THEOLOGY
Anyone not familiar with the world of genies, pixies, elves and sprites is sure to be a stranger to no limit Texas Hold ‘Em. Conversely, show me the person who has played the game regularly and you are sure to find a person unable to deny that: “more things exist in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophies.” Because I’m telling you, inexplicable phenomena arrive all too frequently at cards games. In his book “Pale Fire,” Nabokov claims: “I know the world could not have occurred fortuitously, and that somehow Mind is involved as a main factor in the making of the universe. In trying to find the right name for that Universal Mind, or First Cause, or the Absolute, or Nature, I submit the Name of God has priority.” Whoa! Hold on there, Vladimir. Not for one moment can I imagine that white bearded figure holding a finger out to Adam on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, getting involved in Las Vegas poker games. Surely He has better things to do than decide who shall hit a straight or flush. Still, I know something – or somebody - has to be out there. Perhaps it’s The Creator’s way of allowing imps, sylphs, goblins and other supernatural mischief-makers to intervene in the affairs of men. For what reason? How would I know? I’m having enough trouble with poker to bother with theology.
Let me go back a month. I was playing $2-$5 NL at the Bellagio. Oh brother, what a game! Four players were throwing money around as though the end of the world were coming tomorrow. I mean, they were chasing after belly straights and calling $100 bets with hands worth less than a nickel. I ‘ll be darned if one of the loonies didn’t pay an all in bet with pocket sixes after two pairs Q-10 accompanied by a J appeared on the board. Another saw his chips dwindle from eight large piles to zero in the bat of an eyelash. Finally, after months of searching, I had found that mythical ultra loose table where with a decent hand or two a player could not miss going home with a four-figure profit. Bought in at the $200 minimum, I doubled my stake before the first round of play was finished, holding nothing better than an unsuited J-10.
“Tell me,” I said to the gentleman on my right, “doesn’t this draft bother you?”
“I had your place before I moved,” interjected a thin fellow seated across the table. “That seat you’re in is like ice fishing in Alaska.”
“That’s why I’m wearing a sweater,” said the fellow I had originally addressed. “Those overhead A/C vents are pointed directly at us.”
We were interrupted by a battle between two of the maniacal players. Don’t ask me to furnish details. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you how much money each put into the pot with cards any sane person would throw away.
I called over a floor manager and asked if it were possible to turn down the air conditioning.
“Sorry, Sir, it’s 100 degrees outside.”
No use arguing, particularly when I picked up K-Q of hearts. In France, a suited king-queen is called ‘belotte’ in an eponymous game that is far easier to play than this one. So without pause I raised the big blind to $40 and was followed by three of the crazies. Please, do not imagine that I am unaware of the dangers posed by wild men. Of course I know the loose goose is more apt to tear one apart than the opponent who measures probabilities. So what? Unless you are totally out of form, is it not advantageous to play with fruitcakes rather than knock heads with a bunch of Rocky Mountain goats?
A new series of blasts from the A/C sent shivers through me. As a child, both my old grannies had made a point of warning me to avoid draughts. In Paris it is axiomatic that a courant d’air will send you to the hospital, if not worse. Particularly susceptible to colds, sore throats and other respiratory ailments, I began to feel ill. I’m telling you, my eyes were tearing, I was coughing up phlegm and my temperature must have been rising like a fighter plane taking off.
“I can’t go on like this,” I said, picking up my chips and abandoning my seat.
Allowing health to take precedence over cards, I was quitting the best table I had played at since leaving Paris eight years previously. Damn it all! Why couldn’t this have happened in winter or spring?
As mentioned, that was about a month ago. I hadn’t returned to the Bellagio for any number of reasons, foremost of which was a desire to play in $50 and $125 tournaments offered by competing casinos. Tournaments played in this ornate palace range between $500 and $1,000. As well, I guess in the back of my mind was fear of having run out on a winning table. Mon Dieu, had I known those creatures of destiny were capable of playing such tricks, I would have risked pneumonia back then.
They started out immediately upon my arrival. Calling a hand with AC-7C, I was met by 7D-4S-2C on the flop. Unlike last month’s game, today’s session was dominated by pros from the Strip rather than by loonies from the heartland. Fine by me, and anyway, weren't my hole cards worth a $25 raise? And then, when the seven of hearts appeared on the turn, wasn’t I truly sitting pretty? I sure thought so when the river turned out to be the four of diamonds.
Unprepared for Accident #1, I swallowed hard. A shifty-eyed bastard I recognized from previous games laid down the two missing fours. Damn! That was the only combination that could beat me. Oh well, I had seen this happen before, and I was only down a single buy-in. From then on, like a boxer absorbing too many punches, I got smacked from the left, slammed on the right, hit by jabs, uppercuts, hooks and Sunday wallops that seemed to come from another world. Dealt pocket aces I raised in order to play against as few opponents as possible. Some tobacco-chewing grandpa called me. Q-8-3 was flopped. I went all-in. The old timer called with two nines. A nine on the river saw me reach for another buy-in. On the very next hand, it was I who was dealt pocket nines. Instead of recognizing a series of events stacked against me, I quadrupled the player who had raised the big blind to thirty. Oh man, so many picture cards appeared on the board you would have thought the house had ordered a mosaic of jacks, queens and kings for our table.
I took a deep breath. It was my turn to be the small blind. Dealt King of hearts and seven of clubs, I was deliberating my choices when a sudden breath of icy air – far colder and much closer than that from the faulty A/C – blew the cards out of my hand. For the first time in memory, I refused to add the few chips needed to go from small blind to big blind. So strong was that gust, my cards turned over and were exposed. Not only was the flop K-K-7, the player on my right showed me he was holding wired sevens. Bad enough I had missed out on winning a super pot, and worse still that everyone at the table knew about it.
What was wrong with me? Could I not see that diabolical forces were running amok at my expense? I guess not, because now as big blind holding 7H-2H, I bet $50 when three hearts came up on the flop. Paid by the gentleman sitting in the same seat I had vacated four weeks previously, I witnessed the queen of hearts turn over on Fourth Street. Not bothering to bet, I threw my cards in the air. It was payback time all right, and if those were not supernatural forces making fun of me for having refused a gift last time out, what the hell were they? No kidding, I was convinced beyond a doubt that I was faced with furies, nixies and pixies whose sole purpose was to see me lose hand after hand as ignobly as possible. Now on the button, I followed the blinds with 10S-9S. Lo and behold, the flop was JS-QS-AS. Well you guessed it. No other spade appeared, but the big blind was happy to call my all-in bet with his suited king-two of spades. In twenty minutes I had dropped eight hundred bucks.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home