Big Denny Writes a Tournament

I had just finished another grueling tour of duty doing back-to-back-to-back tournament write-ups at the World Series, Commerce Casino, and Hustler Casino, and I was totally exhausted. Badly in need of some R and R, I decided to head up to Big Denny's Card Casino for a few laughs. The big guy noticed my bloodshot eyes, pale complexion, and shaking hands, and offered his usual diplomatic sympathy.

"Ya looks like crap, Maxey," he laughed. "Dem guys whose heads I used ta sit on when I was in da loan collection business looked better den you do."

"Thanks, Denny," I replied. "It's always been tough staying up all night covering final tables, but it's been getting worse and worse and longer and longer with all these new players coming in."

"Why don'tcha get somebody ta spell ya once in a while, Maxey?"

"Well, it's hard to find people who'll put up with such conditions," I explained. "Once I let Oklahoma Johnny Hale cover a tournament for me, but all he wrote about was his own Seniors tournaments. Another time I used Dirty Wally, but all he wrote about was himself."

"Hey, Maxey, I always wanted ta do somet'in' like dat. Hows about usin' me?"

"Well, I'm not sure, Denny," I said hesitantly. "You know, I use newsletter format. Are you familiar with Microsoft Publisher?"

I got a blank stare.

"You know how to use a computer, don't you?"

Big Denny scratched his head.

"You can type, can't you?" I demanded.

"Well, I took a typin' class one time when I was in prison," Big Denny said. "But my fingers is so big I'd hit t'ree keys at once. An' after I broke a coupla typewriters from hittin' da keys too hard, dey t'roo me outta da class."

"Shorthand?"

No answer. I was afraid to ask the big ape about longhand, because his knuckles were scraping the floor.

"By any miracle do you know how to use a pen?" I asked sarcastically.

"Sure," Big Denny chuckled. "I spent four years in da pen, didn't I?"

I must be crazy to do this, I thought, but I had 40 straight days of tournament work coming up at The Bicycle Casino's Legends of Poker; 40 days and 40 nights!? For that length of time, even Moses had to have someone take over for him once in a while when he was in the desert. I had to get a break somehow.

"OK, Denny, tell you what. We'll give it a try at the Bike and see how you do. But I'm warning you. Denny Williams, the tournament director, runs a tight ship. Remember, he's the one who devised the 'F-word' penalty rule. That goes for you, too, and he's not going to put up with any nonsense."

Big Denny was the picture of innocence. "Hey, Maxey, has I ever caused you any trouble before?"

Oh, of course not. Williams wasn't too thrilled when he heard about my substitute. He'd already been peeved because a lot of players thought Big Denny was based on him, and when he'd had a showdown with the big lug, Big Denny told him to change his name to Irving. However, Williams knew he could never find anybody stupid enough to put in the hours that I did, so he had to humor me.

On the appointed day, Big Denny showed up at the Bike. Things got off to a bad start because he was wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with the "Big Denny's Barstow Card Casino" logo and the slogan, "Where Swell Folks Come to Gamble." Worse yet, he began handing out flyers for tournaments at his own card club.

Finally, the no-limit hold'em tournament got down to the final table. Before action got under way, Williams made the announcement that all L.A.-area casinos make, reminding players that the casino does not withhold money from the prize pool, and anything left for the dealers and staff would be appreciated.

"An' don't ferget da writer!" Big Denny bellowed.

I winced and apprehensively watched Big Denny go to work. The first hand was dealt and a player won it with a diamond flush. As the dealer began to scoop up the cards, Big Denny grabbed him by the neck.

"Hold it, pal," he said. "I ain't finished writin' down da hands yet."

A minute went by – then two. "What's the holdup?" one of the players asked.

"Anybody here knows how ya spells 'diamond'?" Big Denny asked.

I groaned. A few more hands went by with more interruptions from Big Denny. The first player got knocked out and was paid $740 for 10th place. He was new to tournaments and asked Big Denny what a standard toke for staff and dealers would be.

"Five bucks is plenty fer dem bums," Big Denny informed him. "Da writer should get at least a hundred."

"A hundred dollars?" stammered the player. "The buy-in and rebuys cost me $640. I only made a profit of $100."

"Dat means ya broke even," Denny said, grabbing a $100 chip out of his hand.

Play continued. Then, a big hand came up. One player made a sizeable bet with three hearts on board. Another player hesitated and looked at his cards, which Big Denny, looking over his shoulder, could see were two black kings. The player the action was on reached for his chips.

"Ya can't call, ya idiot!" Big Denny yelled. "Yer kings can't beat no flush!"

"You can't give advice at the table!" the player who made the bet screamed.

Big Denny answered with a string of F-words. "Hows about I gives you some advice," he snarled, waving his gargantuan fist. "Shut yer face afore I shuts it for ya!"

Williams summoned security, but the guard took one look at the frightening creature gone berserk and decided he had more urgent business elsewhere. I attempted to distract Big Denny and cool him down. "How about something to eat, fella?"

That got his attention. "How's da chow here? As good as our Four Star buffet?"

As good? I thought. How could it be worse than that pig slop? "Pretty good, Denny. And it's free. Denny Williams will sign for you."

Big Denny's eyes lit up. He put in an order for a porterhouse steak, pork chops, and a double portion of barbecued ribs, ended up sending the steak back three times until it was cooked to his satisfaction, and then tipped the food server 50 cents.

Williams turned pale when he got the bill to sign. Things were definitely not going well. The food arrived and Big Denny began gobbling it down, making chewing and smacking sounds that sickened the players. At one point he leaned over to see the cards better and dribbled barbecue sauce over a player's cards and head.

Things went downhill from there. Denny kept slowing things down, telling the dealers to pause, taking bathroom breaks and asking the players what the hands were while he was away, shoving two players aside and sitting down at the table when he got tired of standing, threatening players who wouldn't arrange their stacks of chips in neat piles of 20 for easy counting, cornering players after they got knocked out and "suggesting" they toke him generously, pinching the cocktail waitress, and in general making himself beloved to all. In fact, the only positive thing he did was punch out two railbirds who told him to move aside so they could see the table better.

Finally, the tournament and the agony ended. Big Denny shook down the two finalists and everyone departed. "Dat was fun," Big Denny said to me. "But maybe you better finish up, Maxey. Here's da notes."

He handed over some scraps of paper covered with childish scrawls. There was very little I could decipher, and the few parts I was able to figure out, I know he got wrong. Well, I'll just have to guess at the hands, I thought. No big deal. That's what I do most of the time, anyway.

I don't think Denny Williams was too pleased, because he threatened to have security shoot both of us if I ever brought Big Denny in again. But the big guy didn't mind. Now that he has experience in tournament writing under his belt, he plans to apply for the tournament writing job at the World Series of Poker next year.

Sorry, Nolan Dalla. I guess you have some stiff competition to worry about now.