High-Low Split: Dueling Perspectives on 40 Days at the WSOP - Part V

SCOTT: One afternoon, Card Player intern Matt Story and I were supposed to be heading to the Rio, but, as usual we were tired, hungry, and dragging ass. As we attempted to pull ourselves off the couch, we came across a special on MSNBC about a kid named Jesse James Hollywood. This was actually the kid's name. And he just happened to be a dope pushing, kidnapping, murdering fugitive from justice. What a shock! It seems that some names virtually guarantee that you will attain a certain station in life. There's the obvious example of the three-name rule for political assassins, for example, John Wilkes Booth, Lee Harvey Oswald, and James Earl Ray. If your name is Bea, you'll probably end up working at a diner at some point. And if you're born with the name Derek, Billy or Travis, you will grow up to be a bully, a country singer, or an asshole. This goes further than simple speculation; a study published in the Journal of Social Psychology suggested that names play a large part in the types of jobs people take, and their successes at those jobs. Men with more masculine names like Scott and Joe tend to gravitate toward jobs like mechanic or plumber, while guys with names like Blaine and Robin, well, name your male children Blaine and Robin at your own risk.

JOE: If I were a bad stand-up comic, I would be forced to make clever observations such as this one: "What's the deal with poker? Why are there so many professionals named Phil? I mean, seriously, people, that's a lotta Phils!" Fortunately, I'm a good stand-up comic, and my bit on poker goes something like this "Man, white people be crazy!" Unfortunately, I'm a bad writer, and I'm forced to expound upon what Scott and I like to call "The Three Phils," and their hilarious (fingers crossed) interactions with us during the 2005 World Series of Poker: Phil Ivey, Phil Hellmuth, and Phil Laak.

All of this leads back to one undeniable truth: If your name is Phil, you are going to be good at poker. The three Phils of this article prove our theory, and that's why they made the list of the top three most fun players to watch at the 2005 World Series of Poker. OK, so we're cheating a bit; we're lumping them together to leave room for a third player in a future article, and for no other reason than that they share the same name.

Phil Gordon seemed like a nice enough guy. It's just that he spent a good majority of his time talking into a micro-recorder, presumably for "Phil Gordon's PodCast." Now, the only reason I'm aware of this thing's existence is because, while Card Player was one of two news organizations covering smaller events like $1,500 pot-limit Omaha and $751 gin rummy, it seemed as if the Rio gave away more press passes for the larger events than red Solo cups at a frat party. On one of the more crowded days, as I'm struggling to wade through a sea of "reporters" from the likes of "RockemSockemPoker.com" and "Poker?IHardlyEvenKnowHer.com" this clown steps in right in front of me during a pretty important hand. No, not an actual clown, but some jabroni wearing a media badge reading "Phil Gordon's PodCast." This isn't to say that "Phil Gordon's PodCast" isn't an actual legitimate reporting agency, but - wait, yes it is. You're off the list Phil. But Phil, Phil, and Phil - you guys are fine. Let's start with Phil.

No one takes the World Series of Poker more seriously than Phil Hellmuth. He gets so amped up, I doubt the guy catches a solid wink for the whole 40 days. Between chasing the records for bracelets, cashes, and final tables, Phil has his hands full.

Being new to the whole scene, I had no idea that Phil (Hellmuth) was in line for so many records and milestones. Not until someone told me, that is. And Phil Hellmuth was that someone. He had no problem telling anyone who was near him. I'm almost positive he didn't even know I was reporting for Card Player. He also mentioned it to ace intern Matt Story, whose name makes him the most appropriate reporter since Jimmy Scoop and Jonny Byline. Story then in turn had no problem immediately posting a blog that read something like, "Phil Hellmuth wants everyone to know that he's about to break the record." This is like when I used to go to my friend's house as a kid, and I'd mention to him how great some lemonade would complement Street Fighter II: Turbo Edition, and he would respond with "Hey Mom! Joe wants some lemonade!" Needless to say, Phil had no problem expressing his distaste with the wording.

