A Postscript

Several issues ago, we ran a column called "Kill the Dealer," which drew a parallel between the superstitious tendency to blame dealers for the outcome of a poker hand and the primitive urge to "kill the messenger of bad news" – the latter being an irrational, barbaric practice employed by kings and privileged bullies from ancient and medireview times. Players who indulge themselves in such urges often abuse the dealers, failing to realize (among other things) just how foolish they look when refusing to take responsibility for their own play and their own luck. After all, the turn of a card is an event of indiscriminate chance, not design. In any given hand there's going to be one winner and a bunch of losers, and since this is something we all know going in, to react to a beat as if it were an injury personally inflicted upon us by the dealer is about as silly as it gets.

Not surprisingly, we received more E-mail than usual following that piece – most of it from poker dealers, and all of it positive. One dealer named Catherine wrote and asked what it was that had prompted that column at that particular time. Actually, Catherine, one thing that triggered it was a small incident that had occurred a week or so earlier that left me feeling rather disheartened. As a dealer was rising from the table to give way to his replacement, I glanced at his name tag, tapped the felt, and said, "Thank you, Johnny." It was nothing more than the tiniest of courtesies, a minor gesture I extend out of sheer habit whenever the dealer has performed his duties efficiently and professionally. Yet, he looked at me as though he'd been slapped. What's more, he looked like a person who was just too weary to defend himself any longer. I was disoriented by his reaction, until I suddenly realized that during his stint at my table, there had been a couple of hands in which I'd suffered what most people would categorize as bad beats. Johnny had apparently decided, therefore, that my comment was meant as a dig, a cutting reference to the fact that my stack was shorter upon his departure than it had been upon his arrival. Of course, it hadn't been intended that way at all, because I simply don't think in such terms.

My first reaction was a momentary indignation. Why couldn't he accept my thank you at face value? Why would he just assume that it was anything other than sincere? That isn't fair – how dare he? But putting myself in his place for a moment, the answer became evident. In some ways, dealing cards is like playing cards – it's a matter of going with the percentages. Given the great number of players who hold the dealers personally responsible for their outcomes, his assumption was perfectly understandable. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I had my questions backward. He hears dozens of thank you's every day that are laced with sarcasm and scorn, so what reason would he have in that spot to assume that mine was any different? As personal impressions go, the one that Johnny had formed about me was simply the "percentage play."

It's an unfortunate reality that the rudeness that some players direct at the dealers has a natural ripple effect, spreading mistrust and oversensitivity in its wake. While courtesy and consideration breed more of the same, abuse begets wariness and doubt, causing bruised feelings where none were intended.

There's an old saying that the best way to avoid stepping on a fellow's toes is to put yourself in his shoes. This theme was apparently on the mind of another dealer who E-mailed me. George from Los Angeles wrote: "There is nothing more maddening than a dealer who (when playing on his own time) abuses his fellow dealers. If anyone should be aware of how stupid and unfair it is to blame and berate dealers for the way a hand turns out, it's another dealer! I consider a fellow dealer who treats me that way to be a traitor. Is there anything worse?"

Well, George, there's always something worse, but in this context, I don't know what it would be. It's difficult to imagine a mother who can't relate to the maternal feelings of another woman, or a mourner incapable of empathy for another person's sense of loss. Likewise, it should be hard to imagine a dealer who endures the abuse of others – and then turns around and matches their insensitivity by acting just as badly toward his peers. But the bad news is that we don't have to imagine it, for most of us have seen it. I haven't read Dante's Inferno since college, but I seem to recall that it was his sixth circle of Hell that is reserved for such people.

Anyway, thanks to Catherine and George, and keep those E-mails coming, folks. We appreciate the feedback. And for those of you who are wondering what happened to our E-mail addresses that used to appear at the bottom of our columns, please take note: The E-mail addresses of all the columnists can be found in every issue on Page 4.