NERVES, FORM AND ATTITUDE

                                   

 

         About four decades ago, Bobby Fischer, considered by many to be the world’s greatest chess player (and one of its preeminent nuts), said the moment he liked best was when he could sense his opponent’s nerves begin to shatter to pieces.  Never known as Mr. Nice Guy, Bobby’s attitude, if not particularly sympathetic, remains understandable.  Except, perhaps to poker players.  A player who cracks up at a poker table is sure to elicit a different response.  Considerate and kind, are poker players not a breed apart?  Where others tend to enjoy rubbing an opponent’s face in the mud, we, noble warriors that we are, take no pleasure in another’s agony. Good heavens, if a player goes under, how are we going to squeeze money out of him in the future?

 

Let's skip back a few nights ago to a $2-$5 No Limit Texas Hold ‘Em game at the MGM Grand.  Unable to win a hand, a gentleman in his late forties insisted on pressing his misfortune rather than accepting a losing day and going home.  With unpropitious timing and no thought of defense, he continued to raise pots with small, wired pairs or suited connectors only to find a player with a larger pair or a better combination invariably behind him.  Unhappily, he was equally inept at controlling his emotions.  Moaning and groaning, he kept cursing under his breath and pounding his fists on the table.  Other than occasionally flashing telltale glances at one another, we others tried to maintain neutral expressions on our faces.  None of us, I assure you, felt very comfortable.  Finally, a gentleman in his sixties holding AD-4D that beat the complainer's KS-QC, dared respond to the loser’s agonizing.

 

            “Of course I was lucky,” said the victor.  “Isn’t that in the nature of the game?”

 

            “What the hell does an ace and a four have to do with nature?” the defeated man replied, fishing into his pocket for additional funds.

 

            “Texas Hold ‘Em,” said the sexagenarian, “is a game where one wins with an unsuited eight-three and looses with wired aces.  The best thing a player can do is respect his form.”

 

            “By that thinking, a loser would never get his money back.”

 

            “Those who learn to run away, live to fight another day,” said a young fellow with a decidedly British accent.  Amazing how many Englishmen visit Las Vegas!

 

            “Great,” said Monsieur Angst, signaling for more chips.  “Now, how about everybody shutting up?”

 

            Playing in such an ambience is really not much fun.  Better still, since I was

 – am -  the sexagenarian in question I figured I might as well go home with a handsome profit.  While this might seem contradictory to my pronouncement about playing one’s form, it really is not.  I had only won a couple of small hands all evening.  Playing defensively is what kept me out of trouble.  True form comes when you win pot after pot with your cards doing all the work.  Offering my respects to the table, I gathered my winnings and began the walk to the cashier’s window.

 

            “It’s good to see that bastard leave,” I overheard the aggravated gentleman remark.  “Here he's played three hands all evening, and one of them beat the pants off me.”