I was fortunate to be raised around the seafaring people of the North Atlantic - Newfoundland, to be exact. The greatest person I've ever known was the fisherman George Willie Parsons (1913-1991). He was a wise man who had the qualities of a shaman.

In the spring of '78, when Parsons was nearing retirement, there was a great northeaster storm. On the morning of the day that the seas reached their peak, Parsons was standing on the edge of the cliff overlooking his property - wharf, salt shed, fish store, motorboat, and punt (dinghy). There came a swell in from the open ocean that was so high that it drew the water in front of it up into itself as it came rolling into the harbor. The great wave touched the tops of the cliffs as it moved forward. When it reached Parsons, it crashed over his property, completely obliterating everything. A few seconds later when the sea ran back, there was nothing but beach, cliff, foam, and matchwood. There were no boats, no wharf, no shed, no store. There was nothing but driftwood and spray. The property that he and his forefathers had for generations built by the sweat of their brows, the source of his livelihood and accumulation of a life's work, had disappeared in five seconds before his eyes.

He watched intently, silently, and without movement until the conclusion of what had unfolded before him. Then, with his hands still in his overall pockets and with the greatest display of indomitable dignity and acceptance of truth that I have ever seen, he raised his glance up, out over the open ocean, and said, "There's nothing I can do about that. If I were a younger man, I'd rebuild, but not now."

He turned and walked up through his garden to the sidewalk. Just as he did, a little girl tripped and fell, scraping her knee. She started to cry. Parsons put out his hand to her in a manner of the gentlest kindness and affection, and said softly, "'Tis only a scrape now, let's go find a Band-aid." I stood in disbelief, suspended from time and place by his actions. No one would believe what had just happened. Even after 23 years I am still humbled by Parsons' grace, strength of character, and unpretentious ability to live in the moment of truth.

With one card to come in the 2000 World Series of Poker championship event, with 95 percent of the money in the pot, T.J. Cloutier needed, for all intents and purposes, any one of 39 of the remaining 42 cards in the dealer's hands to win the world championship - the dream of all poker players, the Holy Grail of poker, fame, immortality, you name it, it all applies.

T.J. was denied the dream by a 13-to-1 shot. Oh, the cruelty, fate, devastation, failure, disappointment, and loss he must have felt in his gut and heart as he was denied the dream. He was denied the ultimate experience for a poker player at the very last moment.

Ask yourself how you would feel. How would you react?

Do you know what the great (great as in player and great as in character) T.J. did? He stood up, stared for a moment in silence, then put out his hand to congratulate the new champion, and said, "You played well enough that you deserved to win." Grace. A few seconds later some newsman stuck a microphone in front of T.J. and asked what he thought of the drawout. "That's poker," he said. Unpretentious dignity.

T.J.'s actions in the moments after losing the tournament suspended me again from time and place. His actions, like those of Parsons, derived from a communion with truth. They were actions that triggered within me a sense of immortality. T.J., as we know, is one of the greatest poker players on the planet. However, he showed me something far greater at the moment of defeat. He showed that he is a champion in the greatest game of all - life!

Qualities alike, T.J. and the fisherman.

Well done, T.J. Thank you for showing me who I really am.