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KAI'S TUNICA WIN PART 2(B)

At the table behind me, I overhear that Chris Moneymaker busts out. One less major obstacle. Then Bill Edler. I can’t say I’m sorry to see him go either.

Hours go by, and I’m doing well, and then I realize something strange is going on during our breaks. People are being very nice to me, coming up out of nowhere, telling me how sharp I’ve been playing, and how they think I’m going to win it all. This went on for four days. Seriously. It was very Twilight Zone because for one, poker rooms are not positive environments in the first place, they’re very negative with the stench of bitterness and bad beats. Whatever they told me I knew I needed to temper it with humility – the most underrated, hardly ever mentioned poker quality of all. So it was a bit of a challenge to listen to them…but not listen to them. Thanks, guys.

Somehow by the end of the day, I’m still there and I’m around 4th or 5th place in chips. Time to go back to the motel and hit the A-train, i.e. Ambien. Oh, sweet Ambien.

The next morning after researching whatever I could about my twenty-six remaining opponents on the internet and knowing that everyone’s moves would be under the microscope of clicking cameras and internet blogging, I decide to hit the ground running with foolish behavior. It would serve several purposes. First, it usually makes people feel the spotlight is more on them when they’re playing a perceived lunatic, makes them more uncomfortable with decisions, illuminates their own tells, and most importantly, would relieve some of my own stress, which I admittedly was feeling. It usually only takes the first several hands to make a lasting impression.

I remember wanting to raise on my first hand no matter what. I did.

“OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD! WOW!” as I look into my hole cards. “RAISE!” I yell, standing up and start pulling on my hair and sprinkle whatever comes out of my skull onto the tables slowly and methodically. I think I had a 3 and a Ten. To no surprise, everyone folds, and I spend the next two minutes mumbling something about methamphetamine, hookers, herion, and how it’s a shame the Smurfs didn’t ever give Gargamel no respect.

Once the foolishness portion of our show was over, however, the next several hours would be very striaghtforward for me.

One by one, the smaller stacks are getting beat up and people are getting knocked off the tables. When someone gets knocked out, those of us remaining are secretly very, very pleased, and try like hell not to show it. Tyler Smith, who had been riding my ass like a cheap Tijuana whore, restealing all my steals, manages to get beaten off the table somehow…whew.

We’re down to eighteen now and Gavin Smith is placed across from me. We’ll play down to nine and resume play tomorrow. I was pleased to be sitting across from my favorite pre-game author, but trying to avoid getting tangled up with him or Matt Stout, who was on a mad rampage heater, accumulating chips and shooting for first place, helping to remove some of the best players in the process. But you can’t always pick your battles.

Somewhere along the way I find myself with A5s in a three way pot with Gavin and the button, myself in the middle. The flop comes T 5 2. Gavin checks but remains focused on the flop; quickly I see the guy behind me has lost all interest, and I overbet the pot from middle position, afer not being involved in any hand for a long time. The button folds and Mr. Smith thinks for a long, long time. I wanted to find out if he flopped a junk ten or two pair right away. His focus is intense, but lays it down telling me he had 88 in the hole and how he thinks he just laid down the best hand. He’s right, of course, and he may have even been telling the truth for once. He plays just like his writings describe, so out of everyone there, all strangers to me, I oddly felt that I was most comfortable playing against him. He raises the same in any position, his bets mumble and give away no information, and he makes smooth calls behind raisers on flat-call steals, just like he said he would. I feel like Winnie the Pooh bouncing along merrily on the letters and words inside his book. You’ve seen the cartoon right?....anyone else here have kids? Is this thing on?

An hour goes by and no one is busting out…would someone please do something stupid? Please?

The next hand against him, I’m actually the one with pocket 88s in the blind and I call his raise from a latter position, choosing not to come over the top. We flop a 3 4 6 and I check to him innocently. He makes a standard bet of just over half the pot and I announce “all-in.” No one likes to be check-raised, and he’s no exception. After making me sweat my tournament fate for what seemed like an eternity as he decided, he finally folds. I choose to fold face-up to showcase my honesty for the future, but when I ask what the difficult decision was, A-6 or 10 10, he tells me 5 7. Translation: F.U.

We’re down to ten players now and the dealer has to re-draw our seating. He draws for me seat 3 and Gavin seat 4. I give the dealer a dirty look, but he just raises his eyebrows, smirks, and shrugs his shoulders.

