Sure, I’ve been waxing ecstatic about the prospects of poker in Pennsylvania, but that doesn’t mean I forgot my old love.
If you’ve been following along with the HoP saga, you should know that this last Saturday was my initial date for my inaugural visit to Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, home of the Bethlehem Sands, a casino that just added 12 poker tables a scant two weeks ago. You also probably know that I decided as we neared the trip that the Sands was just not a viable option, as yet, for a day trip from a guy without a car. The amount of tables (or lack thereof) and novelty of poker in PA meant long wait times during peak hours and no car meant that I was stuck at the Sands until seats opened up. What was a man to do facing the prospect of a potential 3+ hour wait for poker? The answer was simple: focus on the poker, not the location. Hence, Atlantic City.
When I decided to change the plans to AC, I contacted my group of degenerates to see who could make the trip. Admittedly, if none could come, I’d probably just bus it solo. It’s not ideal, but I hadn’t really played any poker since the first week in July and before then, there was another gap of play. When I saw my yearly stats were a good 50% behind where I’d like them to be and that my play has been getting more and more sparse, I decided to recommit myself to the game. That meant I had to play, and AC was, as always, my best option.
Bro-in-law Marc was luckily jonesing for action, so at the very least, I had some backup. We had decided to take the bus, since both of us live in NYC without cars, but then Mikey Aps heard the siren song of AC and decided to join us along with his car. BONUS!
Being the degens we are, we were all agreeable to heading out at 8:30 AM on Saturday to hopefully beat the NJ shore beach traffic and get our gaming on early. Our goal was to be back in NYC around midnight so Mike y could pick up his girl after work (she’s a chef), so that gave us a good 10 hours in AC if our timing worked out well.
Unfortunately, we weren’t the only ones trying to beat beach traffic. As it turned out, other people had the same idea and by the time we got to AC after a pit stop to grab some grub at a crappy, overcrowded truck stop, we arrive at the Showboat poker room around 1pm. The ride was probably a good four hours, even though it is traditionally 2.5 or so. If nothing else, this definitely cuts in favor of PA and the Sands, which is 90 mins away and nowhere near a beach (i.e., no beach traffic).
On the ride down, we discussed where to play. Mikey Aps prefers limit games, which would favor one of the bigger rooms, like the Borgata or the Taj. I hate the Taj because its dirty (the chips are filthy and there are rumors of rampant collusion) and one of our party, I can’t recall who, wasn’t so hot on the Borg. Eventually, Marc suggested the Showboat. Its a nicely appointed room and my former go-to because of the friendly tournament structures and usual ample cash games. There isn’t much limit there, but Mikey didn’t put up a fuss. We arrived at the Showboat at about 1pm.
After a walk through the casino, we arrived at the poker room where there was a reasonable wait list for 1/2. I asked about the 2pm tournament and learned that it was a $100 buy-in, which included the house fee. For $125, I may’ve played, but for $100 or less, the tourney didn’t really appeal to me.
Marc beat me to the poker desk and asked for a seat at 1/2. The cheery female staffer pointed him to a new table, so I chimed in, “room for one more.” Apparently, there was room for several more, so Marc, Mikey and I all sat at the same table.
Quick aside: When I told this story to Robbie Hole the next day, he mentioned how he hated sitting at the table with too many friends because you tend to get in each other’s way. Now, that is an outgrowth of the fact that we do not soft play each other. Marc’s money is as good as the next guy’s. While I agree somewhat with Robbie, though, the other side of the coin is that, at least with 3 people, you already know how two of your 9 opponents play, so while we don’t soft play each other, I know when Marc has it or doesn’t. In that way, playing at the same table makes it easier for me to be profitable, because I instantly know how some of my competitors play. More than 3 people, though, and I can see how the crowd could be counterproductive. After all, I’m there to play casino poker, not a home game with rake.
