Poker Corner

It’s Monday morning and you’re sitting in your cubicle/office/holding cell hoping a cup of coffee will clear away the cobwebs after a typical weekend filled with too much drink and not enough sleep. Just before you take that first sip the office busybody sticks in his head and says, “Dude, how was your weekend, I was out till 4AM every night, party party party, blah blah blah…” and just as you think you might escape with only minor brain damage he says, “Man, let me tell you about the crazy dream I had last night!”

Is there any phrase in the English language that makes you cringe inside more than, “Let me tell you about this dream I had?” No one wants to hear about another person’s dreams. Especially since it’s never the breathtaking blonde in marketing stopping over to tell you about the dream she had involving you, her, and a carafe of olive oil. No, it’s always some jerk bloviating about some nonsense that reveals far more than he realizes about his psychosexual problems. The next time someone wants to discuss their dreams tell him you charge $350 for a half-hour session.

Why do people want to talk about their dreams? Because dreams mean something to us, something very personal and powerful, and in sharing this information we hope others will confirm that they’ve experienced the same nocturnal mindscapes and in that way, a deeper connection with our fellow man will be forged. Those are our hopes, anyway. But if you start talking about a dream where you’re breastfeeding an endless herd of llamas, you’re going to be eating lunch alone from now on.

If talking about dreams has any competition in the I-don’t-wanna-hear-about-it sweepstakes, it’s talking to another poker player after you’ve suffered a bad beat. Let's say you've been getting bricks for the past three hours and, and long last, you're dealt a real hand—two black aces. You haven't raised in so long that when you DO raise the guy next to you nearly leaps out of his skin before flinging his cards away like they're radioactive. Everyone does the same, except for the bozo on the small blind, who puts down his Budweiser long enough to call. The flop comes K-Q-2, you bet, he calls. A six on the turn and you check-raise his ass, but he still calls. A eight on the river, you bet, he raises. The rage is already making your hand tremble as you toss in that last bet, and he turns over 8-6, having gone runner-runner for two pair. And watching him scoop in the pot has now made you so angry, so intensely and exquisitely angry, that tearing a fellow human being into bloody chunks with your bare hands seems as rational as maxing out your 401(k) contributions.

The scenario I’ve just described—painful as it is to read—eventually happens to every poker player. And it happens over and over and over again. As I’ve written before on these pages, if you’re playing well you’re going to suffer more bad beats than you deliver. In fact, if your nickname in your local poker circle is “Suckout Joe” or, “That card-catching sonofabitch BASTARD” you may want to tighten up your game a little.

But there are times, after you’ve suffered a bad beat, when you need to be comforted. You played the hand perfectly, the other person played like a donkey, and yet the chips went his way. You’re stunned. Discombobulated. What’s next, will the stars fall from the heavens, will the earth start spinning in reverse? Anything is possible. So you stop the first person you know and tell them your story, hoping for a Clintonian "I feel your pain" accompanied by an empathetic bite of the lower-lip.

It ain't gonna happen. Because poker players actually like hearing about other player's suffering. They like it a lot. They're probably going to follow you back to your table and take a seat in the hopes that you're tilting and ripe for the pickings. So if you have to tell someone a bad beat story, if you know you'll just DIE unless you release the pressure, follow this simple rule—a bad beat story should never be longer than 50 words (or fifteen seconds) long.

For example, the scenario I described above could be abbreviated thusly: "I raised with aces, he cold-called in the small blind. King-high flop, bet, call. Six on the turn, I check-raise. Eight on the turn, I make the crying call when he raises. He has 8-6." The best way to accentuate your tale of woe is with strategic shrugging, to show that you both understand that these things happen in poker, and to show that you would never make such a donkified play yourself. "I raised with aces, he cold-called in the small blind (shrug)…He has 8-6 (shrug)." Maintain a laconic attitude, don't get all worked up. Think about how John Wayne would tell a bad beat story…how Humphrey Bogart would tell the tale. Be cool. Shrug a lot. And then, when you get home, yell and shriek and cry at the reflection in the mirror. That's the only person who will truly, honestly, feel your pain.

The only time you should tell a long, involved, convoluted bad beat story is when YOU are the one delivering the beat. On the odd chance that you make a fishy play that miraculously works out, feel free to tell all and sundry about your "brilliant" play. Wax poetic about the "read" you put on the guy pre-flop, about how you spent the whole session setting him up for the devious slow-play on the turn, and how you made him pay on the river. Mention at the end that you had 7-3, he had kings, that he flopped a set and you went runner-runner to make the miracle straight. Everyone will think you're a total idiot, which is exactly what you want them to think. Unless you ARE a total idiot, in which case you should keep your mouth shut at all times.

So, now that I’ve explained the proper way to tell a bad beat story, let me break all of the rules and tell one of my own.

I was on a bit of a bad streak playing online. The night before I’d played 100 hands of Hold-Em and won one. One. But I didn’t lose too much, since I only saw 5 flops the whole time, thanks to an endless parade of hands like Q-3 and J-3 and 10-3. Unsuited, even. My teeth ground down to nubs I decided to play a little Omaha Hi/Lo Split, a game I’d been studying a bit. First hand, I scoop a nice pot. And then, the next 100 hands, I don’t win a single hand. I barely see a flop. I don’t care if you’re a genetic freak created by splicing the DNA of Robert Williamson III and Annie Duke, you can’t win in Omaha Hi/Lo with hands like Q-9-6-3, all of different suits. Which I got on, oh, 100 hands in a row.

I handled this tough stretch with my usual aplomb—breaking everything of value within arms reach; rocking on the floor while curled up in the fetal position; calling my Mommy. I calmed down and decided to play a little $10 sit-an-go. Maybe a tournament would change my luck, give me the chance to make some big bluffs, play the other players instead of the cards, since I couldn’t get cards to save my expletive-deleted life. The game moves along, I build my stack thanks to a few nice hands, and when we get down to four-handed I'm in 3rd place with a decent stack. Top three spots pay and that’s all I’m looking for—even a tiny profit would do wonders for my ego.

But the shortstack doubles up, doubles up again, and before you know it the blinds are big enough that I’m in a bit of trouble. But then in the big blind I’m dealt the ace of clubs and the queen of diamonds. The former shortstack, who now has me outchipped by a measly $10, raises big on the button. The small blind folds, and I decide its time for me to make my stand. I push all-in, hoping for a fold. But he calls, and turns over the ace and five of spades. Perfect, I’ve got him crushed. “No spades, no spades,” I chant.

The flop comes Q-7-2. Fantabulous, I’ve flopped top pair. But it’s a far better flop than that—all three cards are clubs, and I’m holding the ace of clubs. There are no straight draws out there, and I quickly realize that my opponent is nearly drawing dead. The only way he can win is to go runner-runner fives to make trips. And the five of clubs doesn’t help him—that makes my flush. So, unless the five of diamonds AND the five of hearts come consecutively on the turn and river, I double up and leave him with just $10.

I don’t need to tell you what happened. I wasn't even worried when the five of diamonds came up—hey, he'd still have to hit a one-outer to win. When that one-outer hit, I didn't scream, I didn't swear, I didn't throw my monitor through the TV set. No, I was actually happy. Relieved, even. Why was I so calm? Because I'd just taken the worst beat I'd probably ever take, and it was just in a piddling little tournament. I hadn't gotten skunked at a World Series final table, and I wasn't playing no-limit in a seedy bar as a gangster held a gun to my dog's head. I'd just survived the worst beat imaginable, under the best conditions possible. And I came through it A-OK. After I called my Mommy again, that is.