WillMagic
09-22-2004, 03:23 AM
From the Chronicle on Higher Education:
http://chronicle.com/temp/email.php?id=0x1bzelhmwmtmkwyailovapaqlzrb24n
Not in the Cards
A college senior won $3.5-million playing poker. So why does he feel
like such a loser?
By THOMAS BARTLETT
Las Vegas
The new millionaire is practicing his autograph. He is not happy with the
results. The "D" is too close to the "a," and the "W"? Well, it's nothing
special. Where's the smooth stroke, the distinctive flourish? The letters just sit
there on the page, looking ordinary.
"How many do I have to sign?" he asks.
"Only a hundred" is the reply.
On the hotel-room desk is a small stack of glossy 5-by-7s. In the
photograph, his eyes are hidden behind dark wraparound sunglasses; he is
not smiling. After he has signed them, each photograph will be encased in
Lucite, bolted to a wooden plaque, and sold over the Internet for $149. The
plaque will read: "David Williams: Youngest World Series of Poker
Millionaire."
His agent, Brian Balsbaugh, arranged the autograph session. A few months
ago, Mr. Williams didn't have an agent. Back then he was a junior at
Southern Methodist University, majoring in economics and minoring in
mathematics, who drove a 1997 Mitsubishi Eclipse, hung out with his
girlfriend, ate at Taco Cabana, enjoyed playing poker online, listened to Nas
and Mystikal on his iPod, and wondered what to do with his life. In short, he
didn't need an agent.
That changed on May 28 when he placed second in the World Series of
Poker, winning $3.5-million and becoming an instant celebrity among poker
fans. To understand the nature of this accomplishment, consider that 2,576
players entered the tournament, each of whom had either won a satellite
tournament or paid the hefty $10,000 entry fee. Consider, too, that before
entering the World Series, most of Mr. Williams's poker experience came
from playing online and from reading books on the subject. That he made it
past the first day is remarkable. That he very nearly won the whole thing is
amazing.
Since then, Mr. Williams, who recently turned 24, has been trying to cope
with his sudden fame, figure out how to invest his windfall, and prepare
himself for his senior year of college. For the straight-A student who has
always loved school, this summer has certainly been educational. He has
learned that a $17,000 Rolex can be a letdown. He has learned what it's like
to be propositioned by two blondes at a Hard Rock Cafe. He has learned
that when you're young and wealthy strangers want to shake your hand, slap
your back, or kiss your cheek.
He has also learned what it's like to wake up each morning filled to the brim
with regret.
David Williams had no interest in second place. He wanted to be the kid
from nowhere who won it all. To come so close, to play so well, to do
everything right, and then to lose the final hand was devastating. It hurt like
hell. It still hurts like hell. And no amount of money -- not even $3.5-million
-- can make the pain go away.
The Game of Life
In order to appreciate how Mr. Williams feels, it helps to know where he
came from. His father left before he was born. He was raised in Dallas by his
mother and his grandparents, who lived up the street. When he was little, he
and his mother played board games and video games together all the time.
As a teenager, he was obsessed with the fantasy card game Magic: The
Gathering. He traveled to tournaments around the world (thanks to his
mother, a flight attendant, he could fly free) and became known as one of the
game's best players.
When some of his fellow Magic players started playing poker, he didn't want
to be left out. He bought a book that explained the rules and basic strategy
and read it cover to cover, twice. This was before he played a single hand.
The variety of poker he learned is called Texas hold'em and it is played
everywhere at the moment -- in suburban basements, in campus lounges, and
on television. The game is similar to basic five-card draw, except that each
player is dealt two cards while five "community" cards are laid face up on the
table. Three cable channels devote hours to Texas hold'em every week. At
any hour of the day there are thousands of people playing the game on the
Internet. There is even an online tournament, now in its second year, to
crown the "best college poker player in the world."
Growing up, when he wasn't playing games, Mr. Williams was impressing
teachers. He attended the selective Texas Academy of Mathematics and
Science, a two-year residential high school where students can take
college-level courses. When he graduated from the program, Mr. Williams
had two years of college credit and an SAT score in the 1500s. He was
accepted by Princeton University and left his hometown in Texas for the
faraway land of New Jersey.
He lasted two months. Princeton undergraduates were "snotty," and he was
the only black student in his dormitory, he says. He felt alone and lost. His
mother got a call from a Princeton official who said he had "never seen a kid
as sad" as her son. She encouraged him to come home.
