Punch Drunk Poker

Walter Matthau said that poker exhibits the worst aspects of capitalism that made his country so great. Blood sucking avarice, exploitation of the weak, phallic displays of wealth. Of course on the other side of the fence the view is spectacular. Money is the lifeblood of poker. Like butterflies to love, the moon to the tide. Without it you have a card game no better than snap. But then again, it was before pay day and I was hard up for cash, so I went to play at the Punch Tavern instead of the Gutshot.

The pub is a member of the UK poker league. There is no buy in, only an entry fee of £2. Players get points, the winner gets a Perspex trophy. As I entered the poker room, replete with green baize, plastic chip racks and beer glass holders, I felt like I was in for something casual but professional. I expected the absence of money to lead to loose playing. I was wrong. A troop of city boys from the same company entered, I instantly knew that pride was at stake. Two gaming tables, 16 players, 4,000 chips, blinds rising every twenty minutes. The first hour was tighter than a jar of pickles. No one was willing to go all in, any sign of strength was met with a wave of folds. If anything, Tony Holden’s Big Deal has taught me that you don’t play the cards, you play the table. I started to bet heavy on marginal hands. I was late in position, two before me had each put 1k into the pot. I had Ace 3. I went all in with a little over 5k. They folded. The big Aussie next to me said, ‘Easy money.’ I nodded and slid my cards into the muck and collected my chips.

I began to bully. I would re-raise, I would put people all in. Most of the time it worked. I got stung by pocket aces, my chip stack halved. A break came. I went outside where the city boys gathered to smoke. I came back to Queen 10, I bet, a player called. I paired my queen on the flop. I bet again. My opponent called. This is when the antlers lock. The turn brought nothing. I bet again, he called. The river brought nothing. I set him all in. He was pot committed. He called. My pair of queens beat his pocket jacks. I had bankrupted him, taken all his chips. He looked at me like I had taken the keys to his Jag and his girlfriend, remained seated at the table, and continued drinking. He wasn’t budging, which is poor poker etiquette in my books. I felt like asking him to leave, thought the better of it, as he was bigger than me. I had made it to the final table.

I had around 8k, the chip leader over 30k. The blinds were up to 1000-2000. I didn’t have many moves left. In time honoured fashion I was dealt Ace King. I went all in, so did two others. Delightful Anna Kournikova did it to me again. My chip stack was reduced to little over a grand. I was the poor man of the table, the bailiffs at the door. The next hand I got pocket queens. All in. Double up. When this happens, the other players gasp in awe, like getting lucky makes you a good player. I ride it for the next few hands and continue to double up. I knock out a stout city boy with a nut flush – sweet. I go all in with Ace 8, the table folds. There are only three players left, no one is prepared to see a flop. My luck runs out. I go all in with King 5. The big stack goes all in, as does the middle stack. They reveal Ace Ace and Nine Nine. Oh dear. I pair my King but still lose. The game is over; I have come third. It doesn’t feel like losing. I only want to cry a bit. I gather my things.

Outside the city boys are smoking again. They cheer as I exit, shake my hand and ask me if I’ll be back next week. I have earned their respect. I wish I could cash it in.

Posted 27/03/2008 15:23:15 by Bobby Nayyar, Marketing Manager with 0 comments.