Like many poker players, I first played seriously in college. I began to believe I was one of the best poker players ever to sit down at a card table. I crushed the dorm game – crushed it! – pulling down maybe as much as forty or fifty dollars a week. Seriously. That was a helpful sum, some 45 years ago. In fact, I played poker and bridge so seriously, I flunked out of school.
My father was not happy. He offered me a choice. I could deal with his – not inexplicable – wrath or I could serve my country…starting tomorrow. He was not bluffing. I figured my odds were better against the Viet Cong. Talk about your prop bets.
Dad, it must be said, was an excellent poker player. Mother tells about the time she found a piece of property upon which to build her dream home. The site was so choice, a bidding war was about to erupt. If she could come up with an unlikely large amount of cash immediately, she could swing the deal. “I might be able to help,” Dad said. From his sock drawer, he pulled a roll of bills, approximating his pre-tax annual income. The next day we owned a half-acre field atop a hill.
I joined the U.S. Air Force because the Marine recruiter was out to lunch.
Oh, the irony. Having flunked out of college due primarily to a lack of interest in higher education, I soon found myself in Monterrey, California, at the Defense Language Institute. Assigned to a year-long study of the Czech and Slovak languages. Forty hours of classes weekly, with no option whatsoever of quitting. Failing grades doubtlessly meant a direct flight to Cam Ranh Bay.
At DLI, all governmental agencies studied, even the FBI. Virtually every language around the globe was taught. Including Vietnamese.
We used to joke about the two-week course given to combat troops on their way to the Far East. What could they be teaching you? “Hello.” “Goodbye.” “Drop your weapons.” “Raise your hands.” “Surrender or die.” “I’ll have another beer, please.” “I love you.”
I still remember how to say “kiss my butt” in Czechoslovakian.
Of course, we played poker. We played a lot of poker. Hour after hour after hour of poker. In those days, the games were mostly 7-card stud and 5-card draw. Dealer’s choice, with the occasional wild card, like one-eyed jacks and suicide kings. Stakes varied, usually depending upon how close – or how far – from pay day the game was played.
Games got tougher as the pay period went on. Think of the month as one big multi-table tournament; towards the third weekend, most of the weaker players had surrendered their bankrolls. By the end of the month, each barracks was basically spreading a short-handed sit-and-go. The better players had the option of moving up to face higher “ranked” competition. By ranked, I don’t mean the Poker Leader Board. The sargeants had their games, the officer corps had their games, too. The weakest games were among the junior officers, the second lieutenants. Sooner than later, I got my ass kicked. And kicked. And kicked. And kicked. I began to believe I was one of the worst poker players ever to sit down at a card table.
I got beat so bad, I decided poker was not the game for me. I stopped playing.
Fast forward a few decades. I cannot precisely place the blame on Chris Moneymaker. But I did read the best-selling Play Poker Like the Pros by Phil Hellmuth. In the book, Mr. Hellmuth graciously recommended playing on UltimateBet.com. So, I signed up. (After all, the Poker Brat had been voted “Best Poker Tournament Player in the World” in 1997. Turns out – oh, the surprise! – Hellmouth had an endorsement deal with UB.)
I deposited $50, which was lost almost before I figured out what buttons to click. Just like in the military. Apparently, years away from the tables had not improved my poker skills.
So – what the hell – what did I have to lose? (Nothing except time) I began to play… gulp… play money games.
Slowly, and then ever more rapidly, I begin to win. And win. And win. Just like in college. I could do NO wrong.Before long I was playing 1000-2000 No-Limit Hold’em with a bankroll beyond 3 million. I had my mojo back.
Oh, if you ever have a choice, do not marry a crazy person. My wife wanted me to cash in. When I explained virtual chips was not real money, she refused to believe I was even playing poker.
After the divorce, I began to play again for real. I managed to get small deposits on a half-dozen sites. And while I would study and study and play and play, I was barely a just the tiniest bit above a break-even player. Before you snicker, that put me at about the top 9% of poker players world-wide. I simply could not manage the win which would allow me to move ahead.
Oh, I did have a big win some months back. A huge win. I finished first in a 12,000 player MTT on PokerStars. There is something very rewarding about sitting alone at a final table with a stack of 18,000,000 chips. I was still admiring my stack when they closed the table.
Unfortunately, the event was a freeroll, which merely served to allow me entry into a future tournament. I placed 36th of 3391 entrants in that MTT. I was feeling pretty good about myself. Back-to-back Jack.
This was about the same time I began to understand the ups and downs of my youthful poker “career.” College, where I was a big winner, was small, private, expensive, church-affiliated. Those kids had no idea how to play poker. None whatsoever. The Language Institute, where I was a big loser, was populated with country boys and city slickers, who actually knew how to play the game. Some of them might not have even cheated. They were that good.
My own skills, to use the term loosely, never changed. I was bad when I won, I was bad when I lost. My game remained the same, while the results depended upon my opponents’ skills and the fall of the cards.
I improved incrementally, glacially. Seems everybody who survived online improved, too. So, gradual improvement almost felt -EV. To be successful, we must get better faster. We must be open to new ideas. True everywhere we look.
Of course, my game was killed by crooks and politicians – is that redundant? – and I was forced to create When Running Was Young & So Were We.
As winners, we must realize we might not be as good as we think we are.
As losers, we have to understand why we lose.
And when we do win, we have to make sure the victory is worth achieving.