Back in Dallas, he got an internship at Texas Instruments, where he learned
to perform failure analysis on semiconductors. Then he got a job at a
computer store repairing digital cameras. He also worked on a construction
site and as a waiter at a seafood restaurant. "The first time someone said,
'Wow, you're the best waiter I ever had,' I think I got off on that," he says.
"That was my goal, to really impress people."
Yet he knew he couldn't spend the rest of his life asking if anyone wanted to
see a dessert menu. Returning to Princeton wasn't an option either, even
though the university made it clear he would be welcomed back. "I didn't
know what I wanted to do," he recalls.
After four years of hopping from job to job, he decided to try a different
college. Last year he enrolled at Southern Methodist University, which
allowed him to start as a junior thanks to the credits he had earned in high
school and offered him several scholarships. Students there were friendlier,
he says, and it was much closer to home.
Around this time he started playing poker seriously. He qualified online for a
big tournament in Aruba, his first such event. He was knocked out early but
found the experience reassuring. "I was worried that everybody would be
better than me, that I'd be scared, that I'd be shaking," he says. "But it turned
out to be no big deal."
Doing well in college turned out to be no big deal either. Mr. Williams found
he could make A's with minimal effort. Even so, he studied and worked hard
because he enjoyed it. "Every semester I fall in love with my professors
again," he says.
The warm feelings are usually mutual. Mark Fontenot, an adjunct professor
of computer science at Southern Methodist, says he was "in awe" of how
rapidly Mr. Williams could grasp a challenging concept like, say, dynamic
memory allocation. "If I could find a classroom full of Davids, my job would
be a lot more fun," says Mr. Fontenot.
The professor says his star pupil seemed restless, ready to move on to the
next exercise, eager to tackle a new problem. It was as if he had something
to prove.
A Poker Demon
As soon as class ended, Mr. Williams would rush home to play poker online.
After the Aruba tournament, he set his sights on poker's holiest event, the
World Series, in Las Vegas. Because he didn't have an extra 10 grand lying
around, the only way be could gain entry would be to win a qualifying
tournament. After several failed attempts, he did just that.
He tried to keep his expectations low. He knew that all but a handful of
players leave Sin City empty-handed. He hoped he would play well enough
not to embarrass himself.
During the tournament, held at Binion's Horseshoe Casino, he felt calm and
focused as long as he was playing poker. During the breaks, however, he
was a wreck. He was too nervous to eat and had to subsist on water, tomato
juice, and Coke. He didn't sleep much either. When he did, he would talk in
his sleep, according to a friend he roomed with, saying things like "Call!
Raise! What do you have?"
He made it past the first day, then the second, then the third. In the World
Series, players compete for 12 hours a day with only a few short rest periods
to break up the monotony. It is a test of mental endurance as much as poker
skill.
Mr. Williams continued betting, calling, bluffing, and winning. "It's all sort of a
blur," he says. "I was in such a zone. I was a poker demon."
On the seventh day, he found himself at the final table, head to head with a
39-year-old patent lawyer and veteran poker player from Connecticut
named Greg Raymer. There was Mr. Williams, in his black, button-down
shirt, looking suave and svelte. And there was Mr. Raymer, looking less
suave and svelte, but holding considerably more chips.
It came down, as it always does, to one hand. Mr. Williams risked
everything on a pair of fours. He never suspected his opponent had a pair of
eights.
The Curse of Second Place
In a photograph taken seconds after the tournament ended, Mr. Raymer has
his mouth open mid-yell and his arms raised in triumph. In the background,
Mr. Williams is walking away from the table, head down, fading into the
crowd.
After the loss, Mr. Williams and his girlfriend, Brittany DeWald, drove to
In-N-Out Burger where he ate his first meal in a week. Then they went to
bed. "I blew it," he kept saying, over and over, as they drifted off to sleep.
"It's OK, baby," she kept telling him.
The next day he returned to the casino to collect his winnings. Tournament
officials offered to "bag it up" for him. They weren't kidding. Mr. Williams
thought it might be awkward getting on a plane back to Dallas with
$3.5-million in cash. He asked for a check instead.
Yes, the money is great. It is more than the average waiter makes in a
lifetime. It is more than the average waiter makes in two lifetimes. And he is
grateful for what it's allowed him to do, like pay off his mother's mortgage
and buy his sister a spiffy laptop computer. He has also hired a professional
financial planner to help him invest his winnings.