How can you blame him? His television persona has made it commonplace for ill-wishing railbirds to turn out en masse simply to taunt him. They malign him for being an egotist and a poor sport, and point to quirks like his late arrivals to tournaments as proof that he is a shameless self-promoter who is constantly trying to garner more attention for himself. Well, I'm here to defend Mr. Hellmuth, with some good old-fashioned logic. To all the Hellmuth critics: How many of you have ever used the chat box on your favorite poker site to call someone a "fucking donkey" or describe in detail the physical acts of marital courtship that you've engaged in with the matriarch of someone's family? Those in felt houses shouldn't throw razor sharp poker chips. Furthermore, what I'm still trying to figure is, if he's so hell bent on being noticed, why does he dress like a character from Tom Clancy's Splinter Cell all the time? From the tournament floor, to industry parties, Phil can be found dressed in all black from head to toe, with black Oakley shades concealing his eyes. It's like he's worried that at any moment he could be called away to chase an insurgent down a spider hole.

Phil Hellmuth has beautiful eyes. Seriously. Physically, he's shaped like Big Bird, and his sense of style is brought to you by the letter Q and the number 4, and while I'm not gay or anything, the guy's got beautiful eyes. Fortunately, we get to see them about as often as Tom Sizemore gets to see his kids.

Don't get my above paragraph wrong. Hellmuth is no angel, I mean he has angelic features, but, it suffices to say that when Phil gets heated - as he did after his elimination in the $1,500 pot-limit Omaha event at the hands of his nemesis-of-the-day, Tim Martz of Butte, Montana - he steams worse than a dragon drenched in gasoline, thrown in a volcano, and then rinsed down with a fire hose. His f-bomb-laced tirade on his way to the cashier got him a 20-minute penalty assessed at the beginning of the next event in which he planned to participate. Given Phil's aforementioned penchant for arriving late, the penalty made as much sense as giving an NFL linebacker an unsportsmanlike conduct penalty to be assessed at the Pro Bowl flag football game.

I was definitely covering this same event with Scott. I was most definitely not out in the hallway flirting with Ilyana, PR rep for PartyPoker.com who had the most angelic Romanian accent, and I definitely didn't get her phone number. When I headed back into the Amazon room, I noticed Phil was on his way out, yelling something about a donkey, and also the overturned chairs. I showed Scott the digits I had just scored, but he seemed far less interested in that than he was to tell me what had just happened. Apparently it was something interesting, but it was then that I noticed that Phil had forgotten his mini-Oreos on his way out. All that macking had left me famished, so I had myself a snack. In all seriousness, I tell everyone what a nice guy Phil is when he's not playing poker. Case in point is that after taking a horrific beat, from someone who actually was a bona fide donkey, he came back a few minutes later to apologize when he noticed me eating his cookies. I tried to apologize, but I ended up just spitting out a bunch of black crumbs. He simply waved his hand and said "Oh, don't worry about it. Enjoy them."

Next is Phil Laak. What else do I need to say about a guy who has a hot Academy Award-nominated and bracelet-winning girlfriend who did a hot lesbo scene with Gina Gershon in Bound. Most everyone knows about the "Unabomber's" antics, and I saw them on display once or twice. But Joe is the guy who saw him up close.

Phil Laak. I haven't had a bigger man on a guy crush since the time I had a dream that George Clooney was my cousin. He's the most fun of the three Phils to watch, for me, because he seems to be having the most fun of all of them, win or lose. He reminds me of myself in a way, because his gregarious nature is typically interpreted in one of two ways: He's either incredibly charming and funny, or he's a total asshole. Whether he was offering to give opponents and spectators the opportunity to see his folded holecards for a nominal $2-$4 fee, begging to suck out on the river, clowning on his opponents, or yelling "Hi-YAH!," I found him to be very much the former. You can't help but like watching a guy who's genuinely having fun out there. On a personal note, I can't help but love a guy whose antics were so ridiculous that the ESPN cameras had to follow him up and out of his seat on several different occasions, one of which just happened to get the robustly handsome mug of yours truly on the ole boob tube for a good 10-15 seconds.

As for Phil Ivey…
There is a Phil Ivey mystique. In an age in which poker has become more socially acceptable and large corporations are embracing the game and its players, Phil Ivey has retained the mystique of an old-school gambler. A mystique found only in celestial phenomena and scents by Perry Ellis.

