Harrah's Part 2

So still smarting from my loss of the previous day, I lived up the early part of Friday night of Bill's pre-wedding festivities with a great dinner and drinks, got to hang with some old friends from all over the country (met Gene D and his wife as well) and then hit up Harrah's late night with Fast Eddie, another old friend who has had good success at Harrah's tables in the past. Considering that I showed up wearing a suit, I knew everyone would immediately book me for the tourist that I was, so I made a decision to play up that angle as much as possible. Luckily, there were a couple drunk guys at the table, not surprising considering the time of night and while my chips ($200) were en route to the table I got involved in a hand with the first two cards dealt me, KcQc. I flopped a flush draw, bet at it, got called, hit the flush on the turn (meanwhile my chips had been delivered but I still tried to bet without using them, furthering my image as the table rube) but then slowed down a bit on the river as the board paired (all the while remembering my brutal river beats of the previous day.) Fortunately, my opponent had neither a boat nor the nut flush and I dragged a nice little opening pot to get things started.

Hey, things change from day to day, minute to minute in poker. Maybe this was my night, right? Well, it certainly appeared as if I might go on a nice run a few hands later, when from the button I peek down at the two black aces. The pot had been raised by a short stack to $15 and he had drawn a caller. I popped it up to $45, the blinds folded behind me and the short stack called for his last $23 ($38 total) and the other caller also came along. So we had a main pot of $117 already and a side pot of $14 (the $7 difference between my raise and the short stack's amount. Can you smell that? Oh yeah. It's the sweet smell of the Painkillers. The bullets. In position, in a big pot, ready to inflict damage.

But before they do, a funny thing happened. The flop came 8,9,Q. Rainbow. And then a not-so-funny thing happened. Johnny Poker decided to lead out with $90. Into my aces. $90. Really? Really. And I was insta-ready to reshove, except for a small, nagging voice in my head that told me I had just gotten out-flopped. And it didn't help the villain that he bet out the exact amount of my incorrect hero call of the previous session.

So I decided to assess my options and see what I could find out. I started talking at him. First, I asked him how much he had behind. He had about $125 behind, had me covered by just a few dollars. He counted it out for me, restacked it for himself. I played along, peered in and asked if he was sure of his count. He was.

I'm beat. I know it.

But I have aces on a rainbow board.

I ask if he has Jack, Ten, ask if he flopped the straight. I get nothing in return. Did you flop a set of queens? Again, not much of a reaction.

And across the table, drunk guy number one asks if we can play some poker. Luckily for me, the guy to my left, a punk-rock guy with his girlfriend playing in the seat to his left, tells him to cool it, that it's a big pot. I silently thank him for buying me more time, 'cause at the moment, I'm torn on my decision. Why would he lead out so big if he hit a monster? Bottom set? I tell him he doesn't have kings because we would have gotten it all in preflop. Is he even listening? I've got nothing so far, except my own rambling dialogue on the hand. And finally, I ask the right question, or rather, just say the right thing which was almost just a passing thought I happened to voice.

I've got a big hand, I say.

And he shrugs. He shrugs. He could care less. I think if you had taken a photo of me at that moment, my mouth would be slightly open, my eyes wide and a little glimmer of understanding would be all over my face.

I look at the dealer and announced that I fold. I fold face up. My end of the table winces at the aces.

The short stack turns over Q,Q for top set. Wow, I think.

The villain turns over J, 10 for the nuts. WTF, I think.

Why he bet at me considering that I had been the pre-flop raiser, I will never understand. If he checks at that moment, I would have led out for a good amount, he could have generated himself a side pot with me practically dead to rights and either just smooth called me or raised me after I had pretty much pot-committed myself. Just a terrible play by him and it allowed me to extricate myself from a really bad position with minimal damage.

To make matters worse for him, perhaps in some sort of karmic punishment of his play, the board paired itself on fifth street and the short stack took the main pot down with a river boat.

So needless to say, I was a little wary of table 15 (same table as the previous day's session) as it seemed to have it in for me. About a half hour later, I look down at 8,8 and make a raise to $12, which promptly gets called by two players and popped to $45 (all in) by one of the blinds. And again, something didn't feel right so I trusted my instincts and folded. Both players behind me called and as it turns out everyone was wired, with the all in having the aces. No side pot developed in the face of a painted board so again I was left wondering when my break was going to happen, the hand that would get me going.

While contemplating that, the drunk guys left, a couple guys busted and our table broke up. I, along with an older lady who had just sat, moved over to another table in front of the cage, the same table where Fast Eddie was sitting. And immediately, the old lady begins firing at pots, and firing back straight whiskeys. She's making crazy plays and getting away with them, showing bluffs when they work and luck-boxing into two pair on the turn and river when leading out from behind. And she's talking, a lot. She's railing on people and telling them how awful their play is, all the while misreading hands and earning a big, fat bulls-eye with her mouth and her bloated stack of chips.

So after watching about an hour or so of this and watching some good play and some mediocre play from the rest of the table, I get bored. So I decide to egg on the old lady.

"Philhemina, you getting in this pot?" I lean forward and ask, as the cards slide around the table.

She looks over her half-rim glasses at me, eyes blurred with whiskey and money. "You got such a big hand, you want me in?" she drawls at me, even though the cards are still being dealt. She takes the briefest of glances at her cards and grabs a stack of reds and pounds them past the line. "A hunnert."

Now, I don't know about you, but a hundred dollar bet into an unopened 1-2 pot with such abandon and recklessness deserves to be punished. It's just begging to be taken, itching to be taught a lesson.

I look at the guys at my end of the table as the action is folded to me and mouth the standard, "One time," I say. "One time."

And I actually have something. Nines. Two of them.

I don't even glance at the hundred in there as I double-fist my stack into the center of the table. "Yup. All-in." I bang it up to $238 total.

Three seats to my left grimaces as he folds. "I want to play. That's my favorite hand."

It gets back to Philhemina. She wastes no time, and i mean none, in getting the other $138 out to complete her call, and I about regurgitate all the dinner and drinks from Bill's rehearsal dinner. Please, I think, don't let her have actually snuck into a big hand. She doesn't show as the flop comes out king high, no straight or flush draws. Turn brings a queen and I draw my breath tighter and the river throws out a brick. I flip my nines and wait. She looks at them and checks her hand. No eruption from her but I still hold my breath. She might be reading her own hand wrong for all I know.

Finally she flips up A,8 offsuit and I let out a laugh, partially in relief, partially in disbelief, partially because she still has a stack of chips in front of her that I want.

"Philhemina," I look down at her as I stack up, "that was a great call."


Day three at Harrah's to come.