A poker game in the suburban jungle of northwest Las Vegas was breaking up. And we all transferred to another table with available seats.
I was wearing my University of Alabama gimme cap and as I sat down, a 60ish guy with silver-white hair, who was wearing U.S. Open golf shirt, nodded and said, “Roll Tide.” I get that a lot when I wear my Bama cap. I nodded politely in return.
We played a few laps. A hard-nosed, unsmiling guy with a dark scar on his left cheek was to my left. His chip stack was easily twice that of mine, and I promised myself I would not get out of line against him.
We played a few more laps, and I found 7-5 offsuit in the small blind. I completed the bet with what was essentially a trash hand and hoped for a lucky flop.
My wish was granted. Sort of. The flop came out K-6-4 of mixed suits, and I had an open-ended straight draw.
I decided to lead out, and only Mr. Hard Nose called. There were four unseen 8s and four unseen 3s, and I only needed one of them.
But the turn card was a 10. I thought for a moment and decided to continue my story and led out for about two-thirds of the pot. Mr. Hard Nose never flinched and called. One little ol’ 8 or one little ol’ 3, I thought, and it would be payday. The dealer burned and turned. And the river card was an ace. I thought for a second and wondered if I could credibly represent an ace and whether a large bet might win the pot. I glanced at Mr. Hard Nose, the unsmiling guy to my left. He was not smiling. I decided not to represent the ace, and he checked behind.
I had absolutely nothing but elected to show my missed draw and turned up the 7-5 with a dramatic flourish. Mr. Hard Nose quickly showed a king with a queen kicker and won the smallish pot.
We played a few more laps. Sunday Night Football was underway, and I was about ready to head for the ranch. Then in late position, I picked up 6-6, a reasonable small pair. I tossed in a small raise with the intent of building a pot. Surely, a 6 — maybe even two — was coming on the flop. It was close. The flop came out 5-4-2 of varying suits. It was checked to me, and with an overcard to the board, I bet about one-third the size of the pot. Mr. Hard Nose quickly came along. A 3 would complete a straight, and I might yet catch a 6 on the turn. The dealer burned and turned. Another 2 fell. Darn. This time I checked. Mr. Hard Nose checked behind. What did he have? What did he think I had? What did he think I thought I had? All those profoundly existential questions were running through my mind before the dealer burned and turned one more time. The river was a black 8 that completed nothing unless he held 6-7. And I had two 6s, which officially was a double-blocker.
I decided to bet. The board seemed like a lot of nothing, and I thought a healthy pot-sized bet would take it down. So I did. Surprisingly, Mr. Hard Nose called again. Perhaps he remembered my missed draw from the previous hand. Perhaps he had something like a bigger pocket pair or even the third deuce. But for whatever reasons, he called. Figuring I had just torched a pot-sized bet, which would have paid for a half-tank of gasoline, I turned up my hand. And Mr. Hard Nose shrugged. He looked back at his hand and looked at the board. A blond-haired woman to my right declared my hand if he needed any help. “He’s got sixes and twos,” she said. I pushed the sixes a little farther out so he could see them. He shrugged again and threw his hand in the muck.
It was a decent pot and allowed me to nudge up my buy-in by about 15 percent. Which in the end isn’t too shabby. If you did that every time, you’d be just fine in the long run. So, perhaps it pays to advertise. I played one more lap and cashed out, vaguely curious about the outcome of Sunday Night Football. On the way to the exit, a guy spotted me and my cap. “Roll Tide,” he said. “Go Bama,” I responded.
