Thursday, May 5, 8 AM
My heart beat eagerly as my eyes scanned the waiting crowd at Madrid-Barajas Airport. It’s nice to know that, after nine hours of traveling, there is a friendly face seeking out you amidst the anonymous crowd, but there was more to my anxiousness than that. The face I was looking for wasn’t exactly familiar: I’d seen it only once, in a photograph. But if Nico wasn’t here, I was going to be seriously screwed, with little money, even less knowledge of the local language, and no plan for getting to my hotel.
Nico first contacted me a few weeks before to ask about poker coaching. I had no idea where he lived at the time that I decided to play the European Poker Tour Grand Final. After I posted my plans on my blog, he e-mailed me excitedly to let me know that he lived in Madrid, and we started talking on Skype about things to do in his city. Not only did he have a lot of great suggestions, but he even offered a ride from the airport.
I trusted Nico immediately, but I had invited my friend Mickey from high school to join me for the trip, and when I explained the situation to him, I realized how suspicious it sounded. “This guy from the internet heard we’d be in Madrid with a lot of cash Let’s get in his car!”
The reassuring factor was that Nico had been in touch before I ever decided to go to Madrid. Plus, he ended up buying a coaching package from me and offered to give me cash in person upon my arrival, so I didn’t need to carry a large sum with me after all.
This is how I found myself arriving in Madrid with no euros and no idea how I would get to my hotel if this relative stranger didn’t come through for me. Thankfully, my searching gaze was met by a warm smile of recognition. Nico was there.
We picked up Mickey then drove into the city. Nico played tour guide, pointing out major buildings and plazas as we passed them, and helped us find breakfast. Then he led us on a walking tour of the area around our hotel, ending at the Parque del Buen Retiro. We sat in the shade, avoiding the worst of the midday sun, and getting to know each other over a few beers.
Mickey and my plan was to spend some time with Nico right away so that we could see how well we got along and how much of our trip we wanted to spend with him. We never talked about it, but it quickly became clear that we wanted to see as much of him as possible. Not only was it convenient to have a friendly, helpful, Spanish-speaking guide, but he was a genuinely fun and interesting guy to hang out with. Before he dropped us off at our hotel, we made plans to meet for dinner.
Thursday, May 5, 8 PM
Nico had some news for us when we met up that night: “Soeren is coming to Madrid this weekend”. Soeren is another of my coaching students, referred to me by Nico in fact. They are both heads up sit-and-go regulars and talk strategy online from time to time but had never met in real life. Nevertheless, when Soeren heard that we were all going to the Gran Casino Madrid on Saturday, he spontaneously booked a flight to come join us for the weekend.
Our plans for him notwithstanding, Nico actually had a lot of studying to do, so we couldn’t monopolize his time entirely, which isn’t to say that we didn’t try. He insisted that he couldn’t stay out late that night but agreed to one after-dinner drink. We got to bed around 5AM that morning.
This isn’t quite as crazy as sounds, because Madrid’s is a late-night culture. Many restaurants don’t even open for dinner until 8PM, and a round of drinks with friends often commences around midnight.
That evening we partook in Madrid’s fine tradition of botellón, or public drinking, which is technically illegal but completely unenforced in certain neighborhoods. I had not been properly drunk since effectively losing my job on internet poker’s “Black Friday”. It was liberating to wander the streets of Plaza del Sol with a beer in each hand, pausing to purchase another from one of the omnipresent Chinese street vendors any time one ran dry. This carefree reveling made me realize how much had been on my mind these last few weeks.
Friday, May 6, ???
Mickey and I came to our senses around the same time on Friday. The weather was gloomy, and there was no clock in the room. I turned on my phone, which I’d deliberately set to airplane mode before leaving the US.
“Huh. My phone says 9:30, which would be 3:30 PM Madrid time.” I looked outside again. With the weather, it was hard to tell, but it looked like late morning. Besides, I suck at sleeping in, and I could count on one hand the number of times I’ve ever slept past noon, regardless of when I went to bed. “That can’t be right. Somehow my phone must know we’re in Madrid.”
We showered, dressed, and staggered blearily to a coffee shop for a quick breakfast, then walked to Madrid’s famous Museo Nacional del Prado. There was no line to buy tickets and not much of a crowd inside, so we spent a leisurely two hours admiring masterpieces from Goya and Velázquez.