His one splurge so far was the $17,000 Rolex, which he now wishes he
hadn't bought. For one thing, he is no longer fond of the diamond-encrusted
bezel. What's more, he is worried that people will think he's full of himself,
which he is not.
He has also been test-driving cars to replace his Mitsubishi Eclipse (he's got
his eye on a particular Mercedes-Benz), but he has yet to buy one. He is
hesitant to drop a hundred grand on something that can break down or get
stolen. Besides, what will people say if he shows up in a new Mercedes?
Then again, what will people say if the young millionaire arrives in a beat-up
Mitsubishi?
The money is great. But coming in second carries with it a unique curse: All
anyone in the poker world can talk about is the last hand, the one he lost. No
one ever mentions the countless hands he won. Should he have suspected
that Mr. Raymer had better cards? Did he make a rookie mistake? Did he
come so far only to choke at the end?
Even three months later, such thoughts haunt him. "People remember Super
Bowl champs; they don't remember second place. That's what makes it so
much more important to be the champion," he says. "People usually only
mention first place because that's all that really matters."
He has replayed that final hand in his head again and again, trying to figure
out what he could have done differently, even though longtime poker players
say he didn't do anything wrong. Sometimes you're just not lucky.
Since the World Series, he has played in several tournaments with mixed
results. He's convinced he is in a slump and has lost his touch.
Yet there are times when even a worrier like Mr. Williams has to smile. He is
buddies now with actor Tobey Maguire, an avid poker player. How many
college seniors count Spider-Man among their friends?
Mr. Williams has become a celebrity, too, albeit on a smaller scale. At a
recent tournament, he is approached by a man who wants to create a
bobblehead doll in his likeness. "That's cool," he tells the man. "Call my
agent."
Later, Greg, a representative from Oakley, which makes sunglasses and
sportswear, tries to convince Mr. Williams to become an Oakley wearer.
Greg explains that such a deal would mean thousands of dollars in free
merchandise.
"So, do you have a pair of shades you like to wear?" Greg asks.
"Yeah," Mr. Williams tells him. "I have my lucky pair."
Greg nods, defeated. "Wouldn't want to change that!"
After Mr. Williams walks away, Greg refers to his lucky sunglasses as "those
dog-[censored] things" and predicts that he will eventually switch to Oakley. "It's not
about selling sunglasses," Greg says in an earnest tone. "It's about fun."
There is talk of sponsorship deals and paid appearances. After all, Mr.
Williams is good-looking, bright, and personable. When the mood strikes
him, he can let loose an enormous smile.
He is also black, which helps him stand out from the mostly white poker
crowd and might draw more minority players to the game -- at least that's
what his agent thinks. "I believe he's going to be a household name," Mr.
Balsbaugh says.
He would be even more marketable, everyone agrees, if he had a good
nickname. The lawyer who beat him is known as Fossilman because he
collects fossils and often brings one with him when he plays poker. Other
players have nicknames like Superfly, Motormouth, Cupcake, and the
Ripper.
But so far David Williams is just David Williams, except when announcers or
articles refer to him as "the college student."
Never Enough
Right now Mr. Williams is focused less on nicknames and marketability and
more on his senior year of college. After he graduates, he thinks he might
move to Los Angeles or Las Vegas and continue playing poker. Or maybe
he'll start a business. Who knows?
Plenty of people have asked him why he would ever sit through another class
now that he is a millionaire. "I was never going to school to get rich," he tells
them. "I've always been a good student. What's the point of quitting right
before you get to the end?"
A couple of weeks before the semester begins, Mr. Williams is sitting in the
poker room of the Mirage casino here, quietly dominating the eight other
players at his table. He is wearing a gray T-shirt, beat-up jeans, and the same
pair of dirty tennis shoes he has had for at least a year.
Around midnight it is down to Mr. Williams and a balding tourist who is
clearly thrilled and nervous to be playing him. They agree after a while to quit
and divide the pot -- to "chop" in poker lingo -- with Mr. Williams, who has
more chips, taking the lion's share.
"That's David Williams," the tourist tells his friends when it's over. "He came
in second at the World Series."
As he is leaving the table, Mr. Williams peels a couple of hundreds from the
wad of cash he just won and tosses the bills on the table for the dealer, a
woman in a vest and bow tie, who is old enough to be his mother.
Someone asks if a $200 tip is normal.
"Yeah," he says. "Just about."
But Mr. Williams pauses, unsure of himself, then turns to the dealer.
"Is that enough?" he asks.
