Black Belt Poker

Pretty unusually I had a dream about poker last night. It was fairly vivid, in that I could remember the hands and the suits, but I'm not sure where we were. It was definitely abroad in a hot country, but the players seemed to speak English.

I didn't think I was going to make it to the Aussie Millions this year. I was drawing extremely thin but a last minute pass from the missus and I was lucky enough to get out for two weeks to Melbourne, one of the highlights of the the poker calendar.

There's no doubt about it: poker's a game of extreme highs and lows, but mainly lows, and only those with leather skin can survive. While this might be great news for Gunnar Hansen, it means my silky smooth birthday suit has picked up a few wounds, and none more cutting than my failed journey to the Caribbean.  

I think I wrote "write blog" on my URGENT to-do list at least three months ago. I remember writing it; it was the day after I wrote: "win some money." I really ought to get round to attacking the list.

My achievements in the competitive world are numerous: when I was only nine, I became the first player in Warwickshire League history (or so I can only assume) to score a goal with my groin; it was a risky manoeuvre, but the goalie was so far away, and the ball so close to the goal-line that I was able to successfully squat down and delicately nudge the ball forward a few more inches; just two years later, I topped the Laser Quest leader board in Acocks Green, Birmingham for the first time, much to the envy of my fellow Questers, all of whom were at least a decade  and a half my elder. They claimed that it was merely due to my diminutive size, but it was more that I just frequented predominately at the weekends when the place would be filled with small children who acted as sitting ducks for those eager to achieve a high score; and, once I'd hit my teens, I accomplished a magnificent feat of endurance when I played Championship Manager for two days straight with only brief toilet breaks interrupting play. Having an understanding mother who would supply meals on wheels was a crucial element to my prolonged tenure in front of the Amiga, and if it weren't for being inexplicably sacked despite taking Aston Villa to League Cup victory (unlike real life, mid-table mediocrity isn't acceptable in the virtual world), I could have played more.

The last time I wrote a blog I was in Vegas. It was 100 degrees outside, I had just won $406,409, and I was still bloody moaning.

To the Ivy for the launch of The Rules of Poker, published by the International Federation of Poker. According to IFP President Tony Holden this is the first time that title has been used for a book; quite surprising when you think about it, especially with the boom in the last few years, but I guess poker rules always got lumped in with other card games’ rules in those sorts of antiquated-looking compendiums that one would dust off around Christmastime when Uncle Bert would try and argue that a four-flush beats two-pair.

It’s pretty difficult to feel motivated to write a poker blog when you're on the wrong side of variance, experiencing a sustained losing period, doing your nuts every other session or, in my case, all of the above. In fact I often find losing at poker undermines my motivation for a whole range of daily activities; going to the gym, paying bills, doing paperwork and flossing to name a few.

You can always tell when I'm running badly: my hair's brown. It's not cheap dying it blond, and a bit of a luxury, so when the chips are down, I revert to my natural colour to save a few bob. Sadly, it's been brown for quite a while now.

Continued from Part 1...

I was sure the prophesies of fortune cookies were structured in much the same way as the Zodiac section of your daily newspaper; a helping of ambiguous riddles that can be interpreted a number of different ways to satisfy ourselves that there is some truth in the belief that the stars guide us.

On the morning of June 23, my Dad died of a sudden heart attack. He was only 58, in seemingly good health and had only just got back the night before from a holiday in Italy with his wife Carol.
 
Unless you've lost a parent it is almost impossible to describe the emotions that go through your mind. Initially it's shocking, heartbreaking, scary and it makes you angry - what did I do to deserve this? Why hasn't someone else's Dad died instead? Of course there are no answers to these questions, and now that time has passed I wouldn't wish that experience on anybody.
 
I started thinking about all the major moments in my life that I'll miss not having my Dad there for: the huge space he will leave at my wedding to Hattie next year and that he'll never meet his future grandchildren to silly things like seeing me make a major poker final table or playing in the WSOP together. Unfortunately no amount of wishing, praying or money can bring him back - even for one day - so all I can attempt to do is make him proud through my actions in life, much like I was proud of him.

I didn't really win any pots for a few hours of that Day 1 of event #43. I had K-K and it came an ace. I had a straight draw, turned a flush draw and missed. I had 8-8 and it came 8-7-6... 5. Marvellous.

The whole Vegas planning thing finally fell into place. I actually booked the flight around three weeks in advance which is close to a personal best. Many hours were spent discussing accommodation and eventually Palms Place was booked with just a week or so to spare. It's nice to be close to the Rio and the whole thing is a cross between a hotel with room service, housekeeping and a mini-bar, and apartments with a lounge, balcony, kitchen and a fridge. It's so important to try and be 'normal' in Vegas and often I think it's the fake lifestyle of living in a hotel that really gets to people and makes it tough to retain sanity.

It's been almost three months since I last blogged, which usually means one of two things: I haven't been playing, or I have, but I've been losing. Unfortunately it's the latter.

It's that time of year again. Six weeks that begin with high hopes and good intentions and inevitably end in a parody of relentless outdraws, partying and other post-watershed shenanigans before the Evil MoneyBeast that is Vegas decides one's backside has had enough of a lubeless rodgering for the time being and spits you out at McCarran International for a return flight home that is laced with sighs, maybe's and what-if's.

I lived my first 42 years on this planet without being robbed. I mean, I lost to runner-runner flushes a couple of times, people came back from needing three snookers after outrageously doubling the green, and sometimes I had a chip or the odd onion ring stolen off my plate, but overall I ran quite well in terms of people setting out to assume ownership of stuff which I'd gambled my fingers to the bone to own.

I've been meaning, for the last few years, to get out to the Philippines and get involved in either an APT or APPT event, or both. Ben made the final at APT Manila in 2010 so I already knew the fields must be super soft (I jest, Mr. Meredith!)

Having not played a hand of poker for over eight weeks I'm feeling quite nervous about diving in again. Since being on honeymoon for the last two months under strict instructions not to gamble, money has taken on a real value again and suddenly the thought of playing a $10,000 event at the WSOP seems slightly insane.

Live tournaments are a true mindfuck.