February 21, 2020

Gutshot

It all happens so quickly.

You flop top top and make an aggressive bet in order to price out the flush draw.

But he calls.

So you push all in when the turn brings a blank. You are happy to take it down right there. He’s not getting the odds. It is an easy calculation. You do it in three seconds in your head. But you don't get three seconds because he snap calls. He’s not supposed to call in the spot. He’s supposed to muck. But he snap calls. Beats you into the pot. You show top top and he turns over the flush draw.

Jesus. Not even the nut flush draw.

You look up to see if he will flash a sheepish grin. Sorry, I know I wasn’t getting the odds but I just felt it kind of look.

But no.

He looks like he is thrilled to turn over his Q8 of hearts.

Of course he spikes the two of hearts on the river and you are in your pocket for a second buy-in.

You look around the table to see if you can solicit an ounce of sympathy. A wry shake of the head which really means: what an idiot. Or a terse smile which says: no worries—you played it right.

But no. Nothing. Everyone is on their phones and have moved to the next hand.

It is the Aria on a Saturday night and you’re not the first person to have had a flush run you down. A woman orders a drink from the buxom waitress and then gets up and leaves the table. When the waitress returns with her vodka martini straight up with a twist, the woman, a young Chinese woman from Los Angeles with $3000 in chips in front of her, is still not back. The drink is free but a tip is obligatory. I look around the table. She has been chatting amicably with a bunch of the others. But no one makes a move. I toss a $5 chip and barely get a nod of thanks.

The woman comes back. The drink is now in front of her. Will anyone at the table tell her I was the one who tipped the waitress? Apparently not. I keep my mouth shut. We are playing for thousands of dollars and I am not going to be the dick who pipes up for a measly five bucks. But it gnaws at me. So when she splashes the pot a few hands later with a three-bet, I defend my big blind with ace shit kicker.

Fucking unsuited.

It’s a hand I throw away a thousand times in a row.

But now I have a bug up my ass about the fucking tip which I didn’t get thanked for.

So an ace comes on the flop and I check-call all three streets and she takes me to value town with AQ because I don’t have the discipline to fold.

So now I’m reaching for my third buy-in feeling especially sick because the only thing worse than being a dick is being a tourist calling station. The type of guy that these semi-pros have wet dreams about.

I keep my head down because I don’t want to see them trading knowing glances about what a complete piece of shit poker player I am.

I vow to play super tight and only consider premium hands.

I muck and muck and muck.

So when two red aces fall into my hand in early position, I just flat call so I can three-bet when it comes back to me.

But there is no raise.

I have been at the table for over an hour and can't recall a single hand which wasn’t raised. It is a super agro table.

But I get aces and it’s call call call call call. What the fuck? And we take the flop six-handed.

So now I know I am about to bust. I know the aces are about to get cracked. I just don’t know how.

But I don't have to wait long.

A 2,4,6 rainbow flop and I don’t even finish saying all-in before the guy with the unsuited 3/5 shoves his chips into the pot.

I stagger from the table. I am shellshocked. I have taken ten steps when I remember I have left my Muskoka Life is Good sweatshirt draped over the chair. But there is no way I am going back for it. I think I hear someone call out. But they don’t know my name. And anyway, am not going back.

I splash some water in my face in the washroom and the guy next to me is doing the same.

I can sense he wants to tell me his bad beat. Some runner runner backdoor gutshot which crushed his dreams. But I have heard them all. I have lived them all.

I step back out to the casino and the cold air conditioning gives me a chill.

I wish I had my sweatshirt.