Drunken Poker

They say rules are meant to be broken. Well, maybe. But in my case, especially when playing video poker (or any other kind of poker), I should stick to my number one commandment: thou shall not play cash games while under the influence. Never!

The last time I violated this sacred commandment—several months back—I succeeded in pissing away my entire bankroll in a single session.

Tonight will be different. It’s a lazy Friday, and I’ve consumed only one vodka martini (dirty of course). I’m not inebriated, though a bit buzzed; so I say to myself, “a few hands of no limit poker in a cheap cash game can’t hurt.”

So I break out the computer and head to Poker Stars for a little action. The first few hours are exhilarating; I play like killer whale, gobbling every fish at the table. Every major pot is mine. My head swells to the size of a large helium balloon. In fact, so utterly delightful are my reads and timing that thoughts of grandeur rush to my alcohol-infused brain. You know the kind.

You and Doyle Brunson heads up at the final table of the World Series of Poker--hand-to-hand combat. For days you’ve played brilliant poker and are now in a position to join the immortals. Your diamond flush draws against Doyle’s trip aces. Beads of sweat, like tiny little rivers, pour down your face. You can barely stand, and your knees feel like mush.

Finally the great moment arrives. The machine-like dealer slowly pats the table and turns the final card. It’s a diamond, and you‘ve hit the flush! The fans roar their approval as you collapse face down on the table, groping a pile of hundred dollar bills piled as high as Mt. Everest. Doyle graciously pats you on the back and like a noble warrior utters, “you played great kid.”

That’s right, Doyle. Now like I was saying, I’m killin’ em,’ experiencing the card rush of a lifetime. I’m hotter than fresh tar on pavement. I’ve nearly double my bankroll. We’re not talking millions here. I play cash games at Poker Stars with 10 and 25 cent blinds, and my entire bankroll starting the session is a paltry $140. But I nearly double that in less than two hours. I figure I’ll celebrate with another martini, so I hit the “sit out next hand” button and reward myself. Maybe I drank it too fast as I realize a bit of a buzz is now become a great big buzz, and this voice in my head says, “get out while the gettins’ good.” Judicious advice, but do I listen? Hell no. I’m on a roll. I’ve been eating cheap poker burgers for months, and now the poker gods are feeding up fillet mignon.

However, being of conservative nature, I say to myself, “three more hands, and that’s it.” And wouldn’t you know it, the very first hand I find myself starring at is pocket rockets. That’s right, a pair of those seductively, sexy aces. A gorgeous—and scary—sight indeed. Because as any poker player will tell you, those seemly invincible twin towers, when misplayed, become fiery infernos without an escape route.

At this point I’m the chip leader with over $150. The second largest stack, a dude from Ontario, has $110, and the other four players were in the $10-$20 range. I’m the dealer, and the Canadian, in first position, comes in with a $1.00 raise. This is very good news, indeed. Actually I’m licking my chops. There is one taker, and rather than raise I decide to just smooth call, trying to set a trap. The flop came A (clubs)-5 (diamonds)-9 (hearts), finer than a gorgeous rainbow following a spring shower. Now I have trip (three) aces, and the chance for a straight or flush is fading. The Canuck checks, then the second position raise $2; once again I call, figuring my aces to be gold. The Canadian also calls. The next card dealt is a 5 (spades). More good news, since the possibility of a straight or flush ramming me broadside is history, and not only have I got a boat, a full house with aces over fives, and there’s a small school of unassuming minnows coming along.

The river (the final card dealt) produces an impotent 2 (diamonds). Mr. Ontario, who until now had been swift in his betting routine, pauses, and pauses, and pauses. Normally, I would read this as trouble, surmising he was sitting on a monster hand and was trying to figure out how many pesos he could extract. But what did it matter? I had the nuts (in poker jargon, an unbeatable hand) or so I thought. Then finally, with just two clicks remaining on the timer, he leads out with a hefty $5 bet. The other guy immediately folds; and then my greedy little mind revs into overdrive. My only thought is how much money I can suck from the crazy Canadian.

I figure at best he’s holding an ace with a five, giving him a full house with fives over aces, which still pales next to my Aces full of fives. So I re-raise to $10, praying for a call; but to my utter delight, he pushes the all in button. “This is too good to be true!” I scream out loud. There is only one hand that can beat me, and surely, not even God himself would allow such a fate. So, of course, I do what any rational poker player would do, I call his bet.

Sure enough, he’s sitting on pocket fives, meaning his four fives crush my full house. “Four fives!” I scream at the top of my lungs, “Impossible!” I lean over and beat my head on my laptop. My poor cat, who has been patiently sitting by my side, senses my abject disgust and bolts into hiding.

Now I’m not one to belabor bad poker beats, or even bad life beats; and I hate hearing idiots whine about bad luck. But this really hurt. So like a pinball machine that’s been hit by a sledgehammer my brain soars into tilt. Do I lick my wounds and quit? Hell no! Keep shufflin’ those cards. Four hours and six martinis later I find myself playing for the few remaining morsels in my beleaguered account. A couple of Great Whites figure me out, and I’m reduced to a bleeding minnow diving for cover. But there is no cover. I lose it all. Oh well.

I gave up poker that night - for good. But 2 days, 4 hours and 37 minutes later I shoved more money into my account. Oh well.