Hung over and dehydrated but not yet ready to leave the museum, we decided to get a quick lunch at the Prado’s café before resuming our browsing. To our surprise, it was closed. We looked at each other. The posted hours clearly stated that it was open until 19:30.
A loud bell rang throughout the museum. It sounded like a fire alarm but stopped after a moment. Shrugging, we went to look at some more art. A surprising number of people now filled the hallways. We were like trout swimming upstream. A security guard stopped us and conveyed that we needed to leave the museum.
From outside, there was no sign of a fire or other problem. The museum was definitely emptying out its patrons though. The weather had improved considerably and was now warm and sunny.
We were discussing our options for lunch when we spotted the digital display on a bus stop flashing 20:04. After staring in amazement for a moment, we started laughing hysterically. It was 8 PM, and the museum was closed for the day. We really did sleep until 3:30 and had just passed an entire afternoon convinced it was six hours earlier than it actually was.
Saturday, May 7, 10 AM
Traveling the world playing poker in exotic locales sounds thrilling and romantic. The idea captivates me from time to time, but I always realize that when I have the opportunity to visit a foreign country, the last thing I want to do is sit in a casino doing something that I can do online from my home. After travel expenses, my hourly rate in a live $10K tournament wouldn’t usually be much better than what I’d make playing online, so it made more sense to make my money at home, then go on vacation and not play poker.
That was, of course, when I could play poker at home. After April 15th, it suddenly made sense to fly to Madrid for a €10,000 tournament. And now, with my budding retinue of friends accompanying me, I was hoping to have some fun even at the casino.
The fun started at the front door, where men with machine guns stood guard. I glanced at Nico, who seemed as surprised as I was. “Uh, this is definitely not normal at the casino.” He would know- he grew up just a few minutes away, where his mother still lives. In fact, his plan was to watch the first few hours of play and then study at his mother’s house until dinner break.
I suppose it made sense, given the amount of money inside the casino today, but as an American I’m unsettled by such blatant displays of security. It reminds me of Manhattan subway stations in early 2002, when the September 11th attacks were still raw wounds reminding us how vulnerable we really are. Such posturing suggests a more fundamental insecurity: we have to look strong because we are not really so strong. Or as Mike Caro might say, “Strong means weak.”
American casinos generally have enough of a reputation that they don’t need to wear their security on their sleeves. The threat is credible enough that we can keep the big guns in the background.
But big money protected by big guns is what poker was in the US not so long ago and is what it still is in many other places. Doyle Brunson tells stories of packing heat and getting robbed at gunpoint, by criminals and lawmen alike. Men with machetes robbed last year’s EPT Berlin while the main event was in progress. And in 2008, a Latin American Poker Tour event was shut down by the police despite advance assurances from the government that it was approved. Nothing was stolen in that case, but conventional wisdom holds that someone who was used to getting bribed didn’t get his cut.
Then there is the US Department of Justice and its recent $3 billion money grab. Poker may have enjoyed a brief period of tranquility on the internet, but it’s still the Wild West out there. A lot of money is changing hands, and not everyone plays by the rules.
Saturday, May 7, Noon
The tournament started with 30,000 chips and blinds of 50/100, but I did nothing of interest during the first few levels. Nico picked up lunch just in time for the second break. We sat in the lobby of the casino to eat hurriedly during the 15 minutes before play resumed.
It didn’t take long for a security guard, thankfully sans machine gun, to kick us out. Pretending not to understand, I wolfed down a few bites while Nico argued with him in Spanish, but soon we were outside. Finding nowhere else to sit, we had a makeshift picnic on the hood of his car until another security guard came over. Again, I gobbled my fried fish while Nico argued in vain.
“She says we must be inside the car,” he laughed. As we unpacked the food for the third time, he quipped, “Next someone is going to come tell us we must leave the parking lot.” No one did, and I scarfed down a few more bites before rushing back inside.
Mickey and Soeren were plenty bored by this point and took the PokerStars shuttle to downtown Madrid to run around the city together. Nico left for his mother’s house, with plans to return shortly before dinner break. Things got interesting as soon as they left.
