jgorham
02-14-2005, 05:31 AM
So I thought this was a good story, and got a little carried away in the telling of it. /images/graemlins/smile.gif I think I have been reading too many of Tommy Angelos fantastic articles at Poker Pages (http://www.pokerpages.com).
In any case, I hope you all enjoy it as much as I did:
I had been playing with this man all night, and somewhere deep down I felt bad for him. He was the type of player who really searched for approval in that weird way, as if he knew that he didn’t understand the game but desperately wanted to convince himself he did.
All night it played the same way – he would get heavily involved in a large pot, only to watch his ace high flush lose to a rivered full house, or his pocket queens fall to a lowly three six offsuit. After every new beat he would show me his cards and beg me to make it all right by telling him he played the best he could.
As a player to study, he displayed a truly special kind of tilt in that $4/$8 game. He played every hand to the river with a sense of moral indignation; God was planning to deliver him his hand, he was playing great poker and deserved it! Yet every river ended with a bet met by his cards flying into the muck.
After purchasing and disseminating a few racks, he told me quite bluntly that if he dropped down to his last $100 he would get up. He just couldn’t take it anymore.
A few hands later, his fifth stack of $1 chips wasn’t quite as tall as his first four. He stood up to leave, but didn’t make it when the dealer announced the next hand would be a kill-pot. Still standing, he knew this would be his chance to win a big one and get back in the game. Besides, he was on the cutoff and had that surprisingly tight college kid on the button.
The hand was folded to our hero, Steve, who looked down at two golden diamonds, the big king and the bigger ace. He raised; what choice did he have? His hand had come.
The villain in this hand, yours truly, peeked at a small red three and a smaller black deuce. My muscles had been trained to throw this hand in the muck. This hand only existed in the first place so players could get used to the idea that some cards needed to be thrown to the middle of the table just as soon as they were touched.
Instead I put in $24 and sat up a little bit. The blinds and killer all folded, and Steve looked at me nearly in terror and called. As ragged a flop as couldn’t possibly help me fell: a six, seven, and nine – none of them red. After a quick check I pushed $8 more into the pot and watched. Steve called for time, paced, grumbled, agonized, but eventually moved eight chips from the rack in his hand to the table. This couldn’t be happening to him again.
We both saw the turn, a jack, involving more checking by him and more betting by me. Again time was called, but eventually we both had $16 stacks next to our other bets. The river was a five, and our hero checked again. Our villain had come that far and had no real choice but to shoot the last barrel.
After a few moments of swearing about every hand he had lost that night, Steve made quite the impressive statement: “Well I am calling you anyway.” Steve began counting out chips in his rack. The statement was so impressive, however, that it had quite the remarkable effect: I began laughing in spite of himself. I could only imagine the looks of judgment I would receive after this one, and I found the prospect humorous.
At that very moment our hero broke, his hopes shattered by one last hand. Instead of pushing his chips in to call, Steve picked up his cards, showed them to everyone who would care to look, threw them face up in the pot, and stormed to the cashier.
I just shrugged and collected my favorite pot.
In any case, I hope you all enjoy it as much as I did:
I had been playing with this man all night, and somewhere deep down I felt bad for him. He was the type of player who really searched for approval in that weird way, as if he knew that he didn’t understand the game but desperately wanted to convince himself he did.
All night it played the same way – he would get heavily involved in a large pot, only to watch his ace high flush lose to a rivered full house, or his pocket queens fall to a lowly three six offsuit. After every new beat he would show me his cards and beg me to make it all right by telling him he played the best he could.
As a player to study, he displayed a truly special kind of tilt in that $4/$8 game. He played every hand to the river with a sense of moral indignation; God was planning to deliver him his hand, he was playing great poker and deserved it! Yet every river ended with a bet met by his cards flying into the muck.
After purchasing and disseminating a few racks, he told me quite bluntly that if he dropped down to his last $100 he would get up. He just couldn’t take it anymore.
A few hands later, his fifth stack of $1 chips wasn’t quite as tall as his first four. He stood up to leave, but didn’t make it when the dealer announced the next hand would be a kill-pot. Still standing, he knew this would be his chance to win a big one and get back in the game. Besides, he was on the cutoff and had that surprisingly tight college kid on the button.
The hand was folded to our hero, Steve, who looked down at two golden diamonds, the big king and the bigger ace. He raised; what choice did he have? His hand had come.
The villain in this hand, yours truly, peeked at a small red three and a smaller black deuce. My muscles had been trained to throw this hand in the muck. This hand only existed in the first place so players could get used to the idea that some cards needed to be thrown to the middle of the table just as soon as they were touched.
Instead I put in $24 and sat up a little bit. The blinds and killer all folded, and Steve looked at me nearly in terror and called. As ragged a flop as couldn’t possibly help me fell: a six, seven, and nine – none of them red. After a quick check I pushed $8 more into the pot and watched. Steve called for time, paced, grumbled, agonized, but eventually moved eight chips from the rack in his hand to the table. This couldn’t be happening to him again.
We both saw the turn, a jack, involving more checking by him and more betting by me. Again time was called, but eventually we both had $16 stacks next to our other bets. The river was a five, and our hero checked again. Our villain had come that far and had no real choice but to shoot the last barrel.
After a few moments of swearing about every hand he had lost that night, Steve made quite the impressive statement: “Well I am calling you anyway.” Steve began counting out chips in his rack. The statement was so impressive, however, that it had quite the remarkable effect: I began laughing in spite of himself. I could only imagine the looks of judgment I would receive after this one, and I found the prospect humorous.
At that very moment our hero broke, his hopes shattered by one last hand. Instead of pushing his chips in to call, Steve picked up his cards, showed them to everyone who would care to look, threw them face up in the pot, and stormed to the cashier.
I just shrugged and collected my favorite pot.