On a whim, I decided to play in a poker tournament at the Madison Pub on Tuesday. Although I’d watched poker ( Texas Hold ‘Em) on TV about a billion times, I’d never actually played the game, and in spite of the fact that there was no money involved in the tournament, I was still kind of nervous.
Sitting at the table with seven strangers, I apologized in advance for the clumsy game I was about to play, explaining that it was my first time and that I would probably need a little bit of baby-sitting. Some of them sighed when I announced this, while others rolled their eyes.
Our table was one of ten, with about 75 guys playing in total. Seamus was the guy who assumed the most authority at our table. He wore a poor boy’s cap upon which he had affixed a small pin of a Canadian flag. Somewhere in his 50’s, he looked like a man who knew an awful lot about military history and enjoyed the comfort of rules. He deliberated for a long time, stroking his gray goatee, before he made a decision, and seemed to relish the physical act of pushing all his neatly stacked chips into the pot. He was knocked-out early.
To my right sat a young, Latin guy with impressive biceps. He wouldn’t do much for half an hour, and then he would make a massive bet. When the cards were flipped over, he seemed to take great pleasure in saying–smiling from behind his sunglasses– “I have you dominated.”
One guy drank Red Bull after Red Bull. He liked to stand up after each bet, and always, always, explained exactly what he thought was taking place at the table and why he played the cards the way that he did. He wanted our respect, I think.
Other players at the table included a fat guy in a Leaf’s hat, a 45 year-old man who was very vain about his rock star hair and a few guys who sat silently plugged into their iPods. There was nothing social about the night, and conversation was kept to a bare minimum. All that was to be revealed about each player was to be done so only through playing cards. When somebody was knocked out, they would leave the table wordlessly and without sentiment.
I played for about two and a half hours, and as I was lucky enough to get good cards, was able to survive until the last table, where I was very quickly eliminated.
A large East Indian man sat across from me, giving me a long study after I had made a reckless bet. Referencing the Fedora that I was wearing, he said “Well, we shall see if Mister Dick Tracy here has the cards or not, “ and then he called me, and I was done for the night.
Of course, the thing that stung wasn’t losing, but getting called Dick Tracy. I mean, really? Dick Tracy?
Poker. The truly frightening thing about the game is that it has nothing to do with how you see yourself, and everything to do with how other people see you.