With blinds of 100/200, I opened to 600 with Ac Qc in late position. Both of the blinds called, and the flop came Jh 9s 2c. I’d been in a lot of pots, often as the pre-flop raiser, but so far had not tangled post-flop. I’d missed all of those flops and often given up without so much as a continuation bet, so I felt I had some credit due me. I bet 1200, and they both called. So much for that idea.
My backdoor draws were a big part of my rationale for betting the flop, so I thought about which cards I should barrel versus check back, given the opportunity. I couldn’t bet any cards 7-Q, because even the ones that improved me would also be good for my opponents’ ranges, and I wouldn’t want to get check-raised. Small clubs, on the other hand, would be very good barreling cards.
The turn was the 3c. They checked to me, and I bet 3600. SB gave me the stink eye for a long time before calling and BB folded quickly.
The river was the 2h. SB checked, and I bet 7600. After what felt like ten minutes but was probably three, he called with a pair of Tens. Of course my bluff is no good if he won’t fold TT, but I don’t think I had any way of knowing what he would do with it at the time. I do think that I’d value bet AJ and better for this amount on the river, and big draws are about the only hands I’m bluffing on the turn. Without any further knowledge, then, I like having Ac Qc in my river bluffing range.
A new player joined the table on my immediate left. He looked to be 23 at the oldest and was clearly a (former) online player from the US. We got to talking, and when I mentioned my friend from Madrid, he perked up immediately and asked, “Do you think he could get me some green? I’m not used to playing sober, especially not live poker. I get so bored.”
After a while, he also mentioned that his airline lost his luggage and he had no clothes save the ones he wore. Apparently he couldn’t find anywhere that didn’t cost a fortune. This made his earlier question even funnier in retrospect, as not even a lack of clothes was as pressing a concern as a lack of drugs.
Soon the talk returned to our post-Black Friday plans. Though I’d thought a lot about it, I realized this was the first time I’d spoken to someone who was similarly affected. He had a collge degree but no work experience or marketable skills. “I’ve been playing professionally since before I graduated, so three or four years now, but it’s only in the last year that I really started to get good. I’d like to keep playing, but I’ve never lived anywhere besides [my home city]. All my friends and family are there.”
“Do you have poker friends? Maybe a few of you could get a house in Vancouver or something?”
“I don’t think I want to live with a bunch of poker players. If I moved somewhere, I’d want to get some like… normal roommates. I don’t know… I just don’t think I want get so sucked into poker, where it’s like the only thing I ever do or talk about.”
“Cheers to that.”
In level 4, blinds rose to 150/300. I raised to 900 with JJ in middle position, and the loosest player at the table called in the CO. I didn’t love the AT9 flop, so I checked and called a bet of 1000 into a pot of about 2500. An 8 on the turn brought an open-ended straight draw for me. I checked again, and he bet 1200. I was pretty sure he had an A, but he was offering very good immediate odds and would probably pay off more if I made the straight, so I called. Sure enough, I bet 4500 on a river Q, and he called after some thought, only to muck when I showed my straight.
Level 5 saw the introduction of antes. The stakes were 150/300/25 when a weak and straightforward player opened to 800 from UTG. I called with 44 and got two other callers behind me. The Ad Tc 4c flop was literally the best I could ask for. The pre-flop raiser bet 2800, I raised to 7500, the others got out of the way, and he shoved. I called and held versus his AQ, doubling up to about 45K.
My favorite hand of the tournament began with an extremely aggressive young Scandinavian opening to 750 UTG. I called with 66 on the CO, and the very loose player from my JJ hand called out of the BB. The flop came 732, all different suits, and the pre-flop raiser bet about half pot. I called, as did the BB. Fish though he was, I didn’t expect him to have many 2’s or 3’s in his range. I did once see him peel the flop with AQ unimproved, so he could just have overs, but there was a good chance he had a 7.
The turn was a 9, and my opponents checked to me. There was nothing for me to do but check behind. The BB wasn’t the sort of guy you try to bluff off of a decent pair, so I had pretty much given up after his flop call.
The river brought an A and completed a potential backdoor flush draw. The BB checked, UTG bet about half pot, and I saw an exciting opportunity. I thought that UTG would bluff all of his air on this river, and that while he would also value bet his Aces, he was a lot more likely to have random suited connectors and broadway cards than to have random Ax as an UTG raiser.
