in a bad spot (with a chip stack that can’t really openraise light but can put in the second raise) and needed something good to happen soon.  Fortunately, a good old fashioned heater was neigh.

Just as I was beginning to feel desperate, I looked down at A-8 offsuit in the small blind, and it was folded around to me.  The big blind had me covered, and as mentioned above, I had an awkward-sized stack for the 4000-8000 blinds.  If I raised to 30 or 40k, I would not feel comfortable calling a shove.  So instead, I limped with the intention of reraising all in if I got raised.  All this strategizing proved to be moot, as the big blind chose to see a cheap flop and checked behind.  The flop came a pleasing A-4-2, and I had to figure out a way to get all my chips in.  I knew that the big blind did not have an ace (he would have raised), and I knew that he could not put me on an ace (I did not raise).  So how best to get my chips in?  I started the action by checking, and the big blind bet about 12,000.  Knowing that he could not put me on an ace, I decided to checkraise in an effort to  represent a bluff and induce a three-bet shove.  I deliberately announced a raise, and slowly counted out 35,000 chips and pushed them forward.  I got exactly what I wanted:  the big blind moved all in!  It occurred to me that I might be beat, but folding was obviously not a consideration.  I called, and showed my A-8.  The big blind turned over the 5-2 of hearts, bottom pair with a gutterball wheel draw.  He picked up some heart outs on the turn but bricked the river, and I was back over 250,000.  Once again, I surprised myself with a completely impassive reaction.  Stack, stack, stack.  Shhhhhhhhhhhoooogrrr Deeeeeeee!!!

Now, finally, well into the night, I found a good spot to turn up the heat.  I began to liberally openraise, and no one seemed to be in the mood to put up any resistance.  My stack began to grow in 20,000 chip chunks.  Then, before I knew it, I found out that J.C. Tran had imploded and was out of the tournament.  All of the sudden we were down to about fifteen players, and I was moved to a different table.  As I racked up my chips and walked over to my new seat, it finally occurred to me:  I was having my way in this tournament.  There were only fifteen players left out of over 1,427 and I was one of the favorites to win the damn thing.  I’m happy to report that having this epiphany did not decrease my focus one iota.  I went right back to work.

My next biggish hand found me in second position with AQ offsuit.  The blinds were now 6,000-12,000.  The player under the gun, who had plenty of chips, limped, a very strange play at this stage of the tournament.  I chose to flat call and see a flop.  Once the big blind checked his option, we were three handed to the flop.  The flop smashed me:  A-A-10.  The big blind checked, the second player checked, and I also checked.  The turn completely locked my hand:  the case ace.  Now the big blind led at the pot for 20,000, and the under the gun player called.  Rather than do anything fancy, I chose to get more money in the pot and raised to 60,000.  This drove the big blind out of the pot, but the original limper called.  The river was a small card of some kind, and the under the gun player checked.  I had quads and knew my opponent had a ten.  I had three choices and was unsure of which would extract the most value:  a small bet of around 80,000, a medium sized bet of 150,000, or shoving all-in.  I went with the medium-sized bet, and my opponent made a very nice laydown, flashing a ten as he folded.  Still, I was in second place with 13 players left, sitting on over a half million chips.  Again came the cry from the rail:  Shhhhhoooooogrrrrr Deeeeeeeeee!!!!

With twelve players left I was firmly in charge of my table.  I continued to pile up chips, and then won a bunch in a blind vs. blind confrontation:  The small blind, the same player who openlimped when I turned quads, completed.  I checked my option with 10-9 offsuit.  The flop came Q-10-8 and we both checked.  The turn was the ace of hearts, putting two hearts on board, and my opponent bet about 20k.  I didn’t believe him, so I called.  The river was the nine of clubs, giving me two pair, but created a very coordinated board.  The small blind fired 46,000, and I still didn’t believe him, so I quickly called.  He said “you win,” as he very slowly revealed the 6-3 of hearts and I tabled my two pair.  I was pushed a pot that made me a prohibitive favorite to make the final table.  On cue, Jonny Y let loose with the loudest one yet:  SHHHHHHOOOOOOOGGGRRRR DEEEEEEEEE!!!

The next few eliminations happened quickly, as two or three coolers (e.g., AA vs. KK) took place at the other table, and incredibly, after a few more minutes all that remained in the field was two four-handed tables.  My table consisted of myself, a good young pro (and very nice guy) with a big contingent of railbirds named Matt Brady, professional veteran Joe Awada, and another player.  I had the most chips on the table and was openraising a lot of hands for just over 2x the big blind.  By succeeding in these steal attempts a few times, I moved into the chip lead.  And then came a hand which really encapsulated the day.

