On a recent Friday night, during a session of $15-$30 high-low stud, I fell into a running conversation with the player sitting next to me, a white-collar guy still sporting his suit and tie, who after a hard week at the office was in a definite mood to talk. The disposition of the game was unusually sociable, and I was more than happy to listen, especially since he had a dry sense of humor and some interesting opinions on a broad range of subjects. He also played a pretty tough game of high-low stud, and I quickly sized him up as a very sharp cookie, indeed.
Imagine, then, my surprise regarding what happened later in the evening when a new player, a local pro, sat down in the game. His arrival seemed to trigger in my neighbor a rather startling transformation. Suddenly, he was betting and raising without rhyme or reason, burning two racks of chips in about 30 minutes – a half-hour that rarely saw him so much as glance at his holecards. What, I wondered, was going on here? As it happened, I didn't have to wait long for the answer, for when the pro ducked out for a quick smoke, my new acquaintance – the guy I'd pegged as a sharp cookie with his head squarely on his shoulders – turned to me and said, "Don't you just love it when these guys walk in sporting the uniform?" Uncertain as to his meaning – the uniform? – I paused and waited for him to continue. "Oh, come on," he said insistently, "you know what I mean – the whole pro outfit: the designer sweats, the sunglasses, the CD Walkman." The bitter edge in his tone was now unmistakable, and he began to really warm to his subject. "Yesiree," he went on, "there's nothing I love more than playing with these guys' heads. Why, sometimes when these smug SOB's saunter in here, I'll just bet and raise for as long as my money lasts – just to see how crazy it gets them!"
This, of course, is a story with a moral, and the moral is: It's always good to have goals.
Story With a Moral No. 2: A couple of nights later, in a $20-$40 hold'em game, the player in the No. 1 seat was still stacking his chips from the previous hand when the action, which featured a raise and reraise, got around to him. After a quick glance at his cards, he indifferently flicked them forward and resumed stacking, at which point the dealer suddenly realized that the stacker was the small blind and had failed to post. Informed of this, the player dutifully posted two yellow chips and then politely asked if retrieving his cards – which were still right in front of him – was an available option. When the summoned floorman ruled that he could, he smiled and said, "Well, there's no sense in defending some blinds if you're not willing to defend them all," at which point he proceeded to cold-call two and a half bets with the same hand that a moment before had interested him not in the slightest – an offsuit 10-4 that, after a flop of 10 high, he fell in love with and married, a brief merger that resulted moments later in a costly divorce.
Moral of the Story: Of all the virtues, there are none so great as loyalty and devotion.
Story With a Moral No. 3: Recently, I took a brief break from my hold'em game to stretch my legs and get a breath of fresh air. My return to the game couldn't have been better timed, for when I posted behind the button and picked up an ugly 9
4, the pot went unraised, giving me a free pass to a flop of 9-4-2. That seemed pretty nifty, and it got niftier still when the natural big blind popped and repopped me on the turn with what I soon would discover was a 9-2. When the case 9 fell on the river, all heaven broke loose and the pot ended up being about as big as a heads-up match can get it.
As fortunate as it was for me, it was a tough beat for the natural big blind, and to his credit, he took it like a champ. There was another player at the table, however, who seemed to take the whole thing personally, glowering indignantly at my cards as if they represented an affront to all that was good and decent in the world. What he'd obviously failed to notice was that I was a late-position blind – an oversight he shared with a couple of buddies when he began analyzing my play in hushed, disapproving tones. I didn't mind a bit, of course; if anything, I welcomed the tag of unpredictability that such an oversight might attach to my table image … that is, until someone pushed my button with the crack: "I guess those who can, do, and those who can't, write." At that point, my vanity kicked in and I suddenly turned into a social worker, charitably pointing out to all the daydreamers too attention-challenged to have noticed it for themselves that I had, in fact, posted behind the button.
In doing this, I accomplished some very important poker goals – like restoring my momentarily tarnished "reputation," and clearing up any misconceptions that might have existed in my opponents' minds regarding my general style of play.
Moral of the Story: Sometimes I'm dumber than a clump of dirt.
So, there you have it: three fractured tales, starring three different biscuitheads, yielding three plain-as-day lessons. There's a final moral, however, which is perhaps less obvious, and which might best be communicated with the following question: Who do you think is the biggest addle brain of the bunch? (A) The "sharp cookie" with a snap-off mentality comically reserved for one exclusive group? (B) The player so duty-bound to defend his blinds that he reflexively lays $50 to protect $10 with an offsuit Broderick Crawford? Or (C) Yours truly?
Personally, I think it's a dead heat. If that sounds overly self-critical, allow me to frame the question another way. Which are less defensible: big mistakes committed by those who don't know any better, or "small" ones committed by those who do?