Not Playing Poker

I'm sitting in an airport in Cancun, Mexico, waiting for my flight back to Los Angeles. I've spent the past two weeks on a little island called Holbox, just off the northern tip of the Yucatán Peninsula. To describe the place as "back of beyond" does no justice to its remote location or to the sense that when you're there, time has stopped. There's pretty much nothing to do on Holbox but swim, eat, comb the beach, and … just … chill … out. It's a great place to go when your batteries need recharging. You can check your brain at the door and pick it up again on the ferry back.

Naturally, there's no poker in Holbox -- though you could find a rousing game of dominos if you put your mind to it. And while there's ample (OK, adequate) Internet access, I made the decision when I arrived not to play a single hand of poker, live or online, during my whole stay. Why? I don't know. Maybe I wanted to preserve the purity of my vacation. Maybe I just wanted to see if I could do it.

It's odd not playing poker. When you play as much as I do (and as much as you do, too, I guess), it becomes part of the fabric of your life. Back home, I can no more pass the day without playing at least a little poker than I can go without coffee. On Holbox, after the first couple of days, the thought of looking at a flop never even crossed my mind. It was astounding, really. For something I'm so obsessively devoted to as poker, and without much effort at all, I literally and completely forgot all about the game.

I forgot about drawing to a straight and a flush (knowing I was a favorite with two cards to come); forgot about betting heavy with slim values into a player known to be on tilt; forgot about drawing on all of my deductive and observational skills to sniff out a bluff; forgot what chips feel like in my hands; forgot, almost, the colors on the cards; forgot it all. How did I forget so well? I don't know. Maybe I'm not as ensorcelled by poker as I think I am. Or, maybe I've just got the "vacant" part of vacation down pat.

But that's not the point of the story.

You see, now I'm in Cancun, waiting for a plane. There's Internet service available, and many hours till my flight. I'm sorely tempted to log on and bang out a quick sit-and-go or two. Yet, I stifle the urge. Why? Because I know me, and I know that after a long layoff, I'm at risk for playing some very strange, and very bad, poker. The precedent is ample. Whenever I've been traveling, sick, or otherwise forced away from the game, I tend to come back with a storm-and-board attitude, and a serious need to make up for lost time. Having gone without the buzz of poker, I return to the game less concerned with playing well than with mainlining some of that good ol' vitamin P. Can you name five mistakes that I'm likely to make in this frame of mind? I can, easily.

1. In the name of making up for lost time, I'll play way too many hands.
2. A feeling of entitlement (it's been so long since I've dragged a pot) will cause me to overplay those hands.
3. If I suffer early setbacks, I'll try to get well quick because, gosh, losing's not really what I came for.
4. If I get ahead early, I'll push my rush too far and wreck it, as the euphoria of winning after so long a layoff overwhelms my common sense.
5. Win or lose, I'll play too long -- in the name of making up for lost time.

Can you think of other ways that I, or you, might be at risk for playing bad poker in the wake of a layoff? This sort of inspection requires some honesty, but it's worth it for the pitfalls it reveals -- and the traps it helps us avoid. Here's the thing: We're human. If, after an absence, we return to something we enjoy (like poker), we're bound to greet it like an old friend. And as we sometimes do with old friends, we might get carried away.

Plus, we might be rusty. It's not like I'm likely to forget what beats what, but it's bound to take me a little while to find that zone of confidence and concentration in which my best poker is played. That said, I feel so fresh after my layoff. I truly believe that I will dominate and crush the next poker game I play. But I also know there's no hurry. The game will be there tomorrow and the next day (or even late tonight when I'm coping with jet lag). And the game will be better because I will be better: the sum of both my recharged batteries and my disciplined, circumspect return to the fray.

Think about this the next time you're returning to poker after a layoff, either voluntary or enforced. Know that there will be other forces driving your play than your standard motivation to play the very best poker you can. Honor and acknowledge those forces, and make sure that your ardor is in check before you jump into the game. I know it's the game you love; I love it too, and I can't wait to get back in there and mix it up again. But it's good to wait. It's how we keep the layoff from kicking us in the backside.

And if you're not in the habit of taking an occasional break from poker, think about working not playing poker into your routine. You may find that the layoff -- or recess, if you prefer -- both purges you of bad habits and refreshes your enthusiasm for the game. If nothing else, it will give you some distance, some perspective on why you do what you do, both in the micro sense -- your play of hands -- and the macro sense -- the role that poker plays in your life. One thing I can tell you, based on the experience of these last two weeks, is that you might not miss it as much as you thought you would. Of course, it helps to have sun, sand, and the combing of beaches to distract you, and it helps to have checked your brain at the door, but I still believe -- and hope that upcoming results will bear me out -- that not playing poker, at least from time to time, is one of the most useful poker-playing tools we have.

John Vorhaus is the author of the Killer Poker book series. He resides in cyberspace at vorza.com, and in the blogosphere at somnifer.typepad.com.