The catch was that there was also a good chance BB had me beat. Would overcall an Ace river with just a pair of 7′s, though? That would be bad even for him. So I called quickly, wanting to project confidence to the BB, who did in fact fold.
UTG showed QT, and I won the pot. I watched BB closely for an indication that he folded the winner, but I got nothing. Ever since reading Doyle Brunson’s famous story about calling a river overbet with J-high to scare out the best hand and beat the third player’s busted straight draw, I’ve wanted to pull off a play like that. This wasn’t nearly as cool, but I was excited about it nonetheless.
Saturday, May 7, 7 PM
Nico was there for dinner as promised, in time to see my healthy stack but not the shambles that it had been in a few hours before. We drove to a nearby restaurant where we could sit outside. Even though the casino wasn’t as noisy or dark as the typical Las Vegas establishment, it didn’t have any windows and got claustrophobic after a while. I don’t imagine the food was all that good either.
I sighed and leaned back into my chair as we waited for our meals. The weather was perfect, warm but with a nice breeze and ample shade. It felt great to get away from the casino for an hour, sit across a table from a new friend, and see the neighborhood where he grew up. I reflected again on how lucky I was to have Nico here.
The benefits continued to compound on our way back. Traffic was jammed entering the roundabout in front of the casino. “Wow, they are really backed up now,” Nico observed as I glanced nervously at the time. Play was to resume in ten minutes, and I was hoping to visit the restroom. “Buuut, they are not locals,” he added as he swung effortlessly into the left lane, bypassed the roundabout, and took a back entrance into the parking lot. I was back in my seat with three minutes to spare.
My American friend at the table walked back with a friend, complaining about the location of his hotel and how it required a 30-minute shuttle ride to get to and from the casino.
“You know you are right across the street from one of the greatest art museums in the world, though?” I asked.
“I had no idea, what’s that?”
I told him about the Prado and about some of the other attractions near his hotel, which is in fact one of the nicest and most expensive in Madrid. I had only been in the lobby, but the contrast between the generally disheveled poker players and the otherwise very upscale clientèle was an amusing one. Granted the commute to the casino was a bit inconvenient, but it was otherwise an amazing location. I suppose it’s understandable that as a professional who can no longer earn a living in the way he’s accustomed, his primary concern is putting in hours at the tables while he’s here.
Nico didn’t leave the casino immediately after dinner, so he was around to see my bust out. Blinds were 300/600/75. The Scandinavian raised to 1400. Another active player on his immediate left called, and then one of the most straightforward players at the table, who was still in relatively early position himself, re-raised to 5600.
Before I looked at my cards, I considered the situation. Given how active the first two players were, it was actually a decent spot for a squeeze, although I didn’t think that the 3-better was the sort to recognize or act on such things. He might de-polarize his range, meaning that he wouldn’t 3-bet as a bluff per se but that given the aggressiveness of the original raiser he probably would re-raise some hands such as AQ or 99 that he wouldn’t ordinarily against an UTG raise.
When I did look, I saw exactly what I didn’t want to see, which was As Ks. I stifled a sigh and seriously considered calling, raising, and even folding. There was about 50K in my stack, and he covered me. I settled on raising and mentally committing to the pot, on the theory that this player might actually fold some pairs like 99-JJ that he probably shouldn’t have re-raised in the first place.
I re-raised to 14,000, the action folded around to the 3-better, and he called, which was a little unexpected. Even more unexpected was his open shove for slightly more than pot on an Ac Qc 4h flop. It didn’t take me long to call, but he turned over QQ and had me drawing nearly dead.
He played it strangely but not necessarily badly. There’s actually some chance I get away from it by the river if he’d checks the flop. I feel like he’s at least as likely to play AJ or AK this way as QQ. Against a range of {AJ+,QQ}, I have nearly 47% equity, which is far more than I need to call. Frankly I was a little surprised to see QQ, though really it’s a weird line no matter what he has, and he has to have something, so I guess it might as well be QQ.
When I bust out of a poker tournament, the last thing I want to do is talk about it. Nico, Mickey, and Soeren had all bought some of my action, though, so I felt I owed them an explanation. Nico had already seen the whole thing and he let me off with just a, “Sorry man, tough spot.”
