The Nuts
I’m standing in the poker room at the MGM Grand, looking up at the boards that display which games are going. I’ve been spending a lot of time at the MGM, lately, hoping to close out 2006 with a bang. It’s 1:00am and the December weather is chilly by Las Vegas standards. My cheeks still have a bit of flush from the wind chill outside and I feel good, energetic and invigorated by the cold. I see the game I’ve been looking for flash up on the board: $5/$10 no limit Texas Hold’em, one seat open. I make my way up to the desk to reserve the open seat then head to the cage to get chips. As the cashier finishes counting my money and pushes fifteen-hundred dollars in chips my way, I take a look around. The room is pretty busy for a Thursday night and the atmosphere is pleasant. Tonight, for the moment at least, the gamblers are happy. I don’t hear anyone arguing about who has to show his hand first or whining about the bad beat he just took. This is a good sign in my book; I prefer my work environment to be calm and happy.
I run a finger down the rack of red chips on the counter in front of me and cut the stack of black, verifying that it’s all there, then I slide the rack off the pass-through, grab the stack of hundreds with my other hand, thank the cashier, and head off to find my table. I spot the game almost immediately, just around the corner from the cage. The table looks lively, borderline rowdy, but in a good way. The kid in the six seat, the kind a lot of us refer to as an “internet player”, is banging his hands and making a whooping noise as a sizable mound of red and green chips is pushed his way by the dealer. The woman in the seven seat, mid-fifties with expensive looking earrings and a chest that is probably younger than any of her children, is smiling and congratulating the kid on his win and everyone seems to be having a good time. The rest of the players at the table are swigging their drinks or talking loudly about the hand that has just finished. There is plenty of money on the table and I grin to myself, anticipating that I might get to play a really big pot or two, tonight. I empty my chip rack in front of the vacant four seat, set down my stack of black and settle into the chair, ready for another night at the office.
Television and movies make poker look glamorous. There is always a huge hand in progress, multiple players throwing money in the middle, stacks of ten-thousand-dollar chips being pushed around like they mean nothing. There’s always a million dollars on the line, else it’s the glory of being a champion or the satisfaction of punishing a player who has done you wrong. People like me who play to make rent and keep shoes on our feet know better: poker is a grind. For most of us, there will be no million dollar pots, no glory, and no avenging past wrongs. When you grind mid-limit poker, your job is to get your money in as a favorite over and over and over again, and let the math work itself out in the long run. That’s what I am here to do, tonight.
In less than an orbit, it is obvious who tonight’s game is built around. In the nine seat, two to the right of the dealer, is an Asian gentleman in a business suit and tie, who I privately nickname the Korean. The Korean has a huge front yard, easily $7,000, and is not afraid to put it in play. I wait for the button to go around before I post my blind and while I wait, I sit back and observe the game. The Korean plays hand after hand as I watch, raising, calling, and re-raising pre-flop, splashing around wildly post-flop, using his stack to bully the more timid players. I wait seven hands for the blind to come around the Koran is in all seven, winning three without a showdown and winning one when his deuce-five rivers a gutshot straight to crack internet kid’s pocket Kings. I’ve seen this type of player many times and I know the Korean is not here to win, he is here for the action.
I am running well and playing well, a great combination. I recognize two other pros at the table but they both seem to be off their games and I am having no trouble outplaying them. The rest of the players are unremarkable, neither great nor terrible but, in any case, no real threat to me. Two o’clock comes and goes, then three. I win a little, I lose a little, I win a little more, but I don’t get to play any big pots against the Korean. Once or twice I play back at him with mediocre hands and he either folds or comes over the top, forcing me to go away. The table stays jovial, even the other two pros are drinking and laughing it up. I stick to ginger ale and wait for my shot at the Korean’s stack, the size of which is fluctuating wildly up and down due to his kamikaze style of play. I don’t want to stand out or be perceived as a nit, though, so I join in the banter and crack a joke or two. I even pass a few words with the Korean who, it turns out, is Korean and is here on some kind of business trip. I am having a good time, but rent is due and I don’t forget why I am here.
I spend the whole morning grinding out small wins, fifty dollars here, two hundred dollars there, nothing spectacular, but it’s a living. The Korean is showing no signs of slowing down and I’m not going anywhere as long as he has money. As we come up on noon, the game, which has just barely kept itself alive through the morning, starts to pick up again. I feel a sense of foreboding. I’ve been winning slowly but steadily all night and I have over $3,000 in front of me. I could leave now and call it a good night, but I want the Korean’s money. As a poker player, it’s hard to leave when a game is juicy and as long as the Korean is sitting here jamming pots, this game is very juicy.
