High (mi)Stakes Poker

They say that the game of poker can push a gambler to his mental limits. They say that this game can exploit a man's every weakness; you're never as vulnerable as you are when you have absolutely nothing to win with, yet you find yourself strongly standing your ground. The emotional ebbs and flows of the game will come at you gradually and then all at once, drop you from the highest plain down into the loneliest valley. So much for gradual.

I've been sitting in this poker tournament for a long time now...through several dozen table changes and the occasional reprieve to center myself, I've sat next to and across from probably a few hundred people. Some I've actually been able to make a connection with and some just didn't appreciate the way I play. At the current table, the player to my left was unusually connected to me and vice versa. At one point, we were actually able to read the other's cards and know whether to check, raise or fold. We both went up big over a short time, then leveled off for a much longer time. Then I got a little antsy and pushed all my chips in based on a false read. I can't say that I truly knew what the down cards were to my left, but I convinced myself that I knew. I convinced myself that it was the right play. The next three seconds of the game elapsed over the course of a hundred years to my disbelieving eyes. I made the wrong read.

I made the wrong fucking read...again...but I had never had to pay such a high price as I just had. I remained in the game since I had covered the player to my left, but it was scarcely enough to make any kind of push; at least for a while. What I had done on that one hand was give the impression that I had bluffed at it. All of the trust I had built with the player to my left was long gone because a failed bluff reeks of deception. It's a very uncomfortable and often times emasculating feeling - to suddenly be at the mercy of a player because you were called out on a bluff. And to further the mental and emotional beating of the scenario, you're completely and utterly controlled by that player's insurmountable chip lead.

It's been a marathon tournament that I've been playing in. Talk about ebbs and flows...I've bought back in several times, having been lucky enough to be backed by a very generous and understanding financier. That doesn't mean that every buy-back doesn't yank at my core of being. I win a little, lose a lot, win a little more, lose everything...then come back in with the fresh pangs of that last loss. But you can't just blanket yourself with all that sorrow and think that you have a fucking fighting chance of winning hands. The many mentors and teachers of the game that I've studied under tell me that I can't just put the blanket away. I can't just ball it up and toss it into the corner, just in case I want to use it again. No, they want me to douse the thing in kerosene and drop a match on it. I'm starting to see their point, I suppose. I haven't burned the blanket yet, but I have put it way the fuck under the bed, in a box with a lock. I want to eat the key, but I know that I'd be fishing that thing out of the toilet sooner or later. Maybe I'll burn it someday soon.

I've just changed tables again, but the tournament is whittling itself down...albeit it slowly. That player that I once had the connection with now sits at a table within view. I have to angle my head like a swan itching his belly to see that table, but I have to look over occasionally. Sometimes I get a look back, sometimes I don't. I see other players nearby that played with me, against me, for me. That comforts me until I realize that no one at this table is out for anyone but himself. I'll have to forge new partnerships and perhaps I'll get that stack back up to where it was. There's a glimmer of confidence that I'll end up at the final table and if the poker gods are as predictable as I optimistically hope they are, I'll be heads up with that player who sat to my left for that long stretch. Heads up for all that fucking money.