Having a ball at Bally's

For the first time in a long time I drove to Vegas instead of flying.  The drive was just fine, very little traffic as I left on Thursday instead of Friday.  The only congestion to speak of was in L.A., the amazing "Waze" app on my phone guided me out pretty well, and I only spent maybe 20 minutes stopping and going before the freeway opened up.  Then right after I got on the 15 from Pear Blossom it slammed down again - Waze didn't even blink, redirecting me to a frontage road immediately that bypassed the amazing mile and a half back up of cars (there had been a rollover accident).  I zipped by that parking lot in record time and was back on the completely clear freeway in a handful of minutes.  What an age we live in.

Still, even if I had been stuck in that parking lot for an hour or more - the biggest advantage of driving over flying will always be saving monies.  No plane and no rental car = mucho savings.  I got a great poker rate at the Bally's so my 3 night stay averaged well under $100 a night.  That and a suitcase full of Nutri-System food made this by far the cheapest Vegas trip ever.

The one disadvantage of traveling by car - the monochrome open road for over 4 and a half hours with no one but Zack Brown for company.   I left work at 530 and arrived at about 10pm.  I quickly checked in, threw my crap into my room and instead of collapsing on the bed and getting a good night's sleep I hoofed it across the street to the Bellagio and took the tram to Monte Carlo.  About 20 minutes of walking and another 10 minutes of tram locomotion.

And then I was home - my favorite poker room in Vegas when it comes to atmosphere and friendliness.  The tables and chips are worn but clean, and the decor faded but warm and inviting.  The dealers are pretty chill and the clientele, especially in tournaments, is mostly tourist and soft.

Feels like home.

The tournament wasn't very memorable, but it was friendly enough.  The turbo-ish nature of these events demands a certain amount of run-good, and I had none.  Couple that with overall tiredness and an utter inability to pick my spots wisely - and you have about an hour and forty five minutes of fun but ultimately silly pokerz.

I konked out in bed just after 2 in the morning.  My plan?  Sleep in best I could so I could hopefully be not completely exhausted for the Bally's Labor Day Classic Event #1 at 11am the next morning.

Inevitably, I was up at 8am - and hustled a bit to shower and drag my tired but cleaner ass down to the Bally's poker room to play in their normal 9am turbo.  Bally's has the best turbos in Vegas, not because the structures or starting stacks are any good (they're not) but because they come with 1K prize pool guarantees.

Still, I was sleepy enough to be unable to pick any good spots.  That plus being card dead plus playing in a super-turbo meant again no monies for me.  Still, I splashed around and had fun and in my mind didn't really count the tournament anyways.

By 11am the line for registration in the first big event stretched out of the poker room and into the slot machines.  Lucky for me I had registered well ahead of time.

Ah yes, the dreaded seat 10.

I played for well over 4 hours - and by the end was pretty much burnt toast.  I was rather card dead, which in itself wasn't the worst thing; but the combining factors of fatigue and inattention doomed me to the rail in a field that was surprisingly soft for such a large event.  Almost 200 runners, the poker room was filled to capacity and even tables on the other side of the rail next to the bar had filled up.

After my exit, which I don't remember at all - I made the best decision of the trip.  Instead of registering for the Bally's regular 5pm donk-ament, I got in my car and asked Siri where I could get a hair cut.  10 minutes later I was sitting down in a Supercuts chair as a lovely young woman commenced with buzzing my balding head.

Now that's more like it!

It seems absurd, but after an expert cut like this - I felt a weight lifted from my shoulders, both literal and much more so - figural.  My hair had been out of control, especially my gnarly side-burns, which always grow way faster than everything else; for something as silly as this, I felt positively giddy.

Again, I resisted the urge to go a gamblin' and instead headed back to Bally's and then hoofed it over to the always quiet and sedate Planet Hollywood. There I tracked down my new bosses restaurant and treated myself to an amazing diet cheat.

Roast beef, cheddar and horseradish.  Outstanding.

When I say new boss, I don't mean I'm not with my employer of 19 years anymore, I still am.  I am referring to the inimitable Mr. Robert Earl, who is the owner of Planet Hollywood (yes, the whole thing) as well as the Buca De Beppo and Earl of Sandwich restaurants.  He is the host of my company's newest show on the Cooking Channel - "Robert Earl's Be My Guest" which starts airing September 8th.  I am the lead editor on the show and very proud of it.  I'm happy to say that his signature "Original" sandwich at the above establishment was quite excellent, especially when dunked in the fresh tomato soup that I ordered along with it.

So then it was back up to my room for a brief respite.  By the time I had registered and sat down for the Bally's Labor Day Classic Event #2 at 8pm I felt well fed and finally, well rested.

On the third hand of the tournament, this happened.

Bam.

