Paddy's Corner

Teams and Broken Dreams

Team poker is cool right now. It's fun, both for the players and the TV viewers. I have a TV. If I turn it on and see six stiffs I barely know playing, or nine stiffs I definitely don't know playing a final table, I turn to the weather channel. People want to watch people they love or hate playing poker, especially people they hate!



I was in Dublin in January for the Poker Events/Boyle Sports tournament in the Citywest Hotel, and what a laugh that turned out to be. The purist will have been impressed that the main event was a rich man's game at a working man's price. Personally, the fact that the main event was played over three days was a little irrelevant, as I knocked myself out as soon as I could, but the craic was unreal. At some stage, I was unfortunate enough to play for an Irish selection in a challenge match with the Hendon Mob, which we lost by the narrowest of margins, if 0-4 is considered narrow. To add insult to injury, Barny Boatman poked his ugly mug out of his hotel room, just as I was beating a dignified retreat, and roared, "Don't feel so bad Padraig. Ireland is a very small country, and we had all of Hendon to choose from." I hate wise guys.



We moved on from there (thank God) to Birmingham for the inaugural Paddy Power Grand Slam, which was a seven-country team event. I've learnt that money isn't everything in the poker world; national pride is where it's at. Several countries distinguished themselves: Northern Ireland seemed to think low scores are best, unless you're talking about hot whiskey or champagne; they did, however, win the most-guys-left-behind-when-the-plane-has-gone award. The English appeared to be homesick, even though it was a home match, and played accordingly. I'd like to say the French impressed us all with their sense of sportsmanship and fair play, and if they ever do, I will. There were some great moments: One of the Scots was the absolute business, he was great. I don't know what he was drinking, but I'd like some. He raised or reraised every pot, and the only time he paused was to take his shades off to look at the flop. I think he was interested only in colours. On one marvellous occasion, he took his glasses off after being reraised and had a quick look at the flop – nearly, as there wasn't one. The sense of relief when somebody told him that we hadn't gotten around to that yet was heartwarming. He can play on the Irish team anytime he likes.



Of course, the first guy out was Irish; one of our Internet lads fulfilled Garry Jones' predictions. I think you're supposed to be a little concerned when one of your guys goes out of the team event, so I was a little surprised when our captain, the great Don O'Dea, was almost wetting himself when our man went down. Upon further investigation, it transpired that the reason for Don's mirth was that he had just heard the poor guy's wife was coming over to support him on day two! I had just managed to get a straight face together again when Dave O'Neill, the tournament director, whispered as he walked by, "She's bringing the kids with her, too!" It's not a great surprise that we don't have any luck. Ireland went from big odds-on favorite (thanks, Andy) to being in a three-way battle overnight with the French and the Scots. How we managed to finish fourth in that situation is one of the great mysteries.



Irish poker pro Tom Gibson was the one-man collusion police force. He was afraid the French would get knocked out early and he'd be out of a job. During one of the breaks, he remarked to me, "This tournament has been played in the best possible spirit: Every time an English guy gets knocked out, everyone cheers, and when anybody else gets knocked out, everybody else claps them on the back and says, 'hard luck!' That's team poker for you.



Mississippi Blues

During one of the breaks in the main event at the Gold Strike, I was talking to David whatever-his-name-is, the German/Iranian player who's been in sparkling form of late. He remarked that everybody who's been on TV once thinks that's the only poker program ever made, and this results in millions of guys behaving like they are God's gift to the world. He said that a guy walked past his table and said, "Hi, champ!" Four guys looked up to see who was talking to them. Strange times.



English player Franky Knight was there. I don't know why he bothers, he always loses! When I mentioned to him that I'll be hosting a poker tournament for the homeless in Dublin on June 1, he said he'd be there for sure, and would bring a few with him. I thanked him profusely, and he said, "Homeless guys, I meant." I don't know why I bother!



A few days later, one of the dealers working in the Grand Casino told me that he'd been dealing for 25 years and was gobsmacked when a player in the No. 1 seat asked him if he could deal the cards a little closer to him. You couldn't make this stuff up!



I overheard a beauty in Atlantic City, where I lost the rest of my money. Near the business end of the main event, I overheard a guy who was down to the last few tables conversing with his buddies during the dinner break. His pals asked him how his table image was, and he replied, refreshingly, "Absolute crap!" I don't know how he did, but I hope he got a big cheque!