Thanks Anyway, Vince

I've tried hard to improve myself as a poker player, without much success. I have shelves of poker books but I rarely get beyond the first chapter, because trying to remember all that technical stuff makes my head hurt. Anyway, I don't trust all those so-called experts. I mean, take Tom McEvoy's tournament poker books. How can you believe a guy who dresses so funny?

Instead, all my life I've looked for shortcuts, a magic bullet that would make me a winning player. I once investigated magic charms. I visited a highly recommended lucky charm shop, but became disillusioned when I discovered that the owner had had his hand bitten off by his lucky pet dragon. Another time I read a report that listening to Mozart made you smarter. Unfortunately, playing Omaha made you so dumb that Mozart tapes couldn't make a dent. Meditation, ginseng, ginkgo biloba, yoga … nothing helped.

And then, bingo! In a December issue of Card Player, I came upon Vince Burgio's column. He had read that caloric deprivation (that means eating less) improved your cognitive functions (that means thinking better). He experimented on himself, and dang if it didn't work and markedly improve his poker game. Not only that, but he also said that experiments on mice showed that drastically cutting their food intake extended their lives by 40 percent.

In 1977, John Fox wrote a poker book called Play Poker, Quit Work and Sleep Till Noon. (If a poker book on caloric deprivation were written today, it might be called Don't Eat, Win at Poker and Live 40 Percent Longer. Wow! I had visions of winning the World Series championship when I was 120 years old!

I wanted to hear more, so I called Vince and he suggested that I meet him at an Italian restaurant. When I got there, it was like a scene from The Godfather because he was with three of his goombah poker pals: John Bonetti, Frankie DiElsi, and Ray "Iceberg" Sitra. (I always wonder about Sitra. He's Sicilian, so shouldn't his nickname be "Icepick" instead of "Iceberg"?)

"Vince," I asked, "is this calorie deprivation business on the level?"

"Oh, sure," he replied, shoveling a huge forkful of pasta into his mouth. "I did a lot of research on the subject. It makes you smarter, that's for certain."

"And it even extends your life?"

"Oh, yeah, I definitely feel much healthier since I began eating carefully," he assured me, chomping on a pizza while popping six Tums.

"And it really worked for you? Made you play better?"

"Yep," he said, devouring an enormous plate of lasagna. "My memory is at least 200 percent improved."

"Gee, where did you read all this?" I asked.

Vince scratched his head. "I forget. Quit asking me all these questions."

"Yeah, go take a hike," said Sitra.

"Go play your $2-$4 Omaha game," said DiElsi.

"Where's the dessoit cart?" asked Bonetti.

Vince almost convinced me, but I still wasn't sure. So, I made an appointment to see Dr. Wolfgang Krock, the eminent poker psychologist and dietitian. As I walked into his office, I saw him cooking three enormous knockwurst sausages over a hot plate. Suddenly, the oil in the pan caught fire and flames shot to the ceiling. "Gott in himmel!" Krock screamed. He grabbed a pillow off his therapy couch and beat at the inferno.

"Nossing to vorry about," he assured me. "I like to flambe der meat."

After he opened the windows to let the smoke out and put the pillow back on the couch (carefully turning it charred side down), I asked him what he knew about caloric deprivation making you think sharper.

"It vorks, my boy, beyond question. I myself cut my calories all der vay down and eat only der healthiest food." He saw my skeptical look as he attacked the knockwurst. "Oh, don't vorry, this is all fat-free," he assured me as grease dripped off his elbow.

I asked him if he'd heard about experiments on mice.

He nodded his head. "Zertainly. As a matter of fact, I myself vonce had a mouse named Fritz. I fed him chust a teaspoon of mouse food a day. Soon Fritz became so shmart he vas doing my taxes. Now he's 250 years old in mouse years, und is retired und liffing in Florida. But let's talk about you. Vot do you eat?"

"Usual stuff," I shrugged. "You know, lox and eggs for breakfast, maybe a pastrami sandwich for lunch, brisket of beef for dinner, that sort of normal food."

"Ya, normal maybe iff you were shtill liffing in Brooklyn 50 years ago. Iff you are really serious about dis calorie business, I giff you a shpecial menu I made up vot is guaranteed to vork."

His menu wasn't exactly Four Seasons restaurant fare. For breakfast: small bowl of oatmeal. Lunch: steamed broccoli and cauliflower. Dinner: a salad of lettuce, celery, and sprouts, with a special treat of two raisins for dessert. Nonetheless, I began dutifully gagging it all down. And it worked! Within two weeks I could actually understand one of Roy Cooke's columns. And my weight dropped. In four weeks I was down to 86 pounds. I made Calista Flockhart look like the Goodyear blimp. Now for the test: off to a card casino.

I was seated at a tough table, but my brain was firing on all cylinders and I knew with confidence that I could destroy this $2-$4 Omaha game. Then I glanced to my right and gazed at a player digging into an enormous prime rib dinner. To my left another player was chewing on a chicken leg. Suddenly the room began to swim before my eyes. I was faint with hunger and my stomach was growling so loud it drowned out the boardperson's mike. I grabbed the arm of a passing food server. "What's today's specials?" I demanded.

"We have three," the startled waiter replied. "Prime rib, barbecued chicken, and roast Moroccan goat."

"I'll take all three," I croaked with my last breath. "Two orders of each. And lots of bread."

I gulped down the food like a starving horse, feeling my IQ drop five points with each bite. Before I finished eating I had lost four racks. Ah, well, I suppose I'm just destined to die broke from playing poker. On the other hand, since I won't live to 120, I won't need as much money, either.