MORE BAD BEATS

                                               

 

         Crybaby Freddie, a Parisian dealer in military antiques used to say the thing he feared most at poker was a good hand.  “Please, God please,” he would say aloud, “don’t give me good cards.”

 

            “How do you expect to win otherwise?” we would often asked him

 

            “I am not here to win.  I am here to have a good time.”

 

            That was probably true.   In Freddie’s case having a good time meant moaning, groaning and complaining that he was the unluckiest person who ever existed, which was more or less Charles De Gaulle’s description of his countrymen.  ("Ca rogne, ca grogne, ca rouspette.")

 

            It’s taken me an awful long time to understand Old Freddie, but recently I’ve been getting the point.  Up the Ole Kazoo, as they say!

 

            In six consecutive games I have suffered more bad beats than I care to count.  Yes, yes, I am quite aware that it is all part of the game, and didn’t someone say, “when sorrows come, they come not single spies but in battalions?”

 

 Worse still, I find myself beginning to enjoy sharing my woes with anyone who will lend an ear.  Good Lord!  Have all those years in Paris turned me into a Frenchman?

 

So if you allow me to reveal one or two, I promise not to divulge them all.

 

  As the big blind I am dealt 8-9.  The flop is two nines and an eight.  Naturally, I check.  So does everyone else.  The turn is a king.  I bet double the size of the pot and am called.  The river is another king.  Admittedly, the hand did not cost me too much, but I assure you it was not a great morale booster either.  Far more expensive was when I followed a raise holding 6H-8H.  Why make such a call, you might ask?  Well the raise came from the player on my immediate right and was followed by three others.   I guess it’s called playing the money.  The flop was 6D-6C-4D.  In first position a player bet $50.  I called.  Now the original raiser went all-in with no small bet.  He must have been sitting on $700, the same amount as the $50 bettor who promptly folded.  While aware that the all-in gentleman might be holding two fours, I strongly sensed a diamond draw and called with my remaining $160.  Simultaneous to his displaying the KD-10D, the dealer turned over first the ace and then the deuce of diamonds.  Coming, going, upside down or otherwise, there was no way the man was going to miss his flush.   Okay, only one more:  I raised the big blind from $5 to $45 with wired kings.  An elderly gentleman followed.  The flop was 9S-5H-3C.  I went all-in for $110.  My opponent looked at his watch and announced: “I really should be going home.  I know it’s a stupid call, but at least it will get me out of here, and you look like a pretty nice guy.”   So he puts his remaining chips in the pot, about a hundred bucks, stands up and turns over the 5S-4C.  How the hell could the dummy follow a $40 raise head-to-head with those two cards? Oh, that’s right, his wife was waiting for him. 

 

What’s the difference how he beat me?  The turn of a four, a five or a back door straight, it all comes out to the same thing.  While you’re at it, don’t do me any favors, Mister.  If you want to go home, do so, but without explaining that you are contributing to my welfare because you are in a rush! 

 

Crybaby Freddie, wherever you are: Je vous comprend.  For a week or two I shall stop playing this stupid game.  Then, when I return, I will raise my eyes to the heavens and ask our Creator- or perhaps the poker gods - to refrain from giving me good cards.  Meanwhile, I hope to have a swell time telling everyone all about the bad beats I have encountered.