Up early Saturday. Chores and errands.
But by 10 a.m. or so, I’m on the phone and reserving a seat at a poker room in far western Las Vegas. Normally avoid Saturday; they are often crowded and busy with wild weekend gamblers.
End up as part of the weekend wave that forms a new game. Sit down with my double-mask on to the left of a guy that I know as hyper-aggressive. With the right hand, I can win some chips.
Bankroll is in tenuous shape again after a mid-week loss. But my plan is to win a pot, nurse the bankroll up, then take a break and get something to eat.
Meanwhile, other players are making big hands and winning pots. A guy in Seat 3 flops four sixes with two in his hand and wins a $500 “quad flopper” bonus.
In late position, I pick up 10s-8s, a borderline trash hand, and make it $6 to go. A new, aggressive player on the button makes $12. I call and the flop is an unremarkable 7-6-2 of mixed suits. I check and the guy behind bets $15. I have six outs to an eight or a 10, which may or may not be good. I call. The turn is another 2. I check. The guy behind slows down and checks. The river is a 3. The guy behind looks uninterested in the pot. I think for a second and fire $25 into the $50 pot. He thinks for a second and folds.
It’s probably my biggest pot of the Saturday so far. The blinds are circling back to me. I promised myself something to eat when I won a pot so I get up and walk down to Auntie Anne’s pretzel shop. I plunk down one of my remaining $5 bills and order an original pretzel with salt.
The genteel lady working at the counter says she’s got fresh pretzels coming out in two minutes. Which raises the existential question: What happens to all the old pretzels? Are they just shipped off to Pretzel Purgatory? I don’t have two minutes to wait and tell her one of the existing pretzels will work just fine. They really are good: Warm and tasty with just the right dash of salt. You get a smattering of change back from a $5 bill.
Finish my pretzel before I sit down. We go a few laps and I pick up 5-5. Yay, a legitimate (albeit small) pair. The flop comes down K-6-2. Okay, a swing and a miss. You only catch another of your pair on the flop every 7.5 times or so. It’s checked around. The turn is another 6. It’s checked around again, and I take a stab with my pocket 5s. Only the guy with the Buckeyes cap calls. I think my two pair might be good. Unless of course, he’s got a king or a six. Louise is dealing now. She burns and turns and the gambling gods smile wanly: A miracle 5, a 22-1 shot, falls on the river. Buckeyes Cap leads out for about half his stack, maybe $35.
I think for the appropriate amount of time and declare all-in with my baby full house. Buckeyes Cap shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He’s probably got a 6. He shifts again, shrugs and pushes his last $35-$40 out. Yep, he had 6-2 for trips and suffered a “bad beat” on the river.
I’m still stuck but I have a decent amount of chips on the table. Start catching a few hands. Raise with A-K, flop a king and win a pot. Raise with A-K again and flop and ace.
Then Bob sits down at the vacant seat at my left. Bob is about 85, tall, snow white hair with a meek image. He gives off the demeanor of someone who was an engineer or biochemist in a previous lifetime. But he plays aggressively and isn’t afraid to bet stacks. Bob gets involved with an aggressive player behind him and wins a nice pot with pocket kings on a board of 6-5-4-10-x. The aggressive player moans and moves to another game.
I manage to win another okay pot with Ad-Qd on a flop of As-Kd-4d. I’m involved with the little old lady in Seat 1, but she folds to a $40 turn bet. I make a straight against Bob, who leads out for $15 after the river card. I declare “make it $45” and of course an oral bet is binding. Bob objects. “Make him put his chips out,” he tells the dealer. A few people laugh, the dealer nods in my direction, but I slide the $45 out into the pot and show my winning straight. Bob grumbles.
I’m running better. Amazing how a few decent hands and a breakfast of a baked pretzel and some hot tea with lemon and honey will energize you. In the big blind, I look down at A-K offsuit again. There’s several limpers so I make it $13 to go. Bob calls and the little old lady in Seat 1 calls. The flop comes down A-10-2 with two clubs. Top pair, top kicker is obviously a pretty good hand.
The little old lady has maybe $75 left in her stack. I bet about that amount in an attempt to isolate her. It doesn’t work. Bob calls behind me and in front of her, she folds and my heat-seeking missile of a bet veers off-target. The turn card is a non-club 6. I’ve inadvertently bloated the pot, which is now about $200.
Consider my options and look at Bob. He’s got maybe $130 left in his stack. He’s probably also got an ace, maybe A-Q, A-J or even something like A-5. He might have a combo flush and straight draw with something like Kc-Qc. I can bet $60 or $75 and make him pay a bad price for any draw. But there is another option. Since I probably have the best hand at this point, I can go for the gold and the last of his chips. Think for a second.
“I’m all in,” I declare. Steve is dealing and flips me an all-in plaque. The table turns eerily quiet. Bob thinks. If he had A-10 or any other two pair combination, he would call instantly. That he’s hesitating is a good sign. A very good sign. For a moment, it looks like Bob is going to fold. But he doesn’t. He slides his last $130 or so past the betting ring. I put my chips out too. Steve burns and turns and a non-club 8 falls on the river. I’ve been called so I quickly turn my hand up. “Ace-king,” Steve the dealer says matter-of-factly.
Bob looks at the board for a long moment. Then for another moment. Finally, he tosses his hand in the muck, gets up and walks away from the table. Steve pushes me the towers of red chips, and I tip him about 2 percent of the pot because he’s always cordial and says “Hi Dan” when I show up.
But the existential question remains: What happens to all the old pretzels when the new pretzels come out of the oven?
