The Price of Dignity

It has been a few issues since I've written a column. Let me bring everyone up to date from the last and, if you're interested, the prologue to this tale of woe is in my previous columns on CardPlayer.com.

I've had an unfortunate run of luck. Not in cards, but in life. I trusted around four-fifths of my bankroll to someone who wasn't responsible enough to handle my money. I blame myself. I misplace my faith sometimes. I had my Internet, phone, cable, and even electricity shut down for a while. I've been out of poker action for the past few months and was living frugally on the remainder of my bankroll. I tried to play live, but I ran bad and played bad. Now, with the skimpy-looking bankroll I have left, I'm attempting to get things sorted out, continue writing columns, pay off my recently accumulated debt, and rebuild.

I'm teetering right now. I'm walking the fine line between being able to pay the bills through playing and not quite making it. So I did what anyone in my situation would do. I begged for my dealing job back. Thankfully, they gave it to me and I was scheduled for two days on the weekend. I was back to being on the other side of the poker table for the first time in months. When I got to the venue, I received the obligatory welcome-back ball-busting. This was to be expected. I'd been dealing for a few years before I quit to play poker exclusively. I said my hellos and chatted a bit before they gave me my first job before the tournament started - parking the cars. Wait - they want me to stand out in the cold and wave a glowstick around? I have no idea how to do this. OK, I had a decent amount of seniority before, but now I'm the new guy (even though this was the same cast of characters I'd worked with before). I'll suck it up and take my lumps. The guy who usually parks the cars told me where everything has to go: trucks in the back, cars along the right. I braved the frigid weather, directing everyone where (I thought) they should go for a while before the parking guy came back out and gave me a thorough chewing out for parking the cars wrong. I just nodded and gave him the orange vest and the Mag-Lite. He was coming to relieve me anyway. Next I did what anyone would when they've been outside for an hour with no hat or gloves in freezing temperature. I grabbed a cup of coffee and huddled up next to the nearest heater until the tournament started.

Shortly after, I went to the back and took my tournament setups and found my table. I was rusty at dealing, so I made a few mistakes in the beginning. I think I flipped over a card to the same person around four times. He was none too pleased, but since I knew about half the players at the table, including him, he wasn't that upset. Needless to say, though, when the fourth card flipped, everyone at the table besides the player whose card it was was visibly upset. One of the gentlemen at my table, someone I have played with for years, yelled at me and gave me a detailed explanation of how I might better deal the cards. But hey, that's the life of a dealer. You kind of just have to sit and take it and go about your business. I shrugged it off and continued. Eventually my table was broken down and I took a short break before getting back and doing odd jobs. Now, I was used to always joking around on the job when I wasn't in the box. I know almost the whole staff, so what's a few wisecracks between friends? Apparently someone didn't like it.

There was someone new on the staff. His job was sort of managerial, although he hadn't been around for that long. I didn't pay any mind to it. I just went and did what he said. I understand. We all need to work together to make a decent-sized tournament run smoothly. I didn't have a problem with it at all. Then, while we were off to the next job, the managerial guy turned, and pointed at me and looked down at me seriously. "Don't be a smartass." Pardon me? Parking cars in the cold I can handle. Getting put down by players I can handle. When the new guy scolds and patronizes me like I took an extra cookie in kindergarten class, that's my breaking point. Not eight hours after I came back to my job, I quit again. I'd much rather grind low limits all day and night than put up with this. I might be poorer and I might have to squeeze a dollar until George Washington's wig pops off, but I won't have to put up with this crap.

I suppose this is the portion of the column at which you ask, "Well, OK, Sharko, that was a nice story. What's the moral?" Dignity. I could have certainly swallowed my pride and taken it on the chin for the next four or five months every weekend and been a little richer for it. I chose not to. I've worked hard for everything I have, and the pride in myself and how far I've come is all I have left right now. I won't let anyone, now or ever, take that away from me. Sometimes keeping your pride has a price. In this case, it was somewhere around a couple hundred a week.

What will I do from here? Ask the boss for extra hours. Since I'm my own boss, I think that I'll be able to get them. I'll play however much I have to so I can make ends meet. I'm going to be six tabling. I'm going to play until I get carpal tunnel syndrome in my right hand from so much mouse clicking, then I'm going to make my mouse left-handed and keep playing. This isn't the end, just a setback. And when I get back to where I was, and maybe even farther, I'll be able to say that I'm the same man and no one can take that from me.