I really never saw the big deal about Phil Ivey. I'm not sure why. Oh yes I am. It's because I'm a hater. I hate liking the same things as everyone else. Ask Scott. If it's universally accepted as being great, I'm not a fan. Angelina Jolie? Doesn't really do it for me. The Sixth Sense? Eh, didn't really care for it. Krispy Kreme? Come on. Wunderkind poker player Phil Ivey? Bah. Of all the Phils he's the quietest. Yet everyone's afraid of him. Like the inside of my Honda Civic after I've had a cheap Thai meal, he's silent but deadly.

His unbelievable focus separates him from every other player I watched. His suspicious, shifty-eyed glare is unsettling. He's like a poker-playing ninja, watching everyone at the same time, figuring out 10 ways to slice their fucking heads off (metaphorically) from the second he sits down. Something about the guy makes him at once the last person you feel comfortable approaching, but the first guy you really wish you could talk to. I'm pretty sure that it is one of the qualities that makes him great, and gives him his unparalleled table image.

One of the first pieces of advice I ever got on covering the tables was, "Don't stand behind Phil Ivey." And even though there weren't very many other players who objected to this, I immediately understood why. Back in the heyday of the Atlanta Braves, ESPN had just invented this cutting edge technology where a camera was placed on the catcher's helmet, allowing us to share his perspective on what it was like to catch fastballs from future Hall of Famers like Greg Maddox. Maddox, who was easily the best pitcher in the game at the time said, "No fucking way." Pitching, like poker, relies very heavily on being able to fool your opponent, and if you're the best - like a Greg Maddox or a Phil Ivey, you'd be a total tard to give away one ounce of one ingredient of your secret recipe for Whup-Ass Pie.

During the main event, our bosses asked us to pass around a short two-minute questionnaire to the final 27 players, Ivey among them. As I walked back over to his table to collect them, I heard at least three players at his table say, out loud, "Player I most respect," then look to Ivey and say, "I'm gonna put you." One guy even asked how to spell his last name. These guys were still playing with him, and for $7.5 million! After the dinner break, Ivey ran over the table, and at the color-up he cashed in seven racks of yellow $1,000 chips. No one else was even close. Ivey had added roughly $700,000 in chips to his stack by relentlessly stealing blinds and antes. Play with Phil Ivey? You guys can't even spell Phil Ivey.

After witnessing this incredible feat, I stood by, eyes fixated on him, trying to glean any nugget of poker knowledge that I could from this awe-inspiring poker savant. Then, out of nowhere, someone shoved me from behind. I turned quickly, ready for a row. (By this point my distaste for railbirds was on a par with my distaste for olives and air travel.) A large gentleman wearing a Blue Tooth headset and dark sunglasses stared me down, and then made a motion for me to move out of the way. I decided to respond audibly to his gesture, "I'm doing my job sir." "You're looking everywhere but there," he said, pointing to Ivey's table. Did I mention, that the night before, I, Joe, Milo, and Story had stayed up until 5:30 a.m. drinking 40 ounces of malt liquor and playing a fourhanded $20 rebuy tournament when we had to be at work by 10:30? I decided to stand my ground. "Move!" The man barked again. I just turned around and shot him a smug look. And then, "I'll deal with you later," he said, sending me over the edge. "Are you threatening me?" I asked, as I finally moved out of his way, but only to inform Tournament Director Johnny Grooms of the breach of etiquette, and potentially of the law. It was then that I realized that all chances of me getting to know, or grabbing any tips from Phil Ivey were dead.

I couldn't figure out why Grooms stayed mum when I asked him to have removed a railbird who had so clearly encroached on my personal space, and threatened my safety.

It turns out it was because I was a lowly, hung-over WSOP intern, and the railbird was Phil Ivey's uncle.

What have we learned here today? We learned that Phil Hellmuth will gladly share his cookies with you. We learned that Phil Laak causes me to have slightly homoerotic tendencies. And we learned nothing about Phil Ivey except that you should neither stand behind him nor in front of his uncle. Most important, we learned that to be considered one of the greats, you can be obnoxious or reserved. Serious or goofy. Arrogant or humble. There is no specific formula. Of course, it doesn't hurt to be named Phil.