Joe, Logan, and Darren all left on Sunday, which meant we had to check out of the Venetian. I was staying another night, but at the MGM, so the plan was for them to move all of their stuff into my room there. Since they didn’t get in until like 8AM Sunday morning, Joe decided to crash for a few hours while I went to breakfast with Logan and Darren, both drunk. I enjoyed a pretty delicious Belgian waffle, watched them lose some money at craps (I don’t play table games), and then talked by the pool with Darren while Logan nodded off on the chaisse lounge next to us.
The front desk had extended our check-out time to Noon, but Joe was still grumpy when we woke him up at 11:30. We had to wait in line to ensure we got our poker rate when we checked out, which took like twenty minutes. After that, there was a long line to get a cab at the Venetian. We confirmed with the driver that this is due to a terribly set-up taxi stand. Apparently the Venetian is constantly changing the layout so that drivers never know which lane they need to be in to pick up passengers and the whole thing turns into a giant mess. Apparently some drivers won’t even make pickups at the Venetian for this reason.
I had no trouble checking into the MGM early, and for $70 (with poker rate), it was a great room. Though it was on the small side, it featured a great view of the strip, two very comfortable pillow-top beds, a large tub, and a nice TV.
Logan took a nap while the rest of us got lunch and played some cards. I got seated at a very loose passive 2/5 NL table. The only guy at the table who was at all aggressive was on my immediate right, and I played back at him a few times just to set a dynamic and keep him in line.
I picked up a fair number of chips in the early going by raising limpers, making continuation bets, etc. The first big pot I remember playing was against a guy I called (in my head) Captain Calling Station. He was a graying fifty-something, hefty but not fat, with a goatee that ruined any dignity that the first hints of wrinkles on his face might otherwise have brought him. He wore dark sunglasses (I immediately lose respect for anyone wearing sunglasses at a 2/5 cash game) low on his nose so that he could peer over them like a disapproving librarian when he was trying to get a read.
I’m pretty sure that most of the time, the only thing he was looking for was an excuse to call. Obviously that’s where the Calling Station part came from. The Captain was because he looked like the kind of single guy who stands out on the deck of his boat with a beer in hand and a leather-skinned middle-aged woman in a sagging bikini on his arm. But he’d been calling a lot of my raises and continuation bets out of position, and I’d let him win more than one pot with a marginal hand.
A $100 tournament starting at 6PM had drained a lot of players out of the 2/5 games, and our table was in danger of breaking. The floorman told the dealer to stop raking the pot when we got five-handed, which I thought was cool as hell, but some others at the table were talking about quitting anyway. I started ramping up the aggression, so when everyone limped my button, I raised to $40 with K9o. Only the Captain called, and he check-called my bet on an A67 flop. Having decided to win I was going to win this pot or die trying, I was going to fire again on the turn, but then I hit my 9 and decided I’d check behind rather than risk a check-raise.
The river was a T, and Cappy checked again. I was pretty sure I couldn’t win at showdown, but I had been meaning to try a bluff in a spot like this after observing how passive most liver players seem to be on the river. This was a major difference I noticed between live and online games, having seen live players check down some huge hands on the river (like the A4 full house from Saturday) on the assumption that, although they were probably good, worse hands would never call. Similarly, my river value bets were not getting paid off as often as I expected.
With this in mind, I bet $200 on the river, nearly the size of the pot. With no hesitation at all, CCS counted off $200 in chips, and for a second I thought he had called. I must not have looked too disappointed, though, because he stopped without putting them in the pot, played with them for a minute, and folded.
It was tempting to show him my bluff, since after all he was a calling station and I didn’t plan to bluff him very often, but he seemed like the kind of guy who might be easily embarassed and/or enraged by something like that, so I just mucked and stacked the chips.
In the interest of saving our crumbling game, the floor asked if we wanted to change the stakes to 5/5 NL, for which there had been an interest list for hours. I was all for it, but the bigger stacks didn’t want to cash out down to $1000, which I wouldn’t have either in their shoes, so I didn’t push the issue. They found us another player, set the max rake at $1, and we kept it going until the table filled up again.
