Act Like You've Been There Before

I'm not sure how management at the Mirage would have felt if they knew their 19-year-old hotel management intern was playing poker on the graveyard shift every night, but I don't think it was something they'd want to mention in the employee news bulletin.

When I arrived at the Mirage in the summer of 1991, I had $200 in cash, a dog-eared copy of Sklanksy and Malmuth's Hold'em for Advanced Players, and an insatiable desire to beat the game of poker. Through a combination of luck and tight play, I managed to win my first seven sessions at the $3-$6 level and double my money. But by midsummer, I had picked up the bad habit of many of my poker brethren: playing at limits above my bankroll.

So, when I bought a rack to sit down in a $10-$20 game at the Mirage, officially half of all the money I had in the world was on the green felt. Sure, I was terrified, but there was one thing I had learned at that stage in my poker career that was another characteristic of my poker brethren: the ability to be a bad actor. So, pretending to be as cool as possible, I stacked my chips, sat tall, and tried to look like the professional I was aspiring to become.

As is often the case, the concern over my bankroll had me playing weak-tight, and before I had seen any turn card, my stack had been cut in half. When a new dealer, Paul, came into the box, I took a deep breath and searched hard for my A-game. Paul had been dealing to me all summer, and although he hardly said a word – maybe never said a word – at the table, I found comfort in seeing a friendly face. In an effort to send some good karma my way, I flipped Paul a white chip, and borrowed a line from my old buddy Jose. "Winning is not a prerequisite," I said to the expressionless dealer, right before Paul proceeded to deal me nothing but rags for 20 minutes. Now down to $180, I was faced with the decision of putting my remaining $500 into the game or quitting the game entirely. Since I now had the button, I promised myself that unless I won a pot, I was going to play until my blinds and get involved only with premium hands.

At that point in my poker career, I was at least savvy enough to have learned not to look at my cards until it was my turn to act. When it was raised and then called in two spots in front of me, I squeezed hard and managed to find the A Q. With multiway action and position, I wisely made it three bets, and was thrilled to see the blinds call. Ah, my get-even pot, I thought, staring at the $180 in the pot and dreaming about the perfect flop.

At that point in my poker career, I was not savvy enough to watch the other players' reactions to the flop. So, rather than putting myself in a position to spot a tell from my opponents, I stared at the flop as Paul burned and turned: K-J-10 … of hearts!

Cool as a cucumber – so I thought – I tried to feign indifference and think about what my best friend Bryan used to tell me when I did something great: Act like you've been there before. Of course, as I sat there in bewilderment, the thump deepening in my chest, the only thought running through my mind was: There is no way I can lose this pot!

When it was bet and called in front of me, I had enough sense, at least, to just call. Before Paul could burn and turn again, I was thrilled to see that we were still fivehanded. Two-hundred thirty bucks and counting. The turn brought the 4, and when it was checked to me, I bet $20 and was pleased to get three callers. What could these people possibly have? Three-hundred ten bucks and counting.

Now, with my heart rate beyond the danger zone, Paul, with his robotic efficiency, burned and turned over the Q. The first player checked, the next player (the original raiser) bet, the next player called, and I raised. As it went fold, call, call, my mind was working like an abacus: $390. $410. $450. Now, all that stood between me and the biggest pot of my life was turning my cards over. When I finally did so, the table oohed and aahed at my royal flush, and all I could say was, "I'm surprised you couldn't hear my heart beating."

As I scooped in the pot, looking nothing like a guy who had been there before, Paul, the taciturn dealer, said, "I couldn't hear your heart beating, but I did see your eyes bug out of your head on the flop."

One of the things my friend Bryan has also told me over the years is that you should approach any situation as if you're independently wealthy and don't need the money. Translation to poker: Scared money is dead money. If you're playing on a short bankroll or playing at stakes above your comfort level, you'll not only play poorly, but will also give off tells to your opponents.

In short, if you want to be a pro, act like a pro – a pro who has been there before.

Editor's note: As the co-founder of Venture Literary, www.ventureliterary.com, Greg Dinkin represents nonfiction authors. He is also the author of three books, including The Poker MBA, www.thepokermba.com, and Amarillo Slim in a World Full of Fat People.