The dealer doesn't answer. She just smiles wearily and shrugs.
http://chronicle.com
Section: Students
Volume 51, Issue 5, Page A31
http://chronicle.com/temp/email.php?id=0x1bzelhmwmtmkwyailovapaqlzrb24n
Not in the Cards
A college senior won $3.5-million playing poker. So why does he feel
like such a loser?
By THOMAS BARTLETT
Las Vegas
The new millionaire is practicing his autograph. He is not happy with the
results. The "D" is too close to the "a," and the "W"? Well, it's nothing
special. Where's the smooth stroke, the distinctive flourish? The letters just sit
there on the page, looking ordinary.
"How many do I have to sign?" he asks.
"Only a hundred" is the reply.
On the hotel-room desk is a small stack of glossy 5-by-7s. In the
photograph, his eyes are hidden behind dark wraparound sunglasses; he is
not smiling. After he has signed them, each photograph will be encased in
Lucite, bolted to a wooden plaque, and sold over the Internet for $149. The
plaque will read: "David Williams: Youngest World Series of Poker
Millionaire."
His agent, Brian Balsbaugh, arranged the autograph session. A few months
ago, Mr. Williams didn't have an agent. Back then he was a junior at
Southern Methodist University, majoring in economics and minoring in
mathematics, who drove a 1997 Mitsubishi Eclipse, hung out with his
girlfriend, ate at Taco Cabana, enjoyed playing poker online, listened to Nas
and Mystikal on his iPod, and wondered what to do with his life. In short, he
didn't need an agent.
That changed on May 28 when he placed second in the World Series of
Poker, winning $3.5-million and becoming an instant celebrity among poker
fans. To understand the nature of this accomplishment, consider that 2,576
players entered the tournament, each of whom had either won a satellite
tournament or paid the hefty $10,000 entry fee. Consider, too, that before
entering the World Series, most of Mr. Williams's poker experience came
from playing online and from reading books on the subject. That he made it
past the first day is remarkable. That he very nearly won the whole thing is
amazing.
Since then, Mr. Williams, who recently turned 24, has been trying to cope
with his sudden fame, figure out how to invest his windfall, and prepare
himself for his senior year of college. For the straight-A student who has
always loved school, this summer has certainly been educational. He has
learned that a $17,000 Rolex can be a letdown. He has learned what it's like
to be propositioned by two blondes at a Hard Rock Cafe. He has learned
that when you're young and wealthy strangers want to shake your hand, slap
your back, or kiss your cheek.
He has also learned what it's like to wake up each morning filled to the brim
with regret.
David Williams had no interest in second place. He wanted to be the kid
from nowhere who won it all. To come so close, to play so well, to do
everything right, and then to lose the final hand was devastating. It hurt like
hell. It still hurts like hell. And no amount of money -- not even $3.5-million
-- can make the pain go away.
The Game of Life
In order to appreciate how Mr. Williams feels, it helps to know where he
came from. His father left before he was born. He was raised in Dallas by his
mother and his grandparents, who lived up the street. When he was little, he
and his mother played board games and video games together all the time.
As a teenager, he was obsessed with the fantasy card game Magic: The
Gathering. He traveled to tournaments around the world (thanks to his
mother, a flight attendant, he could fly free) and became known as one of the
game's best players.
When some of his fellow Magic players started playing poker, he didn't want
to be left out. He bought a book that explained the rules and basic strategy
and read it cover to cover, twice. This was before he played a single hand.
The variety of poker he learned is called Texas hold'em and it is played
everywhere at the moment -- in suburban basements, in campus lounges, and
on television. The game is similar to basic five-card draw, except that each
player is dealt two cards while five "community" cards are laid face up on the
table. Three cable channels devote hours to Texas hold'em every week. At
any hour of the day there are thousands of people playing the game on the
Internet. There is even an online tournament, now in its second year, to
crown the "best college poker player in the world."
Growing up, when he wasn't playing games, Mr. Williams was impressing
teachers. He attended the selective Texas Academy of Mathematics and
Science, a two-year residential high school where students can take
college-level courses. When he graduated from the program, Mr. Williams
had two years of college credit and an SAT score in the 1500s. He was
accepted by Princeton University and left his hometown in Texas for the
faraway land of New Jersey.
He lasted two months. Princeton undergraduates were "snotty," and he was
the only black student in his dormitory, he says. He felt alone and lost. His
mother got a call from a Princeton official who said he had "never seen a kid
as sad" as her son. She encouraged him to come home.