Marc sat down first in the 8 or 7 seat. I didn’t want to be right on top of him, particularly because he suggested earlier that we act like we don’t know each other. Fine by me. I took the 1 seat voluntarily, mostly because I don’t mind it and it was far enough from Marc. Mikey sat to my immediate left in the 2 seat, which I initially took as a sign that he wanted to hang and chat during poker, but now I’m starting to wonder if that dastardly prick was just trying to make sure he had position on me.
The beginning of the game was largely uneventful as I decided to take it easy with my “short” $200 stack ($60-300 buyin). I have taken to the habit of buying in at less than a full stack because it gives me a chance to learn my opponents before I overcommit chips. Incidentally, I am sure it also makes me appear less skilled, since a top player would buy in for the max moreso than not. Perhaps I even appear as somewhat scared money.
Whatever the case, I more or less just watched time pass me by as Marc started to accumulate chips across the table from me and Mikey Aps. He started with $300 and was up probably more than a buy-in when I won my first significant hand.
I held KK in the BB and by the time it got to me, there were a ton of limpers. This is a bad excuse, but I didn’t have any $1 chips, so rather than raise it to $12, I just made it $10. It probably didn’t help that up until that point, I had won two pots, both with a $10 preflop bet and a continuation bet, so my initial tight image was slowly deteriorating. By way of background, my tight image was confirmed when I made a raise in one hand and saw not one but two people reach for a call before they noticed that I was the preflop bettor, after which they promptly folded.
Of course, this time, the $10 bet invited a ton of callers. We saw the flop at least five-handed, including Marc and his neighbor to the left, an ankle surgeon from the NYC area who, later in the evening, propositioned Marc to join him and his nurse girlfriend to make the beast with three backs.
The flop came down T87. It was a coordinated flop, but not a terribly coordinated one, so I decided to bet out $25 to see what would happen. It folded around to Marc, and to my surprise, he raised $40 on top. More amazingly, Menage-a-Doc decided to flat call, leaving me awfully confused.
I took my time with the action and ran down the facts I knew in my head. Marc and the Doc limped preflop. That told me that Marc likely didn’t have TT, 88 or 77, the three hands I most feared. It was highly unlikely that the Doc had those either, but I wasn’t as sure, since the table was still relatively young and the Doc was willing to make some odd plays, usually calling station plays, but still plays that indicated a lack of sophistication and aggression.
I turned my attention back on Marc. AT was a possibility. I could see him limping with AT suited and then calling a raise. He knows I’m aggressive, so he may choose to re-raise me with TPTK only, thinking that he could take down the pot immediately. Perhaps he had A9 suited. That made sense, too, except for the fact that it would mean he was re-raising with an OESD.
Finally, I decided that I could not put him on a set, so I had to be ahead. I surely didn’t put him on two pair in that spot. I called.
The turn was a 5. I checked again and Marc pushed all-in. I am pretty sure that the Doc was already all-in from the $65 call on the flop. I considered the action briefly, but I knew that if I was going go call the flop raise, I’d be calling the all-in turn bet that was sure to come, with the sole exception being if a Nine, Jack or Six hit, all of which could mean a straight. I gulped hard and called.
The river was another 7. The cards were shown. I had Kings and Sevens, thanks to the river. Doc had pocket 9s for an OESD that did not come. Marc had…T8c. Whoops! I guess he did flop two pair.
Looking back, I’m surprised I didn’t consider 87 moreso, but even now, I can say that I didn’t expect T8 at all. I rivered him, and he looked adequately miffed and simultaneously amused by it all. I decided to talk some shit across the table, since the table didn’t know we knew each other. Actually, it happened because a fat white dude with gray hair in the 4 seat gave me a ton of credit. “You won that because you had big balls! Nice win man!” I guess Marc isn’t the only one who got inappropriately hit on that night. I replied, “Nah, man. I was behind. It was a bad call.” He answered, “Yeah, but it takes balls to make that call.” I pointed at Marc and said, “Not against that guy it doesn’t!”