Tomorrow was Day 1B, so between the fact that it was Saturday night and that I wouldn’t be playing the next day no matter what, our plan was to enjoy another night of botellón, this time with Soeren. Nico still had some studying to do, but I saw no reason why the three of us shouldn’t start early, so I took the Busto Shuttle downtown to meet them.
Saturday, May 7, 9 PM
To my great delight, they were perfectly willing to let me off without a lot of questions about what happened. Soeren started to ask something and then interrupted himself. “Ah, but you do not want to talk about poker tonight!” He was right, and we didn’t.
Instead, we looked for a place where we could sit outside in the pleasant evening air and share a pitcher of sangria. Apparently he and Mickey had a place in mind but couldn’t agree on how to get there.
It was heart-warming to watch them quibbling amicably like an old married couple, though they’d just met that morning. As much as Mickey insisted that he wanted to watch the tournament, I knew he had no idea what he was in for and was sure to get bored. And while I was sure that he would have had a fine time by himself in the city, it worked out nicely that he had Soeren to hang out with.
“Seems like you guys are getting on well,” I remarked.
Soeren grinned and put his arm around Mickey. “Yes, we have had a few beers already.”
“Guess I’ve got some catching up to do.”
Over sangria, we discussed our plans for the evening. Mickey and I spoke pathetically little Spanish. Soeren’s wasn’t a lot better, but he spoke the most of the three of us, so we made him the designated Talker. Mickey, a former frat boy and Wall Street guy just back from a year volunteering in Rwanda, was the biggest party animal and most experienced traveler, so we made him the Decider. I was the Designated Drinker.
After our pitcher, we wandered the streets in search of a bar that would meet Mickey’s exacting standards. He paused in front of a bouncer who looked like Satan himself: tall, buff, and dressed head to toe in black leather with long heavy metal hair and a bitchin’ mustache. I was pretty sure this was a gay leather bar.
“No.”
“Yes! C’mon, this will be epic!”
I ignored Mickey and kept walking, but he planted himself just as stubbornly in front of the bar. Soeren was standing with him but looked less resolute. “I’m the Decider!” he shouted at my back. I relented.
Inside, the bar was not what I expected. They were playing AC/DC and the walls were decorated with American hair band album covers, but it wasn’t dark, the bartender looked relatively normal, and there was no further indication of gay and/or leather activity. Except that it was called “Club Rainbow”.
We drank whatever they had on trap and tried to identify the music, which was tricky because they were playing lesser works by well-known metal bands. We’d correctly identified Metallica but were stuck on the name of the song when a hulking Spaniard interjected with the answer.
He introduced himself as “Ferdinand” (I’m changing these names since I don’t have permission to use their real ones) and his girlfriend, “Isabella.”
“His wife, Isabella,” she corrected him, with impressive good humor considering the mistake.
Ferdinand and I struck up a conversation. He told me that right now he directs commercials but he’s recently been offered the opportunity to produce his own independent film in New York, which is why he’s learning English. “But my wife, she does not want to go to America.”
The conversation soon turned to the lighter subject of profanity. Ferdinand insisted that the US needed to import some of the diverse Spanish vocabulary for expressing variations on the meaning of “shit”. He had me repeat several of them, but I’m afraid none stuck with me. Eager to defend my native tongue, I held forth on the beauty of a single word with as many distinct meanings as “fuck”.
I was in full-on “happy drunk” mode. Here I was partying on another continent, surrounded by friends, debating language and culture with a local intellectual. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad: find a backer, travel the circuit, play poker by day, party by night.
My happy reverie was interrupted by the realization that Mickey and Isabella were dancing flirtatiously. I pulled him aside. “Dude, you need to chill. The three of us together have no chance against her husband.”
It was true. Ferdinand was a huge guy, easily three hundred pounds, with wide shoulders and fists as big as my face. His wife was cute and petite, not hot exactly but charming and vivacious and way out of his league. Up to now he’d been a gentle giant, but I had no desire to tempt his fiery Iberian temper.
“I knoooow,” Mickey moaned. “I can’t help myself! She’s driving me crazy.”
I cut in and left Mickey with Ferdinand, I have a serious girlfriend and no inclination to stray, but after a few minutes with Isabella I was half in love with her myself. There’s just something about Spanish women: their hair, their accents, their big round eyes and luscious lashes. The look was growing on me daily.