There’s a big difference from having a very good player at your table and having a very good player seated immediately to your left. Having a very good player at your table is like having a dangerous dog roaming through your neighborhood somewhere. Having a very good player immediately on your left is like getting buck naked, dipping your testicles in delicious thick warm gravy, walking into a cold dark empty room where you can barely see a rabid wolverine, hearing the door slam and lock shut behind you, and then in the absolute cold darkness where you can just hear the wolverine growling hysterically and fearfully, someone pulls the fire alarm.

And I feel as though I’ve been poking this wolverine with a stick for a little while now.

We’re on the bubble now, and we’ve all gotten into the habit of stealing the blinds as Matt and his ginormous stack aren’t getting involved anymore. It costs $25,000 a round now, and looking down, I see 33, a questionable holding to be kind, but I chose to play aggressive on the bubbble. I raise another $25G and Gavin goes all in behind me for his last $60G. Of course, it gets folded all the way back to me.

I want to make an informed decision, so I ask him “You returning the favor from earlier?” He won’t look at me and mumbles something about “What from the check-raise?” Something about his body language suggests he also has a questionable holding…he definitely doesn’t want a call, and not just because we’re on the bubble of the final table. It’s not AK, that would have welcomed a call no matter what, so reasonably the only overcards I can put him on are AQ, knowing there’s no way he’d play a lesser Ace -- even in that situation Maybe AJ, but that’s highly doubful in his early position seat against my raise. As for pairs, they could be anything from 77 to TT. Maybe JJ. But then, what am I even thinking about here, I’m getting about 4.5 to 1 on my money, and I have him out-chipped so who even cares what I have! I call and he turns over – what else 88…the hand we’ve fought over all day….and this time I have lowly 33. He’s a 4:1 favorite.

Can I get two maybe even three of these?
Comin in from space to teach you of the Pleides!

BAM! The third three gets flopped and Gavin jumps out of his chair like a crab pinched him hard on the ass. I wanted to shake his hand, as we always wish well the final table departed, to tell him that his chapter on the game was pretty damn enlightening, mental door-opening genius stuff , but his hasty exit made that impossible after the turn and river cards double-brick him. I knew if it wasn’t for him and all the other poker authors I’d read repeatedly over and over the past couple of years, I wouldn’t have had a chance. Great view from up here on top of the shoulders of giants!

That was it…the final table was decided, and as Jennifer the dealer pushes me the last pot of the day, she clues me in to my complete uncoolness as the entirety of the hand had played itself out.

“Baby,” she says with a concerned look, “you need to breathe.” I look over to my right and another player nods in agreement. I had ceased respiration for over a minute now.

They announce congratulations to us all and with that, we all wander back exhausted to our hotels.

The following day, after a few good deep breaths of air and a blissful bout of unconsciousness thanks to my dear friend “Ambien,” I’m ready to do battle again. My plan was to play hyper-aggressive early while avoiding the two best players – Mike Leah and Matt Stout. Looking back on it now, it was still the right plan, however I ran into one brick wall after another. Big “L.B.” from Atlanta, provoked most of my attacks simply by wearing an Atlanta Falcons Michael Vick jersey – as a diehard Saints fan, this is like waving a red flag to a bull. I was consumed with irrational rage. He caught hand after hand on me as he did the day before, slowly taking all my chips from me. At this rate, I would be embarassed as the first one off the final table. One of his friends in the audience actually even heckled me loudly after one hand. Why must people insist on pressing my button? It was bad enough after three hours with no one clapping for me ( I came alone on a six hour drive) that two ladies in the stands began to give me pity golf claps if I won a hand. Pity claps and heckling.

One hand I barely pressed the ejector seat out on time losing the bare minimum, myself with pocket TT and Mike with pocket KK. He compliments me on my good fold, but, really, can anything else go wrong here?

It was time for a new stategy – Chinese Zen philosophy – sit quietly by the river and wait for the bodies of your enemies slowly float downstream. It worked. Several people got knocked out and so I earned about $50,000 over the next hour slowly moving up the pay-ladder by doing close to nothing. That’s like…having a government job or something.

Over one of the longest final tables ever, I navigate my way into at least third place, getting to bust out L.B. and that Goddamn Falcons jersey at 4th place in the process. Myself, Diggy “hyper-hyper-hyper aggressive” Dao, and Matt Stout remain. Dr. Dao is a quiet man who is not afraid to gamble to say the least. His two favorite words? All in. His manic rollercoaster ride allowed him to be the chip leader three times in two days, while also being the short stack three times. Give the man credit – he’s playing tournament style – sort of. Matt is an instantly likable dude, with the unique ability to completely shake off a bad beat within two seconds, joke around in between hands, and go back to being his focused, intense, calculating perfect playing self during the action.

