Ghosts of the Bullpen

The second floor of Binion's Horseshoe, home of the World Series of Poker for 35 years and two days, was a special place. To get to Benny's Bullpen, the former bingo parlor that hosted the tournament in 2004, you had to ascend an escalator from the casino and walk along a series of hallways. The hallways were shabby – not we're-an-authentic-gambling-house shabby, but peeling-paint-in-an-urban-insurance-office shabby. One locked door actually had "Insurance Office" stenciled on its window. But the feeling inside the tournament area was electric, especially late at night. Watching, you felt like you had been smuggled aboard a barge on the Misssissippi to witness an illegal prize fight.



The part of the room that got the most attention was the TV table along one wall. At the Rio, the Amazon Room's TV-table area has higher ceilings, more bleachers, and more room for media, but the basic setup was the same. Everybody has seen this part of the room from ESPN's televised World Series coverage. For me, what happened when the cameras were turned off was the most interesting.



My first experience at the TV table was during a $1,500 buy-in no-limit hold'em event won by Ted Forrest in 2004. (A skeptic could say that someone must have bet Ted Forrest how far he could carry me on his back, as he was one of the most compelling characters of The Professor, the Banker, and the Suicide King, and the subject of a 10,000-word profile that appeared in Card Player. Although there were fascinating Ted Forrest anecdotes from this final table, I will turn my focus away from Ted just this once.)



That was the day I met Andy Glazer. Glazer, for those who are new to poker, was a pioneer of poker tournament coverage, a former lawyer and skilled player who became a poker writer when such a profession barely existed. He would bearhug a final table, combining boundless energy and a deep reservoir of pop-culture references, producing lengthy, brilliant pieces just hours after an event concluded.



I thought Andy was larger than life, literally and figuratively. Fittingly, he started that evening by making history, buying into the main event as entry number 840, breaking the 2003 record of 839. Because ESPN was not taping, he had the freedom to get close to the action at the final table.



Watching Andy Glazer work reminded me of a picture I saw of LeRoy Neiman. Neiman was standing at ringside, painting while Muhammed Ali boxed above him. Andy, using what looked like a giant art pad, scribbled furiously, his story, though moving, taking shape moment by moment, like Neiman creating the painting of Ali in motion. But sometimes Glazer was like Ali in the picture, darting in and out of the shadows, careful never to interfere with the action but gathering information on chip counts, bet sizes, and exposed cards during showdowns. In between – and sometimes during – hands, he would lean away from the table toward me and whisper tidbits like, "He's getting the right price, so he has to call even though he knows he has the worst hand," or, "They are betting much more than they should with the blinds at these levels."



It was a night of masterful performances by Glazer and Forrest, who won his fifth bracelet. Foolishly, I never got around to thanking Andy for letting me watch him work, or for introducing me to Ted Forrest. Andy passed away less than two months later, leaving me with just that night of great memories and a 5,000-word account of the final table.



The rest of the room was a patchwork of tournament action. In the evening, the main floor hosted second-chance tournaments and supersatellites, where more than 200 players could throw in a couple hundred bucks, chasing short-chipped, escalating-blinds action. All in all the time was the dominant strategy, but where else could you turn $200 into an entry into the main event or $10,000 in cash?



In my first-ever supersatellite, my nerves were not assuaged by my seating assignment next to the man who, literally, had written the book on them. I had just purchased Championship Satellite Strategy, by Brad Daugherty and Tom McEvoy, when I found Daugherty himself seated to my right.



He could not have been more of a gentleman. A married couple was standing at the nearby rail, leaning over and asking questions of no one in particular. Brad obligingly answered them all. I let them know that they were learning from the man who had written the treatise on this form of tournament poker. They were even more impressed when I told them (for Brad was too modest to say it himself) that he was also a former world champion, the first man to win $1 million in a poker tournament. (I wanted Brad to get his due because, first, he seemed like such a nice guy, and second, they deserved to be impressed. It benefits everyone in poker to impress people who have no knowledge of the activity yet are willing to take time from their vacation on Sunday night to watch a $200 satellite.)



Of course, they eventually asked where they could purchase a copy of his book, and soon picked one up from a hallway vendor. Brad signed it, and they seemed grateful.



But that was the high-water mark of the evening; everything turned ugly after that, and it didn't even take long to happen. I never made it through that satellite, and neither did Daugherty. Not only did he go card-dead as the blinds escalated, but the railbirds' questions took a dark turn. "Why is this thing" – I distinctly remember them calling it a "thing" – "twenty-five dollars? It's paperback and it's barely 200 pages."



The 1993 world champion had more pressing matters than continuing this dialogue. He bluffed all in from the button with 6-2, ran into kings from the small blind, and walked away in silence. There were no goodbyes for his newest fans, and no goodbyes from them.



Once he was gone, however, the wife insisted on getting the last word, reproaching her husband. "Why did you let him sign it? Now we can't even take it back."

Michael Craig is the author of The Professor, the Banker, and the Suicide King: Inside the Richest Poker Game of All Time. He hopes to someday attend a final table and have something better to do than write about it.