Suddenly, my ride is very bumpy. I am catching cards and playing in pot after pot, but the cards are not holding up. I watch hundreds of dollars fly off my stack, landing in the hands of my opponents. I play my best but it just isn’t good enough, I am being forced to fold my hands and when I do make it to showdown, I am second best. I take a quick count of my stack and, instead of $3,600, I have only $2,200. It is now two o’clock in the afternoon and I decide to take a break. As I am eating my club sandwich, I tell myself I’ll just play for another hour and then pack it in. I head back to the table, feeling a little better, and I immediately start catching cards and winning again. The Korean and I steamroll the table, we are both briefly invincible. I enjoy my rush for nearly an hour and let the Korean enjoy his, neither of us getting involved in pots with the other.
It’s four in the afternoon and I have just about convinced myself to go home when the hand I’ve been waiting for all night finally happens. The first player into the pot raises to $30 and the Korean pops it up to $80. This is completely standard for the Korean and could be literally any two cards. The action folds to me on the button. I look at the Korean for a moment then I squeeze my hole cards and see a beautiful sight: bullets. I have two Aces, the very best possible hand you can hold before the flop in Texas Hold’em poker. I re-raise to $200 and both blinds plus the the initial raiser go away. The Korean glances at me for perhaps half a second then calls my re-raise. I have about $3,500 in my stack and the Korean has me covered. The flop comes down Ace, five, seven. I have flopped a set of Aces. My three Aces are the best possible hand at this point, there is no combination of cards the Korean can have that beat me. Yet, the Korean bets $200 into me. Maybe my opponent is bluffing, maybe he also has an Ace in his hand or maybe he has something like two Queens and is just testing the water. Whatever he has, I have the best hand and I am not going to get fancy, here. The Korean likes to throw money around, so I give him a chance to do so. I raise to $600. The Korean shuffles his checks for a few seconds then calls. The turn is a three of diamonds, which does not complete a flush draw. The Korean checks and I bet $900. With no hesitation, the Korean announces, “I’m all in.” My heart jumps and I feel a little sick to my stomach. I no longer have the best possible hand. The Korean is capable of having any two cards at any time and both four-six and two-four have just made a straight with the three that fell on the turn. Time seems to have dilated for me and I am reviewing the situation, going over each street in my head, trying hard to sort the information. I am staring at the Korean, hoping to pick up a tell. Mostly, though, I am kicking myself not leaving the table five minutes ago. Could my opponent be bluffing? Could my opponent have a straight? Could my opponent have something less than three Aces but still believe he has the best hand? To call the Korean will cost me everything I have left in my stack. I started this hand with almost $3,800 and if I make the wrong decision, I could be going home with nothing. I ponder and ponder, trying to find a way to get away from my hand but I just can’t do it. The Korean is way too chaotic and there are only two hands that beat me. I make my decision.
“I call, what do you have?”
“The nuts,” the Korean grins and slaps his cards face-up on the felt: four-six off-suit.
The Korean has a seven-high straight, the nuts, the best possible hand at that point. I can still win if the board pairs, giving me a full house or better, but I don’t believe for one second that it will. As soon as I see the Korean’s hand, a realization sweeps over me, something that has been rolling around in the back of my head and beneath the surface of my life for months: I don’t want to do this, anymore. I am tired of the stress, the extreme highs and lows, the hours of boredom followed by the seconds of sheer, indescribable terror while I wait to find out whether the odds will hold up or whether my opponent will hit a 22:1 shot and break me. Poker makes a fantastic hobby but a lousy job.
Ever the professional, I congratulate the Korean on his win and put another thousand dollars in play. My heart isn’t in it, though. I am tired both physically and emotionally. For the moment, at least, I don’t have the killer instinct. I feel drained and disheartened. My mind wanders from the poker table to, well, just about anywhere else in the world. It’s only been half an hour since the Korean broke me but I have had enough for the day. I play a few more hands, win a few, lose a few, then I get up to leave. I wish everyone good luck and head to the cage to cash out what I have left.
On the way out of the casino, I drop seventy-five cents in a poker-themed quarter slot machine and pull the handle. I hit some kind of combination that sends me to a bonus game where I get dealt three Aces and lose to a straight. I am nearly doubled over in laughter as I stagger my way to the garage elevators. I couldn’t have written a more perfect ending to the night if someone had paid me to do so.
I’m getting into my car, now, reflecting on my two-plus years as a professional poker player. The poker life is an interesting one, fraught with danger and excitement, and I’ve had a lot of fun with it. Poker is not the job for me, though, at least not right now. Right now, I am thinking about my new GED and wondering what it costs to go to school here in southern Nevada. By the time I am on the road, I’ve decided to find out.
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