Whassup 2001 World Series of Poker

I can tell you one thing for sure: It is a long drive from Tunica, Mississippi, to Las Vegas, Nevada. Jack Kerouac may have been able to drive his Hudson cross-country without stopping, but I cannot. I don't have a Hudson, for one, and I'm just too old and cranky to drive for more than about 10-12 hours a day. It took me about two and a half days after busting out of the main event at the World Poker Open in 2001 to pull into the driveway of Mandalay Bay Hotel and Casino.

Also, they let you drive fast out West. The posted speed limit in New Mexico was 75. Add on the obligatory 10-15 mph above the limit, at which I like to drive as a courtesy, of course, and I was flying.

Anyway, I arrived in Vegas somewhat calmed down from my cross-country tilt session, and promptly blew a few thousand dollars in one-table satellites and two supersatellites at Binion's. That was it. It then dawned on me, and I can't understand how I possibly could have forgotten, that I had to be in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, in about 10 days for my annual golf extravaganza with my gang of cronies. So, for the second time in about a week and a half, I was back in my car and driving almost all the way cross-country.

I ran a little betting coup on the golf trip, by the way. My buddies had been all too privy to my personal quest to break 90. For about five years, ever since I broke 100 for the first time, I fully expected to break 90 each and every time I played. My friends had heard all about it during each of the approximately 300 rounds I'd played in that time. They were sick of it, and let me know it. On the fine day in question, I shot a smooth-as-silk 43 on the back nine of our morning round. I sensed that this was finally going to be my day. Imagine my horror, fueled by the three or four Bloody Marys I had already consumed that day, when the group consensus seemed to be to play a scramble in the afternoon round. A scramble? I can't play a scramble when I'm going to post my lowest medal score ever. I felt like the bishop in Caddyshack; "God would never disrupt the greatest day of my life." On a side note, I know more about Caddyshack than any person alive. You don't believe me? What's Judge Smales' first name (answer at the end of this column)? But my cronies were determined. I had to do something to derail their infernal ideas of a leisurely scramble.

A little wager might do it, I thought – and it did. Foregoing the true odds of about 500-to-1 against, and feigning a bit more inebriation than I really felt, I wagered $100 that I would break 90 (with no mulligans and no cheating, and by following the rules of the Royal and Ancient), and I accepted a measly 3.5-to-1. And I did it. After posting a 42 on the front nine, I used all of my available rope on the back nine, making double bogey on the 18th hole to post an 89 and collect the sweetest $350 I had ever earned.

About a week after that, I was on a plane back to Vegas to play in the first two World Series events of my career. And I did something idiotic. I opted not to play in the $10,000 no-limit hold'em main event, instead choosing the $5,000 limit hold'em and the $3,000 no-limit hold'em events.

As is the case with most disastrous decisions, I can't adequately explain why I chose to play in those two forgettable events instead of the "Big One." It had something to do with, I think, some misguided notions about bankroll management. Why, I must have thought, should I risk 10 dimes in one event when I can risk only $8,000 in two events?

Looking back, I absolutely cannot believe I skipped the main event. I can never get that year back. I didn't play in the 2001 World Series of Poker main event. It still burns. Here's some free advice: Don't ever skip the Big One if you can avoid it. You'll regret it if you do.

I busted out of the $3,000 no-limit hold'em event so fast that it seems like a blur now. I was still green enough that just being at the same table with John Bonetti put me on tilt. I've since become charmed by the almost Tourette's-like muttering and general snarling that all tournament players know are the trademarks of Mr. B. I really like him now, and think he's a great player and very funny, and, in his own way, a gentleman. Back then, I was afraid of him and couldn't figure him out. I don't think I lasted an hour, and neither did Noel Furlong. Mr. B. got us both.

I lasted a few hours in the $5,000 limit hold'em tournament. A very interesting hand came up. As always, I can't remember what the blinds were or how many chips I had, which goes a long way toward explaining why I'll never be a world-class player.

I was one off the button, I think, and threw in a courtesy steal raise with A-2 offsuit. Just as I said, "Raise," I looked up and, to my terror, noticed that Ron Stanley had already called from early position. My raise didn't seem like such a good idea anymore, but it didn't matter, as I had already spoken. I was pretty sure that I hadn't thrown off any indication that I regretted raising.

The button and the blinds, Kevin Dykstra (a good tournament player, and former baseball star Lenny Dykstra's brother, by the way) and Daniel Negreanu, folded. Ron Stanley called. The flop came A-10-X. Ron bet right out. I did the only thing I could do, as I needed to retrieve the chips I had already squandered on this hand. I would be crippled if I folded now, so I raised him again. He thought for about 10 seconds and then smoothly mucked. All right, no big deal. I may have bluffed my way out of a jam, or I might have had the best hand. But then, the amazing thing happened. Daniel looked at me and asked, matter of factly, "Ace, deuce?" I was stunned, and didn't say anything. But his exact read told me what I already knew: These guys are good – and I didn't have any business playing in the World Series of Poker.

I think there are a couple of lessons here. First of all, don't ever be completely sure that you haven't thrown off a tell. Daniel obviously saw some flinch, however slight, that Ron apparently missed. Also, I've come to believe that it's much easier to detect a tell when you're not in a hand. So, pick up your reads on players when you're not in a hand, and then apply your knowledge later. Second, proximity is important in tells. I believe that Daniel, sitting three seats away, was able to pick up a read that Ron, sitting all the way across the table, simply couldn't. And Ron is a great player in his own right, obviously.

Now, as to how Daniel could call out my exact hand in that situation, as opposed to simply reading that I had a weak ace, I'll never know. Maybe he's a genius, maybe he got lucky, and maybe it's a little of both. So, that was my experience at the 2001 WSOP. I flew home a little discouraged, unsure of myself and searching for my place in big-time tournament poker. I didn't know where I'd play next, but I did know that I wasn't ready to give up.

And for those of you who have given up on my Caddyshack challenge, the judge's first name is Elihu.