Back in Dallas, he got an internship at Texas Instruments, where he learned
to perform failure analysis on semiconductors. Then he got a job at a
computer store repairing digital cameras. He also worked on a construction
site and as a waiter at a seafood restaurant. "The first time someone said,
'Wow, you're the best waiter I ever had,' I think I got off on that," he says.
"That was my goal, to really impress people."
Yet he knew he couldn't spend the rest of his life asking if anyone wanted to
see a dessert menu. Returning to Princeton wasn't an option either, even
though the university made it clear he would be welcomed back. "I didn't
know what I wanted to do," he recalls.
After four years of hopping from job to job, he decided to try a different
college. Last year he enrolled at Southern Methodist University, which
allowed him to start as a junior thanks to the credits he had earned in high
school and offered him several scholarships. Students there were friendlier,
he says, and it was much closer to home.
Around this time he started playing poker seriously. He qualified online for a
big tournament in Aruba, his first such event. He was knocked out early but
found the experience reassuring. "I was worried that everybody would be
better than me, that I'd be scared, that I'd be shaking," he says. "But it turned
out to be no big deal."
Doing well in college turned out to be no big deal either. Mr. Williams found
he could make A's with minimal effort. Even so, he studied and worked hard
because he enjoyed it. "Every semester I fall in love with my professors
again," he says.
The warm feelings are usually mutual. Mark Fontenot, an adjunct professor
of computer science at Southern Methodist, says he was "in awe" of how
rapidly Mr. Williams could grasp a challenging concept like, say, dynamic
memory allocation. "If I could find a classroom full of Davids, my job would
be a lot more fun," says Mr. Fontenot.
The professor says his star pupil seemed restless, ready to move on to the
next exercise, eager to tackle a new problem. It was as if he had something
to prove.
A Poker Demon
As soon as class ended, Mr. Williams would rush home to play poker online.
After the Aruba tournament, he set his sights on poker's holiest event, the
World Series, in Las Vegas. Because he didn't have an extra 10 grand lying
around, the only way be could gain entry would be to win a qualifying
tournament. After several failed attempts, he did just that.
He tried to keep his expectations low. He knew that all but a handful of
players leave Sin City empty-handed. He hoped he would play well enough
not to embarrass himself.
During the tournament, held at Binion's Horseshoe Casino, he felt calm and
focused as long as he was playing poker. During the breaks, however, he
was a wreck. He was too nervous to eat and had to subsist on water, tomato
juice, and Coke. He didn't sleep much either. When he did, he would talk in
his sleep, according to a friend he roomed with, saying things like "Call!
Raise! What do you have?"
He made it past the first day, then the second, then the third. In the World
Series, players compete for 12 hours a day with only a few short rest periods
to break up the monotony. It is a test of mental endurance as much as poker
skill.
Mr. Williams continued betting, calling, bluffing, and winning. "It's all sort of a
blur," he says. "I was in such a zone. I was a poker demon."
On the seventh day, he found himself at the final table, head to head with a
39-year-old patent lawyer and veteran poker player from Connecticut
named Greg Raymer. There was Mr. Williams, in his black, button-down
shirt, looking suave and svelte. And there was Mr. Raymer, looking less
suave and svelte, but holding considerably more chips.
It came down, as it always does, to one hand. Mr. Williams risked
everything on a pair of fours. He never suspected his opponent had a pair of
eights.
The Curse of Second Place
In a photograph taken seconds after the tournament ended, Mr. Raymer has
his mouth open mid-yell and his arms raised in triumph. In the background,
Mr. Williams is walking away from the table, head down, fading into the
crowd.
After the loss, Mr. Williams and his girlfriend, Brittany DeWald, drove to
In-N-Out Burger where he ate his first meal in a week. Then they went to
bed. "I blew it," he kept saying, over and over, as they drifted off to sleep.
"It's OK, baby," she kept telling him.
The next day he returned to the casino to collect his winnings. Tournament
officials offered to "bag it up" for him. They weren't kidding. Mr. Williams
thought it might be awkward getting on a plane back to Dallas with
$3.5-million in cash. He asked for a check instead.
Yes, the money is great. It is more than the average waiter makes in a
lifetime. It is more than the average waiter makes in two lifetimes. And he is
grateful for what it's allowed him to do, like pay off his mother's mortgage
and buy his sister a spiffy laptop computer. He has also hired a professional
financial planner to help him invest his winnings.
His one splurge so far was the $17,000 Rolex, which he now wishes he
hadn't bought. For one thing, he is no longer fond of the diamond-encrusted
bezel. What's more, he is worried that people will think he's full of himself,
which he is not.