The directors set out the big, gaudy gold and diamond WSOP championship ring onto our table. One of us is going to home with the ring, 183,974 less problems, and an entry into this years main event in Vegas.

It is about this time I decide to make a hero-call against Dao’s millionth all-in with nothing less than pocket 44 to all overcards and a flush/stright draw on the board thinking he’s on a draw. Very, very, very wrong read and wrong call, and I’m sick to my stomach over my implosion, and first serious misstep over the past 35 hours. There were audible gasps when people saw my crap hand. Dao takes almost all of my chips. We’re now on break and I have ten minutes to hate myself more than I’ve ever hated myself in my most depressed state ever. I’m embarassed and my stomach is churning. I feel like I’ve just eaten a big basket of dicks in front of everyone in the room.

In that darkest moment, I walk out of the room and check my phone. To my surprise, it’s damn near exploded with voicemails and texts full of love . All my friends, workmates, and loved ones are all watching on the internet, rooting me on. I had no idea this many people were paying attention. Jesus, don’t you people have lives? ;)

Chris calls in right at that moment from Vegas…and talks me back up. “Don’t worry, all you have to do is double up a couple of times.” That common sense hadn’t even occurred to me in the darkness.

Eric texts me work is going nuts watching. Presumably fewer whales got harpooned that day on the boat.

Rikki has a text waiting for me: “What do you tell a woman with no arm and no legs? Nice tits.” A perfect cheer up.

Texts, texts, texts, texts, texts….wow.

I come back to the room recharged. They start up the clock and we’re at it again. Despite the odds, I double up twice and I’m back in the running. I get silly hot.

Suddenly, Dao snapps off half of Matt’s chips and AQs by calling all in with a 2 6. Yes, a 2 6. Matt is not amused.

I snap off the remainder of Matt’s chips with my 77 against his AQ, and he gives me a big bear hug and tells me, “You’d better bust this M!@#$%^&*$#r.”

I have nothing personal against Dao, actually he's a very nice guy, but I promise Matt I will. In fact, I couldn’t help but notice how the dynamic played out at the final table. A very good poker author wrote how at the final table that the presence of a cripple-size stack enhances the power of the big stack, since all other stacks wait around quietly for the cripple to get eliminated, hanging onto money on the pay ladder that they feel as though they’ve already won.

A corrolary to this would probably be that the presence of a maniac at the table diminishes the power of the big stack.

Matt (with a cool million at the start of the day – 1/3 of all chips in play) and I both had become quite familiar with Dao’s style of play and I knew that it would keep Matt from running over the table as much as he could – despite Dao being mostly to his right, and despite the fact that Matt didn’t need to begin to run over anyone until around maybe 4th place or so, depending on his strategy. That’s why I still felt comfortable when I had donked myself into 3d place in chips – I had a good read on Dao, and Dao would keep Matt’s stack and skill tempered. Good dynamics.

Back down to head up between Dao and I. Within 15 minutes I flop the nut striaght draw and choose not to bet it, remembering never to semi-bluff a hyperaggressive player…a lesson I finally remember, and get rewarded with the Ace on the turn, as well as the rest of his chips, as he re-raises me on a royal-flush draw and misses as I put him all-in.

I remember smiling at that moment because I knew people would be taking pictures, and you remember that you’re supposed to smile then and there, but I didn’t feel like smiling at all. I think I got so wrapped up in what to do on the next hand ( there are no more next hands now, dumbass, you won. It’s over ) that I no longer knew what to do anymore. Four days was much longer than the six or seven hour tournaments I’m used to winning. You get so immersed in something over the past four days of intense concentration, that when it’s over you can’t acclimate immediately. So they physically pick you up by your shoulders like a piece of meat, walk you over to where you sign your taxes, set out a form for you to tip the dealers, struggle to do interviews with your decompressing, confused, lifeless cadaver, and walk you over to the cage to get your money.

Somewhere in the haze, I do remember them asking me if I’d like it in cash and thinking, are you people serious? Check, please.

The ring looks nice, and as I’m wishing I had a rubber prosthetic hand to sport it on. They hand me another check for $1000 and tell me it’s my Vegas travel money. Nice! I’d forgotton about that part. I get to see some of these guys again in June for the $10,000 buy-in main event. There’s only going to be about twelve thousand or so people playing in that one. Surely someone’s going to press my button.

Go write your message on the pavement,
Burn so bright I wonder what the wave meant!