My World Series of Poker ended with a thud, and it took two days to climb out of my suicidal phase. I hate losing. What's worse is the walk of shame out of the tournament area, where I feel like every eye is on me, watching me leave in silence, shame, and despair.
In reality, no one looks at me. Consumed with their own hands, the remaining players think only of what their opponents' have, and what they think their opponents think they have-a never-ending cycle of analysis, of wheels within wheels.
I am merely ignored, just like all the other bust-outs, another loser heading to the door.
Six or seven hours into Day Two I am down to $18,000. I have to make a stand and I'm looking for a hand. But I'm not finding anything, no pairs, no ace-not a thing. A player on my right raises almost every hand. I know his range of raising hands is extremely broad. I need play back at him.
Since he's raising with such a wide variety of hands, I have substantial folding equity. He is very likely to release the majority of his weaker hands to a reraise, particularly from someone like me, who has not played many hands. Finally, with the blinds $800-$1,600 and $200 antes, he raises and I push my remaining $18,000 to the center of the pot.
I have Qc-Jc and I'm really not looking for anyone to call. My reraise gives him pause. He stews for a long time. Perhaps if I made that raise with a load of chips in reserve, he'd fold. But he has me covered with plenty to spare, and if I win, he'll only damage his stack by about 15 percent or so.
He calls and turns over 9-8. I do have the best hand. The flop is T-9-3 with one club. He has a pair of nines, I have a straight draw, a backdoor flush draw, and if I catch one of the three remaining jacks or three remaining queens, I'll win unless he improves to two pair or trips. I'm now favored to win this pot, though it's as close to even money as you can get. With 14 outs, I have a 51.2 percent chance of winning, and I'm an odds-on favorite, though just barely.
Even though my fold equity went right out the window when he called, I still have a shot. But the turn is a trey, the river is an ace, and I'm done for, finis, eliminated, and knocked out. My goose is cooked.
For me this feels like the air has been let out of a balloon and all at once I am incredibly tired-I could fall asleep right on the spot-and very hungry.
I grab a sandwich and sit there staring off into space. In the morning I am on the road early back to Palm Desert, a 240 mile drive that takes me about 3 1/2 hours going the back way, through Kelso, Amboy, 29 Palms, Joshua Tree, Yucca Valley, and Morongo Valley before dropping down from the high desert into the Coachella Valley for the short ride through Palm Springs and Cathedral City to Palm Desert.
The thermometer in my swimming pool reads 88 degrees, so I grab a floating chair, jump in and stare up at the palm trees swaying in the afternoon breeze while thoughts of hands played and misplayed swirl through my head.
I beat about 5,000 of the 6,000 players who entered this event. But it wasn't good enough to suit me. I'll have to do better next time. But that's a year away.