As is the case with all of these 'deep stacked' events that are full of fish, it was a 7 way limped pot.  I generally avoid participating in this sort of thing unless I'm on the button, which I was.  So I limped with K3.  But it was sooooooted!  So sue me.

The small blind popped it big, with a 7x raise.  All but one folded to me.  It's taken me a long time to get it - but now I do.  When an old man fires out an enormous overbet, especially out of position, especially into half a dozen players - his range is super tiny.  I mean, SUPER tiny.  He is basically playing two or maybe three combinations of cards.  It's NOT AK, it is not JJ and probably not QQ.  It's KK or AA, basically guaranteed.

I've learned now, that when a player plays his hand face up, that is, when I KNOW what his cards are - it is a huge mistake not to see a flop.  And so I did.

Bam.  Two pair.  He donked about 1/2 of the pot.  I three bet him.  He shoved, again - a MASSIVE overbet.   My bet which was pot sized, had just been raised about ten fold.  This was actually a very easy call.

As God as my witness, I actually said out loud "You have aces.  I call."  True story.

He had Aces.  My two pair held and my stack ballooned.  Yay me.

Very satisfying to get the gasps of awe around the table.  Very satisfying, the sheepish look on his face when he tabled his cards.  Don't know if I've ever had a more spectacular drive down the 11th fairway in poker ever then that moment.

This double up (actually a bit more than a double up thanks to the limpede pre-flop) boosted not only my ego but my confidence, and I had a GREAT evening.

Still rather card dead, not a premium hand to be found except for a fleeting AK here and there and perhaps JJ once or twice, I nonetheless accumulated nicely for the next four hours.

I didn't get too tricky, I didn't try too hard to 'outplay' anyone.  But at the same time my cards weren't good enough to sit on my hands and try to get to showdown.  I c-bet when the times were right, I bluffed more than a handful of times - and they mostly worked.

I was just over average in chips when to my amazement we redrew for the final table.  It was just after midnight.  150+ runners, whittled down very quickly by a fast but not crazy structure.  I really think I've got this grinding thing down, at least when I'm in the groove and my A-Game shows up.

The final table lasted awhile before anyone busted.  I don't remember who finished in 9th, but I know who busted out next.  That's a not so subtle hint.  Insert smiley face here.

At the table were two drunk buddies, who both had the resulting unfortunate condition of perpetual outdoor voice along with the even more aggravating "Everything we say is HILARIOUS" virus that seems to accompany the first illness.

Not much bother to me, I had my earbuds and my tunes - which I've found to be REQUIRED equipment in any serious tournament, mostly for this exact situation.

Early on I woke up with aces and 3 bet jammed the louder of the two drunks cutoff raise from my big blind.  He tanked FOREVER and finally found a fold, showing his A7 off suit.  I chuckled inwardly and absolutely did NOT show my cards.  This was going to be sweet, I was in perfect position to knock out the knuckle head.

An orbit or two later, same situation - only now he was short enough that he open shoved after two limpers.  Folded to me in the big, AJ - SNAP CALL.

He had A3 and he won.

No joy in Mudville.

In an $80 tournament I was out in 8th place for $120.  First place was $2000.  Yep.

Honestly, all the good feelings that had built since my haircut, all the good will I had for the game, for the fellow travelers around me - evaporated in the cruel hammer of seventh street upon my heart.  I was literally nauseous and couldn't get up for a moment.  I finally hoisted myself, composed enough to snap the pic above, shook hands with the drunk who seemed to not be able to stop saying 'sorry man' over and over and over and over and over again.

I smiled meekly and somehow didn't say anything - not even SHUT THE FUCK UP.

I have been playing this game for a long time, and I do get it - but as in life, poker has a way of humiliating and humbling us at just the right moment; when everything is looking up, when everything is brightest.  That's when the dagger falls.

I collected my paltry winnings and sat an an adjacent table for awhile, and I won't lie and say that tears didn't well up, but by GOD they did not fall.  Eventually, as when I would count to ten as a kid, the anger and hopelessness began to fade.  I succumbed to the enjoyment of watching the other players - still excited, still in it.  The drunk of course sucked out on someone else, his AJ ironically cracking a boisterous Italian's AA.  The Italian was gracious enough in defeat, though he did commiserate quietly with me about what a "fucking luck box cocksucker" the drunk was.   I could only smile and shrug.  I never, not for one second through the anguish, had one negative thought about Drinky McLoud.  He was precisely what this tournament neeeded at the final table to make it very profitable for everyone else - even though the poker gods had other ideas.

Eventually, before it was over, I had to get to bed.  By the time I was up in my room, my muttering to myself down the hallway had turned into a full volume one person conversation.  I was alright, I was good.  Better than good really.  I had just outlasted 140 players, many of them good - I had final tabled and cashed in a Hendon Mob tracked event.  It had indeed been a great day.


Day 2 - coming soon!