World Series or Bust by Steve Farhood
According to Freud, all dreams are sexual in nature.
Sorry, Sigmund, but there's nothing phallic about the ace of spades.
As a kid, my dream was to meet number seven, Mickey Mantle, and number nine, Roger Maris. Now it's to be dealt a seven and a nine and make a straight on the flop, in the final hand at the World Series of Poker, of course.
Actually, forget winning; just playing in the WSOP would provide cocktail party conversation for a lifetime. But according to my accountant, forking over $10,000 to compete with players who are far more experienced and infinitely more talented would be fiscally irresponsible. Or to put it in his exact words, "If you want to blow 10 large, why don't you just pay for my daughter's orthodontist bills?"
Sorry, no can do. Am already paying for my bookie's daughter's orthodontist bills.
I took astronomy in college, but there was nothing in the textbook about satellite tournaments. For amateurs with nut-flush fantasies, satellites are a source of eternal hope. On a weeknight in May, I found myself at the tip of Manhattan, seated with about 200 other dreamers and a few retired sports celebs at a charity Hold 'Em tournament ($250 buy-in). First place was nothing short of round-trip airfare, hotel accommodations, and entry into the Main Event at the 2006 WSOP.
Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven for?
The first sign that it was going to be a bumpy ride came when the dealer had no idea how to determine where the button should be placed. "I've never done this before," he said.
Rule Number One had been established: The inmates were going to run the asylum.
Each hand took what seemed like 20 minutes. Some of the players needed a plastic surgeon to remove the cell phones from their ears. Others bitched that the evening was billed as a Cigar Night, but they weren't allowed to indulge in the poker room. When somebody pointed out that legendary middleweight boxing champion Jake LaMotta was smoking, our host, former heavyweight contender Gerry Cooney, explained: "Jake can smoke anywhere he wants."
Seat four, a real estate manager, played as if he had been smoking something other than a hand-rolled cigar. The concept of a button and blinds baffled him, as did the option to check. He played every hand and won an alarming percentage, repeatedly catching two pair on the river. I understand that first-time lucky players are common in charity tournaments, but I wanted to hand him an "Introduction to Poker" booklet and point him toward the Staten Island Ferry.
Playing tight, I won a couple of hands and quickly doubled my chips. Just as I was discovering that our dealer was consistently exposing the burn cards, the game was momentarily halted when Smokin' Joe Frazier entered the no-smoking room. The former champ received the type of standing ovation that in poker is reserved for Dolly Brunson.
When I was moved to another table, the scene turned from silly to surreal. First, seat five (J-3) called seat three's all-in bet (A-Q) and won a massive pot. Then the dealer began burning one card immediately after the deal, and another just before the flop. Finally, my focus was totally blown when a hostess from the Hustler Club, dressed like a round-card girl, sat next to the middle-aged businessman in seat seven. Instead of folding his hand, he curled it around the hostess's waist and began slow-playing.
I might have been the big blind, but I saw everything.
A couple of hours in, I was out. Fearful of getting blinded into oblivion, I went all in with 10-9 suited. There were two callers, including the next Phil Ivey, who turned over 9-4 and won the pot by pairing his low card.
As I left the table, I was sure of two things: Firstly, they weren't going to make an instructional poker video on the play in this room. And secondly, I wasn't going to the 2006 WSOP. But I wasn't all that disappointed. After all, there's zero chance of meeting Mantle and Maris, but for the WSOP, there's always next year.