Poker Diaries #4: The Gambit, the Year
You’re dealt black aces in the highjack so you triple the minimum bet. The player with the dealer button calls, and so does the player in small blind. The flop comes the ace of diamonds, jack of diamonds, and the eight of clubs. You now have what we degenerates call the stones, the mother fuckin’ nuts; top set, three aces. If the hand ended here, you’d automatically win. But the hand doesn’t end here, you got to figure out how to get the most out of these suckers.
With a rapping of his knuckles on the table, the first player passes the action to you. Because of the two diamonds and some annoying straight draws, you size up a tad and bet three-fourths the size of the pot. Both players think for two seconds, and make the call.
The turn card comes the five of hearts, essentially a brick. First player checks to you again, and with similar reasoning, you bet about 80% of the pot. This time they both hesitate for about ten seconds, for now the money is getting into one-month-of-rent territory, but this still doesn’t deter them, and they call.
The river comes the ten of spades, and the first player checks. Well, now queen-king is the nuts. Wouldn’t it be nice to have the best hand on every street on every hand? Life can’t be that easy. The good news is that there are so many two-pair hands that you beat, so a bet is probably the play. Getting raised would be disastrous, so a small size should suffice enough. A one-third pot sized bet leaves your hands, letting you enough room to fold if need be, but that shouldn’t be the case since only really one combination of king-queen should be here: suited diamonds…. “All in,” is muttered almost as soon as your chips hit the felt. You look up and the man with the button doesn’t have cards anymore; the first actor has spoken.
How could you fold top set? You even mutter aloud, “King-queen?” and check your cards again. Yeah, those aces are still there. You look over the board and deduce there could be no viable bluffing hands still within his range. This could only be a value bet: you must fold. But! this type of player you’ve played with many times before, he most certainly would never have only one combo here, the prices you had laid were never great. You guess with one player in the hand, the pot odds where actually good enough for him to continue…. Deep in your bones you know he’s not bluffing. Every inch of your existence is screaming for you to fold…. but really, only one combo? Really?
Whatever. You throw one black chip in. He flips over queen-nine of diamonds, the second-nut straight. Suddenly you have the urge to vomit. You feel like you did when you found out your spouse has been cheating on you for months. You might really faint.
How could you miss queen-nine? You study and play this game twenty-four-seven, have you learned nothing? You mumble, “How am I still this bad?”
A certain dichotomy exists within me, one that has been at war since I’ve been an adult. In one corner of my mind lies the poker dream. The bright lights of the Las Vegas casinos and almost infinite freedom that pervades it. It represents the successes and lavish hedonism I knew before I even took poker seriously, from college, in college, when the future seemed bright and exciting, the possibilities endless. Then, in the other corner of the ring, sits the artist, poised and controlled, understanding it all, having life figured out and simply reaping the benefits, for it is the artist of all the known professions, that reigns supreme. His cabin in the woods, where each night another page or two of The Great American Novel comes closer to completion, is sparsely lit by his simple fireplace that warms him and his simple wife, for money is not and never was their aim: it was the pure understanding and representation of the human condition.
Side by side, it would seem like the poker player is clearly the dog in this fight. And yes, for a long time he was. I pursued writing and film in my twenties, always holding true to the idea that art is the endgame for humans in general, so why even bother with anything else? But in the end, poker didn’t even win out, for there is no end and there was not really a fight. “Because no battle is ever won,” Faulkner once wrote. “They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.”
Of course a downswing started it all. Poker is easy when you win, and hard when you lose. But obviously that isn’t true, it’s just always sort of hard. Most people lose in the long run, which is why I have respect for anyone trying to do this seriously. But here’s why I also need writing, for when I’m going through a downswing, I need an outlet, someone to talk to. And that goes for downswings in life in general. I always said that I never write when I’m happy, and that it’s almost impossible to write when you’re completely sad. It’s the middle-ground that makes it happen, for when you’re truly depressed, just getting out of bed is a giant task, and when you’re happy you’re too busy enjoying life. It wasn’t just poker this time, it was everything. To be honest I believe it was the starting of school that did it. Not school itself, but the idea of being put back in that box. You must be here at this time and do this assignment by this date and read this book and this poem, then the path to your doctorate is this way, oh and by the way that will be twenty thousand dollars (plus interest)!
The end-goal isn’t as clear anymore, not just within academia, but with poker too. It’s officially been over a year now that I quit my job again to play full time. This ain’t my first rodeo though: it’s got to be the third or fourth time I’ve tried this, and even though this time has been vastly more successful, it’s definitely not easier.
So, why did I begin this? What even was my goal? At age twenty-four, when I began taking it seriously, it was because I loved the game. A recent post I made to this site, entitled Love Thy Suffering, explores this idea more deeply, and it takes me to an idea that I know is true: you are what you are, not what you want to be. In that post I mention the conversation between Travis and Wizard in one of my favorite films, Taxi Driver, in which Wizard offers some wisdom to the aimless young man. It’s great because Wizard is not a typical sage like some wise Tibetan monk who dedicated his life to meditation and piety or something, he’s just an old man who’s been around. He tells Travis that he doesn’t own his own cab even after thirteen years…. why? Because he must not want to. Follow your heart, listen to your body, if it feels right do it, if it feels wrong, don’t. I made a difficult decision last year to quit my job to play full-time because I felt it deep inside. I made an even harder decision a few months later to break things off with a girl I was crazy about because it just didn’t feel right. You already know what you must do, it’s a matter of doing it.