Isabella tactfully ditched me and the next thing I knew she was dancing with Mickey again. I let it go for a few minutes, but it was clearly time to leave. She begged us not to go, insisting that, “In Madrid, you don’t just go one place and then to sleep. You meet people and go around to other bars together.” We weren’t actually turning in, but we did need to turn them loose.
We hopped around to a few other bars, never staying long. Soon I was tired and ready to go home. Mickey and Soeren were beyond drunk but insisting on new bars. We plied them with cans from street vendors during the walk home.
Soeren kept veering and staggering into the street. There weren’t a lot of cars, but their drivers probably weren’t sober, so I walked with my arm around him to keep him on the sidewalk. Mickey got attacked by a group of sorority girls in chicken costumes who didn’t appreciate him photographing their initiation ritual.
Just behind us, a car clipped a stone barrier. It didn’t do a lot of damage, but it made noise. “Ha ha!” Soeren shouted, staring blatantly at the car. The driver slammed on the brakes. Great. Defusing this situation was going to be tricky without speaking Spanish.
I grabbed Soeren, turned him around bodily, and pulled him after me. He kept looking back at the car, and I kept turning him around. No one got out of the car. I hoped that it was obvious how drunk Soeren was, that he didn’t mean anything by it and that his friend was already getting him under control. The car drove off.
The euphoria was over, and now I felt like a babysitter. I remembered why I didn’t go out like this more often. I was tired, my head was spinning, and I just wanted to go home. Nico was closer to me than to the other two with regard to sobriety, and mostly he was helping to keep them under control, except that he kept stopping to buy more beers. I had to intercept and stuff them into my jacket pockets before Soeren and Mickey saw them.
When we finally reached the hotel, I was asleep the second my head hit the pillow.
Conclusion
I woke to a beautiful Sunday morning. The sun shone brightly and people filled the streets, many of them pushing baby carriages or herding young children. Mickey was still snoring, so I got breakfast by myself and woke him at noon.
Nico was working, but we met Soeren for lunch and another trip to the Prado. I wasn’t feeling great, but the other two were really beat. Neither said much, and it was clear that their hearts weren’t in it. We ended up returning to our hotel room, where Soeren took a nap on my bed. Last night was fun, for a while, but now I was disappointed that staying out at as late as we did had cost us a precious day of sightseeing.
Soeren had a flight to catch, but Mickey rallied after his nap. We had a low-key evening, and it turned out there was plenty of time left in the week for touristing. We visited the Palacio Real, saw Dali and Picasso at the Reina Sofia, took in a flamenco show, day tripped to El Escorial to see a 500-year-old monastery, watched a futbol game in the colossal Real Madrid stadium, and gorged ourselves on paella.
For our last night in Madrid, Nico invited us for dinner at his apartment. He cooked remarkably well for a single, 23-year-old male. Mickey and I brought wine and toasted him as an exceptional host and a new friend.
If you read “Gray Friday”, the article that I published last month, you know that I can get awfully down on poker. Sometimes it feels like I’m wasting my life on a card game when I ought to be doing something “meaningful”.
Like most other things, though, poker is what you make of it. Walk into a casino any day of the week and you can find plenty of bitter, miserable, uninteresting people. They are nasty to the dealers, to their competitors, and even to their friends. It’s one of the reasons I don’t play much live poker.
Make an effort, though, and you can also meet some awesome people and have some unique experiences. Based on nothing more than my blog, Nico was willing to pick me up at the airport, show me around town, play chauffeur at the tournament, and invite me into his home. Soeren flew from Germany to Madrid to spend the weekend with “poker friends” he’d only ever spoken to online. Nico fronted him money for the flight and gave him a place to stay.
Other readers have offered me similar services in Paris, London, and Amsterdam. They collectively invested thousands of dollars in my tournament success and trusted that they’d get their fair share if I won anything. One reader, who is also a professional DJ, mailed me a customized collection of music when I blogged about wanting to expand my poker playlist.
You’d have to try hard to find my face on TV. No one is trying to meet me for my celebrity. I put myself out there in my blog, in my videos, and in articles like this one because I want to connect with other poker players. It’s always going to be dog-eat-dog competition when the game is on, but there are opportunities to form cooperative relationships away from the tables, if you care to find them. I’ve given away a lot of free poker advice over the years, but I’ve been repaid in spades.