Not long after, I finally stacked someone. I forget the exact action, I think maybe some people had limped my BB and I’d popped it with 55. Anyway I flopped a set and bet $100 on a K-high flop, $150 when the third heart came on the turn, and then shoved like $250 on the river. The guy mucked when I tabled my set, so I don’t know what he had, and since the dealer was between him and me, I couldn’t see his reaction, either. He proved to be a pretty big station, though, and since the players to my immediate right were some of the better ones at the table, I moved across the table to get to the left of the presumed fish at the first opportunity.
I should add at this point, because it becomes important later, that the woman who took my old seat looked to be in her early 60’s, with a sweet face and the perfect little old lady vestments: a beige sweater with an oversized ceramic image of a cartoon mouse eating a block of cheese pinned a few inches below her left shoulder. Based solely on her appearance, I assumed she would essentially be a dead seat at the table. That is, she would play too tight to lose much and too predictably to take much from anyone.
To my right was another older woman named Barbara who told me she was one of the original dealers at Caesar’s Palace back in the day. She seemed nice enough, but something about her, either the way she looked or dressed or carried herself, I’m not quite sure, made me think she was a little strange. Sure enough, after a bunch of limping, she suddenly opened raised to $40, got one call, overbet the pot on a 9 high flop, and got all in against AJs that flopped a flush draw. He turned the flush, and she whispered under her breath, “Dumb shit.”
There was plenty more swearing where that came from, some at least seemingly playful, some of it downright spiteful and mean-spirited. She once called a raise to $25 from the sweeter old woman and check-folded KK face up on an A-high flop. The other woman turned over AA, and Barbara cried out, “I knew it, Mary, you little shit! That’s why I didn’t reraise you!”
That was the first time Mary raised, and she’d been at the table for over an hour. About an hour later, she raised again, and after one caller, I elected to call on the button with 65o, as Mary had about $600 in front of her and I covered.
As is my habit, I envisioned what kind of flop would allow me to win a big pot against what I was sure would be a big pair: certainly 347, but I’d be willing to call any reasonable bet on any flop that gave me so much as an open-ender. What about 66x? Would she figure me for calling a raise with a 6? Hard to say, but she’d have to lose something.
Then I envisioned the aftermath. This poor, sweet old woman sits patiently, socializing with friends and waiting for her pocket aces. She finally gets them, the holy grail of Texas Hold ‘Em, and she loses two months’ social security checks to a “bad beat” from some young hot shot who calls an early position raise with 6-5 offsuit. Is this really who I am? A guy who invests $15 in a garbage hand in the hopes of ruining this poor woman’s evening (maybe her month? This is the kind of bad beat story she might tell years into the future) and taking her money, money that could have been used for her grandson’s college education or her granddaughter’s orthodontia?
The flop came Q82, Mary bet and won the pot. She flipped over AQ suited and tipped the dealer.
Barbara also seemed really excited to know the floor people by name and was constantly calling on them for little favors, such as to announce an open seat at our table, give her a massage (this is the floor man, mind you, not a professional masseuse), or to move the whole table because her seat was in the aisle and kept getting run into. I offered to swith seats with her, as this would have put me closer to my fish, but she shot back kind of grumpily, “No, I want this one one!”
At first she seemed friendly with some of the regulars there, but after she got stacked again and left in a tizzy (unfortunately I forget the hand), everyone started talking about her. One of the floormen came over and said, “Whoever busted her, thank you.”
Even sweet old Mary chimed in. “Ooooh, I do not like to play cards with her. She’s as sweet as can be away from the card table, would do anything for you, but she gets in such a bad mood when she’s playing poker. I have to show her my AA or she’ll go on all night about how unlucky she was to get an Ace on the flop.”
I unfortunately did not get to keep the fish’s money for long. After a couple of limpers, I made it $40 out of the SB with AQs and two calls, including from the guy I previously stacked. I could now see more clearly that he was an oafish 30-something wearing a shirt that said OMW. I amused myself throughout the evening by thinking of things that could stand for. Anyway, the flop came out rags but gave me a flush draw. I bet $100 and OMW called.