“When I was young I wanted a ship. Now I want a dozen. It doesn’t matter what we want, once we get it, we want something else.” — Petyr Baelish, Game of Thrones
It’s not easy trying to pursue something that a lot of people think is ridiculous. I’m not talking about poker, I’m talking about writing. I could blame everyone else for why I didn’t make it as a writer (there’s still time, I’m not dead yet), but the truth is that I just didn’t like it. It doesn’t matter why. I know I’m regurgitating a lot of the ideas that I’ve talked about before, but every writer tries to tell the same story over and over, the same way how every person lies to themselves about who or what they are. That’s why I began this post with a story about a cooler. Because that thing that you asked yourself is just not true: “How am I still this bad?” You’re not. Don’t fucking accept that bullshit negativity that you’re feeding yourself just because you misplayed a spot that 99% of people on planet Earth would have played the exact same way (or worse).
So, I had to quit, at least for a week or two. I’ve done this a bunch this year: play for like 30 days straight, then lose for two weeks, then take a week off. It’s actually not a bad thing now that I think about it. Staying balanced in life is everything. I shouldn’t complain too much, for last month I went on a 15-session win streak, two weeks without booking a single loss! I’ve even bought an expensive coaching program from Run It Once, but I need to stay cognizant that all data eventually regresses to the mean. It’s funny though, I spend most of my time watching the videos on mental game improvement, not on strategy. Probably because the strategic stuff they go over doesn’t often apply to live poker and is more so an intellectual pursuit within itself. I love poker strategy and game theory, but the mental game aspect might provide a higher ROI, especially if you begin to apply some concepts to things outside of poker, like relationships and overall happiness. The game is truly a microcosm of life. James Obst, one of Run It Once’s premier coaches, says in one of his amazing videos something that has stuck with me: “Instead of thinking of yourself as a quitter, think of yourself as a ruthless winner with a cunning of knowing when to quit.”
“Poker beats you, or you grow up,” another quote by Obst. My mom has told me plenty of times that I have Peter Pan Syndrome, that I never want to grow up, and she’s definitely right. But so what? Why would anyone want to? I wanted to make-believe for a living (writing), and now I’m playing a game. It doesn’t matter, it makes me feel good. Since I have no choice, I must get as good as I can get. I’ve let go of playing “perfectly,” even in this era of the solver. The only thing that trying to play “perfectly” ever does is drive me insane. I must forgive myself when I make a mistake, and move on to the next hand. I was meant for this. I’m going to stick out this semester, but I’m also going to reevaluate my long-term goals. I just need to stop worrying. When I walk into the casino here in Cleveland I am somebody. I’m a fucking crusher.
Me, me, me, me, me. This whole damn thing is all about me. It’s gross really, but maybe what I’ve learned is that we all need some kind of outlet dedicated solely to ourselves and our pursuit for self-actualization. If I wrote this in my diary — which I do keep, but not as often as I’d like — I wouldn’t give it as much thought or polish that it needs for me to stop obsessing over. It’s also a good way to discuss ideas with friends that perhaps I wouldn’t any other way. I have to thank my cousin J.R., who began a newsletter of his own that discusses happiness, life, and literature (https://ragazzo.substack.com/), who constantly gives me the confidence needed to keep writing shit that I feel no one else cares about. He knows when I get in my “who cares?” moods — you know, when everything in the world to you is…. “who cares?”
Let’s end with a hand. Just remember, when you want to ask yourself ,“How am I still this bad?” you:
Get dealt Ace-king of clubs in the cut-off. Some maniac raises under-the-gun to $15. The guy next to him calls. It folds to you, so you put in the clear 3-bet to $45. The maniac sadly folds, but the guy in between you two shocks the world with an all-in. Yes, he just put in $1500 over $45. How is this even possible? You think to earlier hands…. Well, you did show a large bluff earlier, and everyone knows you’ve been picking on the maniac in seat 1, but this just doesn’t make sense. You start thinking to yourself out loud and say, “Why would you do this?” And here is where you dig up the treasure chest. He responds quickly and snarkily, like he’s tired of you bullying the table, he’s tired of your shit: “Why not?” You smile. You’ve been here before. The businessman is pissed that some young kid (you) can play a game older than the both of you better than he can. He’s used to being the boss, he’s used to making the money. In his world, kids like you work in the mail-room. It’s still not an easy decision; the raise was just so big. But yes, you’ve been here before. “Call,” you say and flip over your cards, “All I got is ace-king.” He nods and flips over ace-queen.
The flop runs an easy deuce, four, eight. You don’t even care about the suits, for the turn cancels any hopes of him making a flush with another black eight. Just as you nod one more time at your pristine play, the dealer puts out the river, and there she is staring blankly into the night:
