Give Max Some Credit

For the past couple of weeks, I've been searching every gambling magazine I could find, along with the Los Angeles Times, The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, Money magazine, and even The National Enquirer. But for some unfathomable reason, they've all missed the biggest cover story of the year:



MAX WINS A POKER TOURNAMENT!
No, not Max Pescatori, and no, not Max Stern. It was me, Max Shapiro, the famed poker humorist. It happened earlier this year on opening day at the World Series of Poker Tournament Circuit at Harrah's Rincon, near San Diego. It was the only tournament I had ever won other than a tag-team event a few years back at The Bicycle Casino. Even there, some of my jealous detractors have pointed out that my teammates included Barry Shulman, Mike Caro, and the late Andy Glazer, who allowed me to play only one hand. But it was the final hand, and I won it, and never mind that it was a showdown hand against the other remaining team.



The event at Harrah's, a second-chance tourney, drew 244 players. Of course, I didn't dare tell my sweetie that I was planning to play, because she never would have allowed me to do so.



"You? Mr. Dead Money? Don't make me laugh," she would have laughed. (I've never figured out how I could be a live one and dead money at the same time.)



Then some rat spotted me signing up and told my sweetie. I hoped that she might be understanding and supportive for a change. Yeah, right.



"Go get a refund, you idiot!" she screamed.



"I can't," I replied. "The only way they'll give anyone a refund would be for a medical emergency."



"I can help there," Barbara said, wrapping her hands around my throat and choking me with fierce determination …



I finally broke free and tried to calm her down. "Look," I reasoned with her. "It's only a $175 evening tournament.



What's the big deal?"



"The 'big deal' is that it will be $175 plus $25 juice down the drain. Why don't you just give the money to some homeless people?"



"I don't know any homeless people."



"You'll be homeless if you keep blowing your money on poker tournaments, you fool. I suppose you'll be playing Omaha, as usual?"



"No-limit hold'em. That's about all they have here."



My sweetie threw up her hands in surrender. "I guess we eat at Burger King for the next two weeks," she muttered, walking away.



My first concern had been not to let her know I was playing. My second concern was not to let her watch me play. I knew that she would have barked "You wuss" in my ear after each hand. If I folded, she'd tell me I was playing too tight and ribbling my chips away. If I called, my hand would be too weak. If I called with a stronger hand, she would berate me for being out of position. If I raised, it would be either too much or too little. And if I ever just limped with any two cards, I would be scolded for giving my opponents free cards. Believe me, when my sweetie sweats you, she really makes you sweat.



So, every time she called my cell phone to see how I was doing, I told her that I was almost out, and not to bother coming by my table.



In fact, I was telling the truth each time, which brings up the main reason why I won the tournament: I got lucky – very lucky. The less said about my play the better, because I drew out more often than a graphic artist. For example, when I somehow made the final table, I had barely enough chips to cover the approaching blinds. Two away from the big blind, I decided to move in with the 10 9, and got called by a player with the A J. I hit a 9, and it won. The next hand, I moved in with K-Q, got called by A-J, won when a queen came, and suddenly I was the chip leader, or close to it.



Of course, I proceeded to dribble away the lead. Later, Kaelaine Minton, who was doing tournament reporting for PokerPages.com, wrote that I played a very relaxed and patient game. I think she really meant tight and in a state of shock. She noted that at one point I had a single $500 chip left after posting the ante and $6,000 blind, threw it in without looking, won with A-10, and was back in the game. What a player!



Now comes the fun part. Down to four, all of us were reasonably close to even. A player suggested a four-way chop, and, in light of the high blinds, we all agreed. Hold it, a tournament staffer warned us. The Harrah's/WSOP rules dictated no recognized deals. We had to play through, and however we finished, we had to sign for that official amount.



Does that mean, I asked incredulously, that if we chop and I get $7,000, and then we continue to play and I win, I have to sign for $13,000-plus?



Yep.



The four of us now began a bewildered dialogue. "The deal's off." "No, it isn't; a deal's a deal." "Let's play one-hand showdown." "What? That's preposterous."



In the end, we decided to take $6,000 each and play for the remaining $4,662. As it turned out, I won within a few hands, perhaps because the warped arrangement skewed everyone's play. So, I collected $10,662, but had to sign for $13,662, with money changing hands among the four of us after we were paid off. I'm still not really sure what happened, or how much I really got after all the money exchanges, or, for that matter, why a deal wasn't allowed in the first place.



And now, how am I going to explain to the IRS next year that I really got several thousand less than I signed for? But that won't be anything compared to what happened to me when I handed over only $10,662 to my sweetie.



Oh well, the main thing was that I had won. The problem was that nobody knew who I was! Minton wrote that she recognized me but didn't want to out me in case I wanted to stay incognito. Hardly. If I knew I would make the final table, I would have worn a T-shirt with my name emblazoned on it.



And I'm still looking for recognition with a story in some publication. Maybe when the Enquirer comes out next week …