Poker Fables

I have a friend named Sharon who is a retired schoolteacher with entirely too much time on her hands. She keeps e-mailing me forwards of goopy, feel-good stories and parables. You know, those sickeningly sunny "amazing but true" tales that shine with the virtues of kindness, honesty, and goodness, all with little moral messages such as good deeds always go rewarded. Obviously, Sharon has never played poker.

(A good example of these stories would be Mike Sexton's inspirational holiday column last December about a 92-year-old legally blind woman who was thrown into a nursing home but was still able to spout more life-affirming homilies than Norman Vincent Peale and Little Orphan Annie ever did in their combined lifetimes.)

Anyway, Sharon's most recent forwarded story was about a poor 19th-Century Scottish farmer named Fleming who rescued a boy who was about to drown in a bog, but refused to accept a reward from the boy's nobleman father. The nobleman then offered to provide an education for the farmer's son. The lad attended the finest schools, graduated from a London medical college, and went on to world renown as Sir Alexander Fleming, the discoverer of penicillin. Years later, the nobleman's son was stricken with pneumonia. Again, his life was saved, this time by penicillin. The nobleman was Lord Randolph Churchill. His son: Sir Winston Churchill. Moral: What goes around, comes around.

I was also informed that it was "National Friendship Week" (whatever the hell that is), and was urged to "send this to everyone you consider a friend to brighten someone's day."

Yuck. Somehow, the story struck me as having a phony ring, and as a former ace reporter (also with entirely too much time on my hands now), I did a search engine check and discovered that Alexander Fleming had been a businessman, and attended medical school only after his father died and left all of his children 250 pounds. I then came across an interesting website called Truthorfiction.com. It lists startling stories and photos that have made the rounds, and then reveals which are truth and which are fiction. It included the Fleming/Churchill story, with the assurance that there was no truth to it.

I was a little sore at having my precious time wasted, until I was struck with a great idea. Perhaps I could collect similarly inspirational stories from the poker world and forward them to poker players "to brighten their day" (and maybe get them to act like human beings).

The first story I heard of and wrote down concerned a down-on-his-luck poker player who was desperately trying to get staked in a supersatellite for a tournament that guaranteed $1 million for first place.

"I need the dough to pay for an operation for my wife," he sobbed to a prospective backer. "If I can just play in a satellite, I know in my bones I can win this thing for both of us."

The man didn't think too much of the railbird's chances, but he was touched by his story and his obviously genuine emotion, so he decided, more for charity than for an investment, to put up the $220 buy-in. Much to his amazement, the railbird won a seat in the satellite, and then proceeded to tear through the tournament, winning it going away. During his post-tournament interview with the press, the new champion heaped high praise on his beaming benefactor, declaring how proud and happy it would be when he split his million dollars with the man who believed in him.

What goes around, comes around.

There's one problem, though. This story, or at least the ending, is a fable. What really happened was that when the staker asked the stakehorse for his half of the million bucks, he was rewarded with an incredulous look.

"Stake me?" the railbird exclaimed in amazement. "You didn't stake me; I was just borrowing the money. Here's your 220 back. And look, I'm even throwing in my buffet coupon for good measure. I don't need it because I'm taking my girlfriend to a steakhouse for dinner."

Poker fable No. 2: A brilliant but humble writer named Max Shapiro spent the best years of his life toiling away writing humorous columns for a poker magazine. He was paid a mere pittance, but that didn't matter to him. The main thing was that he wanted to do something of value for his fellow poker players by putting a smile on their faces and a chuckle in their throats.

Then, one night when he had just lost all of his money in an Omaha game, a gentleman he had never met before walked up to him and shook his hand vigorously. "Mr. Shapiro," he said, "I just want you to know what an honor it is to meet you. Your columns are hysterical. I can't begin to tell you how much laughter and happiness you have brought into my life. If there is anything I can ever do for you, be sure to let me know."

"Well," the appreciative author said slowly, "if you really want to help me out, you might want to buy a copy of my book, which I just happen to have with me."

"One copy?" the man laughed. "Hell, send me a whole case so I can give books to all of my friends. Here's $1,000. Will that be enough?"

Heartwarming, right? I wish. Well, the guy did laugh when I asked him to buy one book, but what he really said was, "Why in hell should I pay for stories that I can get for free in Card Player?"

My mistake, you see, was in not using Oklahoma Johnny Hale's sophisticated marketing technique. His method is to corner and chat up a prospect, ask his name, and then quickly autograph a copy before the victim has a chance to turn him down.

This brings us to poker fable No. 3: Johnny Hale, you see, has amassed a fortune from his Seniors tournaments and the sale of his books and "Oklahoma Johnny Hale" logo tee shirts, caps, jackets, flags, pennants, patches, commemorative chips, key chains, umbrellas, and potholders. Recently, at a press conference attended by journalists from around the globe, he dramatically announced that he would be donating his entire estate to the city of Las Vegas.

"This city has given me so much, and ah want to give somethin' back to the city," he declared, as the reporters, tears streaming down their cheeks, recorded his every word.

Now, this story is true, as far as it goes. Unfortunately, his bequest carried several minor fine-print qualifications. Before the city gets the money, it has to agree to use it to erect an 8-foot statue of him on Fremont Street (which would be renamed Gentleman Gambler Avenue), rename Las Vegas Boulevard "Johnny Hale Boulevard," change McCarran International Airport to "OK Johnny International Airport," and declare his birthday a national holiday.

And be sure to send this inspirational column to 100 of your friends.