With the blinds at 8,000-16,000, I raised to 42,000 on the button with the Q-10 of diamonds.  Joe Awada, in the small blind, sitting on around 500,000 chips, reraised to 120,000.  It was gut-check time, as this was a perfect spot to three-bet all in.  Did I have the balls to do it?  Numerous factors were converging to make this spot perfect for a reshove.  First, we were 2 eliminations from the final table, with the massive monetary jump that went along with it.  Eight place paid $46,000, and sixth place was the final table and $61,000.  A reshove all in was essentially a $15,000 bet.  That’s a lot of pressure, even for a pro.  Second, Awada had a lot of chips, but not quite as many as me.  A three-bet under these conditions represented a very tight range, likely only QQ-AA and AK.  It was just too big a bet (from an unknown player) to be anything less.  Third, my very limited knowledge of Awada came from ESPN coverage of a final table at which I saw him make shorthanded reraises with ace-rag.  He could have been reraising light after getting sick of my constant activity. 

Still, it is pretty crazy to move all in with a trashy hand with a half million dollars on the line.  Did I have the balls to do it?  I honestly wasn’t sure until I heard myself announce “all in” with a backhanded wave of my right hand.

A hush came over both the table and the rail as Awada considered my massive bet.  “I got a real hand here,” he said as he turned and looked right at me.  I just sat there looking bored.  “That’s a big bet, buddy.  You must have a real big hand.  But so do I.  Could this be another cooler?”  I don’t know how I accomplished it, but I remained completely emotionless, looking utterly disinterested, like I was sitting through an interminable Contracts lecture in law school.  Awada’s time in the tank lagged on, surpassing a minute and a half.  Eventually, he stopped trying to elicit information from me and began muttering to himself.  I could tell he was about to fold.  Then decisively, conclusively, he did it.  He folded pocket jacks face up.  I was in such a zone that I’m not sure I even felt relief.  I gave a slight shrug as I tossed my cards in face down and stacked my new chips.

Hands like the one I just described seem like they don’t offer sufficient reward for the risk taken.  But this is not true, these hands are essential to winning poker tournaments.  Every chip counts, and the really great players acquire chips every time there is an opening.  They don’t pass any of them up.  That’s what I had just done.

At the start of the day, I vowed that I’d be dangerous.  At that moment, I didn’t feel merely dangerous.  I was lethal.  I was the clear chip leader, a mercenary and a stone killer.  Fuck with me at your peril.

“What did you have?” Joe asked.  The truth felt like a very unappealing option.

“Ace-King.  We were racing.”   

When Awada ran AK into KK and busted two hands later, there was a short break as the tournament was condensed to a single seven-handed table.  I finally let loose, strolling over to the rail and high-fiving Kevin and Jon, who were both ecstatic.  As I walked back to my seat, Brady’s railbirds asked me what I had against Awada and I couldn’t resist telling the truth.  When I told them, they loved it. 

“You’re so sick!” one of them said. 

That is very high praise in pokerland.
  
When we reconvened, the short-stacked Brady shared a valuable piece of information with me. 

“You see the big guy with the Yankees hat?”  He was referring to a player named Jason Warner, who had a medium/large stack and was sitting across from us.

“Yep, what about him?”

“Be careful with him.  He’s a caller.  He doesn’t lay down hands.  He busted Sheets (Eric Haber) when he couldn’t lay down aces on two-suited jack/ten/nine board.”  I nodded and filed that information away.  Brady also told me that my reraise against Awada was crazy, as Awada, contrary to what I believed, is a very tight player.  Oops!

Before we started to play again, the tournament director handed out some paperwork for us to complete.  All of the questions pertained to our backgrounds, so that the final table announcers would have something to tell everyone about us.  I had only one item that I really wanted to share:  my grandfather, my Pop-Pop, taught me how to play poker at a very young age.  I’m not a very spiritual person, but he has always been and remains my guiding light, both in poker and in life itself.  Outside of the essential biographical information, that is the only thing I deemed important enough to share about David Zeitlin.

Our seven-handed table had two short stacks.  Brady survived his all-in shove, leaving another player as the lone short stack.  The other player gamely survived for quite awhile before finally shoving pocket sevens into Jason Warner’s aces, creating our final table and ending play for the night.  We were told to be back for the final table at 2:15 pm the next day.  At that time we would be wired for sound, and the final table would be filmed with hole card cameras.  The final table was not on ESPN’s schedule, but there would be a webcast.  I was second in chips.

Kevin and Jon were more intensely aware of what I had just accomplished than I was.  It took awhile to sink in, but when it did, I realized that I had just notched my greatest accomplishment in poker to date and had my finest day as a pro.  I called a select few to tell them the news, and then Jon gave me a lift back to my hotel.

I was too wired to sleep, so I got in bed and took stock of my feelings.  What were they, exactly?  There were a lot of them.  I was definitely happy.  I was pretty excited.  There were more, but I wasn’t precisely sure of them all.

Oh yes… I still felt dangerous.