Meanwhile, Marc ruined his own plan, admitting that we knew each other as bro-in-laws. That actually loosened the table up more. They all knew I was friends with Aps, since we were chatting, and now Marc was in on it, albeit less so. Still, later when someone asked Marc about his rock card cap, a literal piece of rock about the size of a dealer button, I chimed in, “It’s a kidney stone he had to pass the natural way!”
I was down to about $410 (or $210 profit) when I took a hit. Up until that point, I was playing fairly well, more or less just treading water and maybe bleeding a few chips, but slowly, since I simply was not getting the cards I needed to continue on whatever hands I played.
I was in the BB when I was dealt J9s. I checked and we saw a flop of Jx6s7s, giving me top pair and a spade flush draw. I decided to bet out $10, and got three callers, including a Goomba-looking guy. He was thin, in his forties or early fifties, with black slicked back hair and a Yankees jacket. The turn was a King of clubs. I checked in an effort to control the pot size. The Goomba bet $25. There was one caller and I decided to call as well. The river was another Jack. This time, I led out for $50, which was intended as a value bet. The Goomba raised $50 back, and when it folded to me, I took my time trying to figure out what to do. I eventually called, having reasoned that he was probably on a suited King based on the action. Alas, I was wrong. He showed AJo and I mucked. A player near me asked what I had. By this time, we were making friends and so this wasn’t such an odd question, since the mood was friendly and jovial. Even so, I didn’t want to give up any information. “Let’s put it this way,” I offered unhelpfully, “He had me beat.”
I was still up a bit when I got involved in this next hand. I had AK and raised preflop to $15, getting a call from a good looking blonde dude. He had been playing fairly straight-forward so far. I got the sense that he was a decent player, but not a great one. The flop came down AT9. To my surprise, he bet out $12. I flat called. I was mildly concerned about a flopped two pair, but I thought it just as likely he was betting out with AJ or AQ. The turn was an 8. He bet $30 and I called again. The river was a third club. My opponent checked and I saw an opportunity. I figured him for a strong Ace, which fit perfectly with his preflop, post flop and turn play. The third club must’ve scared him, so I wanted a bet that would be just small enough to call. I bet $40. He called. Then he showed JQo, for a turned straight. LEMON! And so, I was down to $240 ($40 profit).
It seemed like every hand I played against Blondy was a losing proposition, such that I even started to joke about it. This was entirely lighthearted, as opposed to some of my semi-joking, semi-serious comments. Simply, if I limped and Blondy raised, I’d fold and act like I didn’t want to mess with the guy. “He’s got my number” or “Hey, I don’t want any piece of that.” In actuality, I was making the right plays, given the situations, and when I did call him, I simply didn’t call attention to it. Meanwhile, Blondy had paid off Marc a handful of times, and the joke became that I couldn’t beat Blondy, Blondy couldn’t beat Marc, and Marc couldn’t beat me. We were like the human version of Rock-Paper-Scissors (shot, rock).
I like to keep things fun. The table was having a great time through all of the chatter and friendly jokes. No one was taking things too seriously. A couple of players left, and when the dealer announced, “TWO SEATS OPEN!” I added, “SEND OVER A BAD PLAYER AND A CHICK!”
Just then, a guy walked up to the nearest floor person with what appeared to be his girlfriend. He was a 5’6″ guy who appeared fairly jacked under his tight black shirt. He wore dark designer jeans and a loud belt buckle. One arm sported a large, sparkly, expensive-looking watch. The other had a leather ban festooned with metal rivets or spikes. His hair was jet black, but was shaved tight up the sides where the sideburns would be up to his temple. Everything above and behind that strip was long, about cheek-length from the top of his head. It was parted to both sides and hung down near the sides of his face. His beard was thin and groomed. He spoke with a subtle accident that became more pronounced if he got excited or was talking to his woman. To put it more succinctly, he looked like a shorter Chris Angel wannabe.
The Chris Angel Wannabee (CAW) was accompanied by his wife or girlfriend, a fresh-faced girl with golden brown long hair, a soft, pretty face, extra large brown-tinted sunglasses, a plunging neck line, and necklaces to hide her somewhat ample cleavage. She was a real doll, but also looked like she would just as easily flirt with you at a bar as she would drug you and roll you in the parking lot.