He has also been test-driving cars to replace his Mitsubishi Eclipse (he's got
his eye on a particular Mercedes-Benz), but he has yet to buy one. He is
hesitant to drop a hundred grand on something that can break down or get
stolen. Besides, what will people say if he shows up in a new Mercedes?
Then again, what will people say if the young millionaire arrives in a beat-up
Mitsubishi?
The money is great. But coming in second carries with it a unique curse: All
anyone in the poker world can talk about is the last hand, the one he lost. No
one ever mentions the countless hands he won. Should he have suspected
that Mr. Raymer had better cards? Did he make a rookie mistake? Did he
come so far only to choke at the end?
Even three months later, such thoughts haunt him. "People remember Super
Bowl champs; they don't remember second place. That's what makes it so
much more important to be the champion," he says. "People usually only
mention first place because that's all that really matters."
He has replayed that final hand in his head again and again, trying to figure
out what he could have done differently, even though longtime poker players
say he didn't do anything wrong. Sometimes you're just not lucky.
Since the World Series, he has played in several tournaments with mixed
results. He's convinced he is in a slump and has lost his touch.
Yet there are times when even a worrier like Mr. Williams has to smile. He is
buddies now with actor Tobey Maguire, an avid poker player. How many
college seniors count Spider-Man among their friends?
Mr. Williams has become a celebrity, too, albeit on a smaller scale. At a
recent tournament, he is approached by a man who wants to create a
bobblehead doll in his likeness. "That's cool," he tells the man. "Call my
agent."
Later, Greg, a representative from Oakley, which makes sunglasses and
sportswear, tries to convince Mr. Williams to become an Oakley wearer.
Greg explains that such a deal would mean thousands of dollars in free
merchandise.
"So, do you have a pair of shades you like to wear?" Greg asks.
"Yeah," Mr. Williams tells him. "I have my lucky pair."
Greg nods, defeated. "Wouldn't want to change that!"
After Mr. Williams walks away, Greg refers to his lucky sunglasses as "those
dog-[censored] things" and predicts that he will eventually switch to Oakley. "It's not
about selling sunglasses," Greg says in an earnest tone. "It's about fun."
There is talk of sponsorship deals and paid appearances. After all, Mr.
Williams is good-looking, bright, and personable. When the mood strikes
him, he can let loose an enormous smile.
He is also black, which helps him stand out from the mostly white poker
crowd and might draw more minority players to the game -- at least that's
what his agent thinks. "I believe he's going to be a household name," Mr.
Balsbaugh says.
He would be even more marketable, everyone agrees, if he had a good
nickname. The lawyer who beat him is known as Fossilman because he
collects fossils and often brings one with him when he plays poker. Other
players have nicknames like Superfly, Motormouth, Cupcake, and the
Ripper.
But so far David Williams is just David Williams, except when announcers or
articles refer to him as "the college student."
Never Enough
Right now Mr. Williams is focused less on nicknames and marketability and
more on his senior year of college. After he graduates, he thinks he might
move to Los Angeles or Las Vegas and continue playing poker. Or maybe
he'll start a business. Who knows?
Plenty of people have asked him why he would ever sit through another class
now that he is a millionaire. "I was never going to school to get rich," he tells
them. "I've always been a good student. What's the point of quitting right
before you get to the end?"
A couple of weeks before the semester begins, Mr. Williams is sitting in the
poker room of the Mirage casino here, quietly dominating the eight other
players at his table. He is wearing a gray T-shirt, beat-up jeans, and the same
pair of dirty tennis shoes he has had for at least a year.
Around midnight it is down to Mr. Williams and a balding tourist who is
clearly thrilled and nervous to be playing him. They agree after a while to quit
and divide the pot -- to "chop" in poker lingo -- with Mr. Williams, who has
more chips, taking the lion's share.
"That's David Williams," the tourist tells his friends when it's over. "He came
in second at the World Series."
As he is leaving the table, Mr. Williams peels a couple of hundreds from the
wad of cash he just won and tosses the bills on the table for the dealer, a
woman in a vest and bow tie, who is old enough to be his mother.
Someone asks if a $200 tip is normal.
"Yeah," he says. "Just about."
But Mr. Williams pauses, unsure of himself, then turns to the dealer.
"Is that enough?" he asks.
The dealer doesn't answer. She just smiles wearily and shrugs.
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Section: Students
Volume 51, Issue 5, Page A31