I Don't Want to Hear It

My friend plays a lot of online hold'em. He told me about a monster pot he wished he'd participated in. He had pocket fours in middle position that he declined to play. A raise came behind him, and soon the pot was capped. He patted himself on the head for not having gotten caught in the trap. Then, a 4 flopped, and he choked a bit. Another 4 came on the turn, and he gasped. And then, when a queen came on the end to give the guy who had put in the most action the top full house, he, as he termed it in the poignant E-mail he sent, threw up. That pot contained enough cyberchips to, as the old-timers so colorfully put it, choke a horse.

I wrote my friend back, "For the next month, I want you to call every capped pot when you have pocket fours, and see if that balances what you would have won on this hand. Write down the result of what would have been the outcome, keeping a tally of your net losses and wins. Of course, you have to call every one of the hands down, because you never know when the board might come runner-runner fours."

I don't want to hear it.

I participated in a huge pot in a $6-$12 hold'em game I was in while awaiting the lowball game I had signed up for. I had pocket tens in the big blind, and the flop came 10-8-6 rainbow, which made three sets fighting it out. I thought at some point the others would have figured out where I was at, but they apparently didn't, or were so in love with their own hands that they just went along for the ride, gleefully capping every round except the last, which was just called around. Or, maybe they didn't believe me. The 2-3 that came in the next two cards changed nothing, and my top set took down a monster pot. The fellow next to me said, "You're lucky I didn't play. I had 9-7." Uh-huh. A guy who never opened from early position with less than a big pocket pair or A-Q suited, and he would have played in a capped pot with 9-7 in front. I don't think so.

I don't want to hear it.

Later, in the $20-limit lowball game, a killed pot had a lot of action. Randy opened from middle position. Archy, the next player, raised. Big Jim, in the big blind, came in for the two bets. Johnny, the action player who killed the pot, put in another raise. Before the smoke settled, they had put in five bets each. Big Jim drew one card, Randy drew one, Archy stood pat, and Johnny took one. After the draw, Big Jim checked. Randy bet. Archy, holder of the pat hand, called, and Johnny raised. Big Jim disgustedly showed the ace that had paired him and folded. Randy reraised. Archy stared a moment at his pat hand, showed his neighbor the 7-6 he'd started with, sighed, and folded. Johnny, ever willing to push a hand, reraised. Randy went one more bet, and Johnny, showing a bit of sense, finally just called. Randy showed his 6-4 with the joker, and Johnny unhappily showed that he had made 6-5-3-2-A, the third-best lowball hand. Now, Cindy, in the middle blind, asked Randy what card he'd caught. Randy was pleased to say that he had caught the deuce. Cindy said, "You're lucky I didn't play. I had 3-4-5; that ace that Jim paired on and the deuce you caught would have given me a bicycle. You all would have been drawing dead." Uh-huh. Cindy hardly ever plays in killed pots with a two-card draw. She never would have come in cold for the first two bets with her 3-4-5 and, if somehow she had, she certainly would have given up well before it got to five bets.

I don't want to hear it.

I don't know why people say these things. They're almost worse than bad-beat stories. But when you win a monster pot, someone often has to tell you how lucky you are that he or she didn't play. Are they basking in reflected glory? Are they trying to put a bit of a damper on your transitory triumph? I don't know, but I don't want to hear it.