So, when I yelled, “SEND OVER A BAD PLAYER AND A CHICK!” and these two came over, the entire table cracked up. “You called it, man! How’d you do that?!,” a guy in the 10 seat asked. Incidentally, I learned a good lesson from the 10 seat, albeit one that should’ve been obvious. He was a younger guy in his mid 20s with a decent amount of tattoos, one of which prominently said “Mike”. In conversation with him later, I called him Mike and then asked, “That’s your name, right?” He replied, “No, that’s my dead counsin. He died in a fire.” Oh. Um. Sorry. Lesson of the Day: People don’t tattoo their own names on their body, asshole. Stupid me.
As it were, the Bad Player aka CAW really was pretty bad, losing half of his initial $300 stack in an orbit, whereas his chick didn’t know what she was doing, but ran her $100 up to $300.
I get back to the land of profit and joy in the following hand. I held QQ and was up only $20 or so. I raised to $15 on the button and got one call from the Bad Player who was in early position. The flop was 873, with two spades. He pushed all-in. I had seen him push before, so I took some time to consider whether he could have possibly hit his big hand and decided that while that was a possibility, I had to go with my gut. This was a “bad player” after all, so I called, only to see that he held 86d, for top pair, 6 kicker. He turned a 5, giving him a straight draw, but the river was a 2 and I won the pot and doubled up, leaving me with $440 or so, or $220 profit.
After that hand, I took a run to the bathroom to freshen up and take some audio notes. Just as I was getting back, a new hand started. I was dealt ATc in early- to mid-position. I limped, as did a bunch of other players. In LP, someone raised to $5. Most players called. The flop was T83 with two hearts. Marc was in the SB and bet $20. I was the only caller. The turn was an offsuit 9. He checked. I checked. The river was an offsuit Ten. Marc bet out $30. I opted to raise $30 on top, or $60 total. I knew he wouldn’t bet out from the SB with JQ on the T8x flop, so he didn’t have the straight. I was mildly concerned about T9 or even T8 again (i.e., a full house), but he wouldn’t check the turn in those situations. Hence, my raise. To my astonishment, Marc then came over the top, $60 more or $120 total. I really took my time now, trying to figure out what hands could beat me that would make sense here. I kept going back to KT. It couldn’t beat me, but it made sense given his play. I finally opted to call and showed my AT. He showed KT, as I expected, and suddenly I was up to $330 profit, or $530 total.
A little while later, I made a bad read on the Bad Player to cost me some profit. Once again, the hand was AT suited, this time, spades. There were a lot of limpers so I decided to raise from the BB. There was only one caller, the Bad Player. By this point, we were actually pretty friendly with each other. I found out that they were Russian, so I used the only Russian phrase I know, which phonetically sounds like, “Ya kazz-yaul”. In Russian, it means “I am a goat,” but “goat” is Russian prison slang for a bitch. So, basically, I announced to Bad Player and his Chick that I was a prison bitch.
They cracked up and asked if I knew what I said. I replied, “Yes. I learned it in case I am ever thrown in a Russian prison. I’m going to need protection.” That always gets a good laugh.
So, there was no animosity between me and the Bad Player. He was on a rebuy, naturally, since I felted him earlier. He was playing somewhat better, but it was moreso the cards than his play.
So, to the flop, with ATs, we see JTx. I bet out and he called. The turn was a blank and the hand went check-check. The river was another Ten and I bet $20. He raised $100 on top. I took my time, once again. I worked through the hand. In the end, I concluded that perhaps he was pushing thin or was even trying to get me off of the pot with his big raise on a hand where it looked like I had given up. So, I called. And I was wrong. He showed JT for a full house. “Nice hand,” I offered, and he nodded. Might as well keep things friendly.
That is the last hand included in my audio notes from my cell phone. We had started play around 1pm, and by 8pm, I was getting antsy. Under normal conditions, I would’ve been fine playing for another 6 hours, but we were under some time constraints.