If you flop a big draw and don’t get the money in right away, the turn can be tough to play. We got an offsuit K, and I decided to fire again, both because this was a good card to represent and because even though I was committing myself to call an all in I could count on quite a few outs. So I bet $175, he moved in for his last $250 or so, and I obviously called and missed. He showed me KJo with no spade, meaning he had called the flop with nothing and turned a four-outer.
I tried not to show any frustration as I paid him off, but this got tougher to do when he muttered bitterly, “What goes around comes around.”
My eyebrows shot up. “How’s that?”
“You beat me and then I beat you.”
“Mmmm,” I grunted, pursing my lips and nodding. Right, I flop a set, you call me down with God knows what and lose your stack. Then you call me with air, catch a miracle turn card, and dodge twelve outs on the river. I can see how those are parallel situations.
Worst of all, he pretty much stopped playing pots with me after that. We played only three more of any significance. First, I raised AK from the BB, bet at a whiffed flop, and check-folded the turn. Then I raised KTs against his limp, bet when I flopped a gutshot with an Ace on the board, checked down the turn when I picked up a flush draw, and then overbet the nuts on the river. He folded suspiciously.
In the third one, I raised J0s against some limpers on my button, got two calls, and checked down an A-high flop. The turn gave me a gut shot and a flush draw, and once again two calling stations checked it to me. I wanted to bet badly, but I didn’t think either of them would fold much of anything, nor was I confident that a bet now would lead to a big river bet getting paid off if I hit. So I checked again and rivered the flush. OMW led into me for $30 into a $75 pot. I thought about making $100 more, but decided for $120 instead. This time he paid me off with A2.
Suddenly, I was running really hot. On the next three hands, I picked up 99, KQs, and 99 again, twice picking up the blinds and several limps and once flopping set over set to stack a guy with like $300. The next orbit, I raised OMW’s limp to $25 with JTs in LP. The button, who was sitting on very nice stack, made it $75, and the SB called cold (!). Priced in, I counted off $50 more and prayed for a big flop. What I got was the potentially tricky 982r.
The SB checked. To cold call a $75 reraise with $325 behind, he ought to have a monster, but that wasn’t the vibe I was getting from him. More likely was that he was just another overly loose passive live player. Still, I didn’t want to commit myself to getting it in versus him on the flop if it helped his hand, as I probably don’t have more than 8 live outs.
If the button were smart and aggressive, he’d be re-raising me with a ton of hands given how aggressive I’d been this orbit. However, this was the first time in hours I’d been re-raised pre-flop. We both had nearly $900 behind, so I figured the best move would be to check and see what he does rather than getting blown off of eight outs to the nuts. With stacks of this depth, I may even be able to knock him off of an overpair at some point during the hand if I miss and get the right sense from him.
Anyway, the button checks also, which surprised me, and the turn is a beautiful Qs to give me the nuts and put a flush draw on the board. SB checked again, and now even though I thought it was unlikely that either opponent liked his hand much, I had to bet. There was barely $200 in the pot and I had a virtually unbeatable hand, so I needed to take a line that would allow me to put all $900 of my stack into play if the button liked his hand after all. I bet $200 and both players folded. Oh well.
One other kind of funny hand, this guy sat down to my right and bought in for the minimum of $200. After a few limpers he completed the SB and I checked T3s in the BB. Flop was 932 and gave me a flush draw. He checked, I potted it, everyone else folded, and he checkraised to $75 with like $125 behind. With deeper stacks I might have just called him, but then I never know what to do on the turn, so even though I knew he wasn’t folding, I figured I had plenty of outs and wanted the table to see my three-bet all in “on a draw” so that’s what I did. He snap called me with 32o for bottom two pair, but I rivered my flush.
Staring at me with a look of anger and frustration, he demanded, “Did you just go all in on a draw.”
“Sure did.”
“And what was at that time middle pair.”
“Yup.” I avoided eye contact and stacked the chips. He grunted and reloaded.
Eventually, he came around and decided I might be a pretty good player after all. After the seat change, I was to the immediate right of Captain Calling Station, who actually turned out to be a pretty nice guy (though a degenerate gambler) named John. I thought he’d be angry or resentful that I’d been hammering on him before, but he was pretty humble about admitting I’d gotten the best of him. He told me he didn’t mind losing to me because he never left a casino with money. One night, he said, he was up $27,000 (I got the impression he played much higher stakes than what we were playing, and the prospect of getting into those games with him had me drooling), and came home with nothing after blowing it all at blackjack. His wife called him every name in the book and eventually divorced him. Yipes.
I made my usual straddle UTG and looked at my phone: 11PM, meaning I’d been playing with barely a break for 8 hours. More importantly, I could detect a seismic shift in how the table regarded me. I had a mountain of chips stacked in front of me, and most of my opponents had been around long enough to see me raking in all of the big pots I played. Lately, I’d been getting less action and hearing less grumbling about my “bad” play. But this table was soooo juicy! Not juicy in the sense that they’d lose their asses with anything, but juicy in the sense that there was $7500 in the table and only one other guy who seemed to have half a clue how to play poker. After folding, I resolved to take a walk, go to the bathroom, and play one more hour.
I returned to my seat and posted from the CO. The other competent player limped UTG, Mary limped behind him, two or three other players, including OMW, limped in, and I looked down at 75. It was tempting to limp in too, just to play a pot in position, and then I remembered that I’d already posted. I tapped the table, the button limped, the blinds tapped, and the flop came out Q77.
UTG bet $30, and Mary, to my surprise, called. It was unusual for our table to see this much action on such a dry board, so I just called in position with my trips. Everyone else folded, and the dealer burned and turned the K. UTG checked, and Mary, to my great surprise, bet $75, leaving a little less than $250 behind.I considered it very unlikely that she would play any hand containing a 7. Could she have KK or QQ? She limped behind a limper, and I’d previously seen her raise AA in a similar situation, so I slightly discounted these, but who knows. I really didn’t think she was the type to semi-bluff. Maybe AQ or KQ? I called, resolving to throw my hand away to a big river bet.
The river was the A, and Mary bet about $55 into a pot of nearly $300. I smiled inside and stared envisioning how this pot would give me a stack of over $2000 and get me unstuck for the trip. Her weak little blocking bet told me she was uncertain about her hand, probably worried that I had a 7. What could I raise? What would she call with? I decided that if I bet her last $183, she’d be getting better than 2:1, and would maybe talk herself into a call, both because she might want to put me on a busted flush draw or just because she didn’t want to fold two pair to the “Macadamia”, as her friend called me (because she thought I was a nut).
“All in”, I announced, moving a stack of red chips into the pot. Her spindly claws couldn’t shovel chips into the pot quickly enough. “Can’t win this one, sweetheart,” she informed me with a hint of malevolent glee as she flipped over her pocket Aces for a rivered full house. I grimaced, matched the last of her chips, and smiled at her. “Nice hand.”
In my mind, I replayed it. No reason to shove the river. She isn’t going to call with a worse hand. There was no flush draw on the flop to represent. Though unlikely, she certainly could have a boat, and the odds of her having a boat are probably better than the odds of her calling with a worse hand. But the weak river bet is what I kept coming back to. The more I thought about it, the more I realized how perfect it was. If she made the big bet herself, I’d already resolved to fold. But the underbet convinced me I was good and induced me to try raising for value. Had she stumbled upon this brilliant play by dumb, nut peddling luck? Or did she know that I would do the work for her, and that she couldn’t count on having a big bet of her own paid off? I wanted to ask her this, but I realized it would be rude, as I’d essentially be accusing her to her face of being just another clueless case of beginner’s luck.
After another orbit of folding, I stood up, wished everyone a good night, and went to cash in my chips. I felt a tap on my arm as I stood waiting for the cashier to convert my racks of casino chips into crisp $100 bills. Looking over and down, I saw Mary smiling up at me. “It was an absolute delight to have you at the table, and you’re a helluva poker player,” she told me.
“It’s too bad we were across the table from each other, we didn’t get to talk much.” She said good night and started to return to her seat, but I stopped her. “Your river bet was perfect,” I said.
Her face lit up. “I invited you right in, didn’t I?” she whispered conspiratorially.
“I couldn’t resist,” I admitted with a smile.