Man, is That Guy Stupid

Phil Hellmuth has famously remarked, "If it weren't for luck, I'd win'em all." I was thinking about this quote recently, when I got my money in good and lost the pot - and my tournament life - to someone who had no business (no math business, anyhow) calling my all-in bet. It seemed to me that in that moment, I wasn't a victim of luck as much as stupidity. A smarter foe never would have gotten his money in so bad.

I'm not whining, not really. I'm mentally tough enough to take such beats in stride, and I'm also keenly aware that my foes' bad math will redound to my profit eventually. But I couldn't help walking away from the tournament table thinking, Man, is that guy stupid. I even went as far as to joke to the tournament director, "Please don't let donkeys play in your tournaments anymore." To this he replied (quite pithily, I thought), "But we don't want to ban you, Jayhawk." Anyway, in the nature of things, I soon found myself in a cash game when an interesting hand came up.

I'd raised from under the gun with pocket aces, and gotten called by someone holding J-9. On a flop of J-9-6, all the money went in the middle, and as the dealer burned and turned, I said, "Well, I guess I need a 6." Bam! 6! Like I'd ordered it from room service. The guy at the other end of the table gave me a slack-jawed stare - the very same stare I'd given the guy who'd called me down and busted me out of the tournament. I could almost see the thought balloon over my adversary's head: Man, is that guy stupid.

Was I stupid? I don't know. Probably a little. The betting was such that I could reasonably put my foe on either two pair or a draw, and I opted for the draw. In fairness, I was sort of filtering reality through hope, the way one does when one has pocket aces, and that attendant sense of entitlement. Anyway, good call, bad call, that's not really the point. The point is that from the other guy's point of view, I definitely did look stupid, and thus he could judge himself to be a victim not of bad luck but of my bad play. And that's a fact of poker (and possibly of life): No matter what you do, you're going to look stupid to someone, sometime.

Mike Caro once wrote that in poker, everyone takes turns making mistakes, and the key to success is simply to skip your turn. Easier said than done, right? I don't know anyone who plays perfect poker. (I know some people who claim to, but they're just liars.) But here's the thing: Even if you did play perfect poker, eventually you'd do something that would make you look astoundingly stupid to the victim of your play.

Let's say, for example, that you're playing in the sort of cash game in which several players will limp with anything, but then fold to a big raise. Having noticed this tendency, you decide to try to capture a pot by raising from the big blind with the "Numpty," 6-2 suited. Is that a stupid play? Not if it works - and in this case, you have every reason to believe that it will. However - oops - this time someone calls. He has A-J, and the flop of A-6-2 is a predictable disaster for his hand, his stack, and his state of mind. All the money goes in the middle, and after the hand is over, he just can't stop railing at how insufferably stupid you were for raising from the big blind with 6-2.

And later, when he's telling his friends the story, they'll agree that you were a colossal donkey who, never fear, will end up losing all of your chips one day, along with, never fear, your house, car, dignity, and, likely, family dog. When you tell the story to your friends, though, you won't look stupid at all. They might deem you reckless, but admirably so: You raised from the blind with cheese. That's playing above the rim, baby. Interestingly, everyone's friends are right - from their own perspective. And everyone's friends are making the same mistake: They're resulting, judging the quality of the play based on the outcome, which is its own particular brand of stupid. Look, the play is either a good play or a bad play; outcomes matter only because we let them.

So, I was playing in this other tournament, against players so weak-tight that I figured I could profitably raise from under the gun with 7-4 offsuit. Long story short, I flopped a straight and stacked a player off. You should have seen the looks around the table: Man, is that guy stupid. So I adjust, right? Wait for a real hand. One lap later, I raise early with pocket kings and get raised by a late-position player. I know he's still thinking about that 7-4, so I reraise all in and he calls me down with A-9. He spikes an ace, sends me to the rail, and says to the table, "Well, I knew he was weak." Weak? Excuse me? Pocket kings?

OK, so in my version of the story, I set him up beautifully, got my money in great, and got unlucky; oh well. In his version of the story, I was a reckless adventurer who got out ahead of his hand once too often. So, who was stupid? Me, for putting all my chips in the pot against someone who might get lucky and run me down? Or him, for not believing that I was capable of, you know, having a real hand? It's not for me to judge. I don't even really think it matters. Sometimes you'll play smart and look stupid. Sometimes you'll play stupid and look smart. Just don't confuse good outcomes with good play. Then, you're just resulting, and that's never a good idea.

John Vorhaus is the author of the Killer Poker book series and the new poker novel Under the Gun, in bookstores now. He resides in cyberspace at vorza.com, and blogs the world from somnifer.typepad.com. John Vorhaus' photo: Gerard Brewer.