Knowing that we were leaving around 9pm, I started drinking around 7. Mikey was nursing beers all day, so I started with one brew before switching to Bacardi and coke, the official casino mixed cocktail of HighOnPoker. By 8pm, I had a good buzz and by 9pm, I was on the cusp of drunkedness. My audio notes stopped, but the play continued. I recall one hand where I flopped a boat. I had 66 in the pocket and the Chick called me. She was on a shortstack after busting and buying back in short. I raised preflop with 66. She called. The flop was TT6. She pushed. I called. She had some crappy Ten, and I took down the pot. I actually ended with quads, when a 6 hit the river, one of three quads that evening.
The other two quads were both owned by none other than Bad Player. He hit quad 3s against me for a decent pot. I couldn’t place him on a bare 3 and I had the 333KK (paired a King on the flop), so short of having pocket Aces, I thought I was good against him. Nope. But so be it.
The next time he had quads, it was against Mikey Aps. Aps raised preflop and Bad Player called with 47o. He then hit trip 4s and rivered quads. When it was showdown, Mikey showed KK and the guy showed the 7 and then slowly the 4. Mikey was steaming that the guy had slow-rolled him, but I don’t think the Bad Player intended to slow-roll him. He just was sloppy with his cards.
Other than that, the last hour is much of a blur. I did, however, correctly guess the next two types of players to be seated at our table. After my earlier lucky guess (“a bad player and a chick”), I called the next two seats, “a fat white guy and an Asian guy.” Sure enough, one seat was taken by a pudgy white guy and the other was eventually (a good 30 mins later) taken by an Asian guy. Damn, I should’ve been playing Keno.
When it was time to cash out, I had $476 in front of me, for $276 profit. Mikey had lost his two buy-ins. Marc was even.
It was about 9pm and the guys wanted to eat. Frankly, I just wanted to hit the road, but I was outvoted. Instead, we checked out the crappy food options at Showboat. The newly opened Johnny Rockets had a line out the door and the House of Blues restaurant had a 30 minute wait. I eventually suggested we take the walk to the diner-like Mansion Cafe. When we arrived, it was like a ghost town, which was ideal for us. We sat and ordered quickly.
The guys had something called the Bayou Burger, which had cajun spices and a whole andouilles sausage on it. I opted for the official Casino food of HighOnPoker, a grilled cheese with bacon. It hit the spot.
Dinner was paid for by comp points. We then hit the road and started at around 10pm. The GPS said our arrival time at my apartment was about 12:15, but once we neared NYC at midnight, we hit traffic which caused me to get home closer to 1:15. I crashed out shortly later, only to awaken early the next morning to get work done before I headed out for golf. Aside from the work, it was a nice way to spend a weekend.
Looking back at my hands, I am left with a few conclusions. First, I need to keep more track of hands, because whenever I process these things (first, I listen to my audio notes, then transcribe to paper, then type them here with color commentary), I force myself to really analyze my play. So, its like playing the same hand multiple times. It just sticks with me better and I can see things better in the clear light of day that I may have missed or didn’t appreciate during the hand. Have you ever thought you played a hand well, and then later told someone about the hand and find yourself suddenly justifying a play that at the time you thought was great. It’s like that. The next day, my bias is gone and I can appreciate the hand histories for what they are, warts and all. For instance, I didn’t mind my play against Blondy when he hit his straight with JQ, but in hindsight, if I were more aggressive on the flop, I would’ve avoided the loss.
The other thing is that, for better or worse, at least I was trying to put players on hands. I was wrong a lot of the time, but I was trying. I need to obviously continue to hone this, and I have to be careful not to get married to a read, but its better than just playing your cards. I suppose I also need to give some people a little less credit. I often can’t picture when a player hit a crap hand because I fool myself into thinking that they started with something better. Again, the Blondy hand is a good example. I rationalized early that he had a big Ace, but never considered the JQo that he actually held.
Finally, I fucking love poker. Love it. Of course, I already knew that, but its good to be reminded.
Until next time, make mine poker!