Mind Games: Why Railbird Strategizing is Often a Pointless Exercise

A memorable conversation took place several years ago when I was watching the final table at the World Series of Poker with Mickey Appleman. One of the players at the final table made what outwardly appeared to be a very poor decision. As I shook my head in disbelief, Appleman took exception to my criticism. He pointed out that criticizing other players and judging their decisions is misguided, however well-intentioned. Appleman postulated that since no two players share the same poker experiences nor have identical insights, it is pointless to project our perceptions of what may or may not be strategically correct onto others and pass judgment on their decisions.

It's certainly intriguing to speculate why good poker players make some very questionable table decisions. It's even part of the excitement of watching a big game. Yet, the outsider's observation is almost always one-dimensional. We may think we know why a decision was reached, but do we really understand? Can we ever grasp all the facts that went into a decision? The answer to this rhetorical question is, of course – no! If a good player makes what seems to be a questionable play, it's quite possible – even likely – that he's basing that decision on something you are not aware of. Maybe the player saw something in a previous tournament that triggered his decision. Maybe he spotted a tell that you don't see. Maybe these two players have a history of confrontation, and are thinking at an advanced level far above your comprehension. In short, knee-jerk commentary and railbird criticism are very often pointless exercises. Moreover, they are counterproductive to understanding poker at the very highest levels, when done without having all the facts.

A personal experience of mine illustrates this premise. I recently sat in a pot-limit Texas hold'em game in Las Vegas. I got involved in a hand in which my decision might have seemed baffling to anyone watching. Here's what happened: I was dealt A-K before the flop. I was heads up against a single opponent who made a preflop raise of $20. My opponent had been raising with any two cards almost every hand, so I gave his raise no respect at all. Sadly, the flop failed to improve my hand. My opponent immediately checked to me. I bet the size of the pot, hoping that he would throw his hand away. I was surprised when he raised me the size of the pot. With no pair and not much of a drawing hand, this was an obvious fold in most situations. How could I call a pot-sized bet? But this situation was unique in several respects. I was playing against a maniac who was certainly capable of running a bluff. In fact, I had some "history" with this player that entered into my thinking.

A few nights earlier, I had played against him in a no-limit hold'em tournament at the Mirage. The buy-in for the tournament was $60, with unlimited $40 rebuys. I watched this player make a staggering nine rebuys in the tournament. I knew him well enough to know that he was capable of playing a great game when he put his mind to it. I also knew that he was a bit eccentric and loved to be in action. He's one of the few players I know who occasionally plays poker exclusively for "entertainment." As my mind flashed back to the tournament, I knew that my A-K was the best hand. If my opponent really had a strong hand, he would have check-raised me on the turn to win all of my chips. A check-raise on the flop indicated (to me) that he did not want me to call. So, I did the unthinkable: I reraised him back the size of the pot with my ace high.

My read on the situation was entirely correct. Of course, that doesn't always guarantee success. Sadly, my opponent made a flush and I lost the hand. Critics might have thought my decision to reraise was a terrible play. Had there been an audience viewing or had this been the final table of a major tournament, commentators might have thought I was insane to reraise the pot with no pair whatsoever. Never mind the fact that I had the best hand and made the perfect read when most of the chips were pushed into the pot. Railbirds would surely have been shocked to see me turn up a weak ace high with a mountain of chips at risk. But the bottom line is, no one had seen this player take nine rebuys in a tournament a few days before, nor could they grasp the infallible axiom that when a maniac bets or raises an unusually large amount, he is often weak.

What's even more fascinating about this story is the long-term effect this hand could have in the years to come. How will I play the next time I confront this player, either in a tournament or cash game? How will he play against me, since he now knows I'm capable of making a bizarre raise (with an ace high)? Assuming that he remembers the hand like I do, the "history" between us renders conventional thinking about poker strategy totally inconsequential from now on. Observers will be incognizant of the levels of thinking that may result if we ever get into a public heads-up confrontation. What's even more meaningful is that my story is not unusual. In fact, it's quite typical. It is only one of thousands of flashbacks in a collective melting pot of rivalries, confrontations, and memorable conflicts between players that take place inside every cardroom. All poker players have at least a few unique memories and "history" with other players that might cause them to do some unusual things at the poker table that will not be comprehensible to outsiders.

This brings up the concept of mind games. Most world-class players know what they are doing at all times, even though it may not seem so. The maniac who made nine rebuys in the Mirage tournament made what turned out to be a profitable decision. Had that flashback not entered my mind, I might have folded my hand. That $360 rebuy "investment" netted him twice that in profit just a few days later. Perhaps there's even more profit to come for him. No doubt, every single player who watched the maniac saw a wealthy fish dusting off a few dollars in a night of fun, but the next time the maniac sits in a serious game with any of them, they might be the target. Never mind nine rebuys and $360. The residual effects of that bizarre night may be a sizable win several times over.

So, what about railbird strategizing – in other words, asking other players for their advice? As distressing as this might be to admit, most poker decisions beyond the basics are purely situational and therefore cannot be replicated. Getting advice, even from great players, may not be relevant nor particularly helpful. A tough poker decision depends on the dynamics of the moment – things such as your opponent, your experience with that opponent (not only in previous sessions, but in recent hands), his state of mind, your state of mind, and how your opponent perceives you. It is certainly good to ask for poker advice from the pros, but what works for John Bonetti may not necessarily work for you at your table. Your all-in raise may not get as much respect. Or, you might successfully run over the table. Who knows?

That's why it's often a pointless exercise to discuss strategy the way armchair quarterbacks second-guess the play calling the day after a game. I'm all for sharing ideas and discussion, of course, but questions such as, "What would you do in this situation?" or, "Do you think I made the right play?" are often nonsensical. The listener is often in no position to judge the other players in the game nor comment on the circumstances. After all, you were in the game, and the listener was not. Similarly, your decisions will be judged in a completely different way by your opponents, and those players who are watching will see your actions differently amongst themselves. Ever wonder why you usually get two diametrically opposed points of view when you ask about the same player? Some see black, some see white, some see gray – and some don't see at all. That's the typical poker room.

Each day, in every cardroom, in every tournament, at every table – there are mind games being played. These mind games might as well be a sixth sense. Outsiders have no concept of what's going on. Even players sitting at the same table probably have no concept of what's going on. That's the point Mickey Appleman was making. It's a lesson that became abundantly clear to me years later when I realized that only two people in the world – the maniac and I – knew what happened days earlier and understood how that knowledge would factor into our decisions later on. To an outsider or someone standing along the rail watching, my decision must have looked like a terrible play. It's too bad Mickey Appleman wasn't there to correct that misconception.