When They’re Playing Checkers

If I told you that I was writing this column from a furnished apartment in Managua, Nicaragua, you’d probably say, Well, that’s JV, traveling the world again. Where was he last time? Moscow? Bucharest? Katmandu? If I told you that I was running the writing staff of a television show here, you’d probably say, Sure, fine, whatever.

What does this have to do with poker? OK, here’s what: During my stay in Managua, I have discovered that — literally — the only game in town is a $1-$2 blinds, $50 minimum buy-in no-limit hold’em affair that starts late, and intermittently, at the Aces Poker Club, a two-table joint not far from where I stay. It’s a shame that the game starts late, because I’m not at my best in the midnight hours, plus walking back to my place is quite a sketchy undertaking in Managua, where, as someone here described to me, “You’re never more than a 10-minute walk away from being killed.” But I’m not here to dwell upon such morbid eventualities. I want to talk about a hand that I played here, and to point out how great it is when you’re playing chess and everyone around you is playing only checkers.

One feature of this game is the Mississippi straddle, an optional live-button post that can be anything from $4 (twice the big blind) on up to whatever your little heart desires. At the time of this incident, we were just five-handed. As it happened, this put me under the gun when an inveterate Mississippi straddler had the button. I had recently stacked him by limping in with pocket jacks and calling his short-stacked continuation-shove. So, already, we weren’t the best of friends.

Now, I have no trouble recognizing the signs of trips to Tiltville (having been there once or twice myself), and it occurred to me that Mr. Mississippi was already about halfway there. With a little nudge from me, I thought, he might go all the way. So, I told myself that the next time he straddled for $6 (his standard sum), I’d make it $30 to go with any ol’ rags — a “grandstand overbet” — and then show my bluff, just to make him aware that he couldn’t predict what I’d do against his straddle, and maybe make him stop straddling.

Or, as it happened, maybe make his head explode.

Well, the poker gods cooperated by dealing me 5-2 offsuit, the perfect hand for my plan. Mr. M. straddled for $6. The small blind called, but I wasn’t too worried about him, for he’d shown broad limp-fold tendencies and had only $34 behind after his call. The action came around to me. I made it $30, as planned. Mr. M. hemmed and hawed, and called. The small blind raised all in, making it $4 more to me. Here’s where things got interesting.

I was kind of flapping in the breeze, wasn’t I? I couldn’t very well fold for $4 when the pot had more than $90 in it. Then again, 5-2 offsuit wasn’t a favorite against any hand, let alone any two, and there was no way that Mr. M. could fold, either. So, I knew that I had to call and hope for the best. I still wanted to show my rags, just to destabilize the game, but I didn’t really want to spend any more money on this reckless adventure. For no particular reason — Hollywooding, really, or maybe just practicing my Spanish — I asked the dealer if the small blind’s all-in raise had reopened the betting. Of course, it shouldn’t have, since it wasn’t anywhere near half the size of my bet, the standard criterion for reopening the betting. But, guess what? It did.

It just so happens that there’s a quirky house rule at the Aces Poker Club. Anytime a player goes all in for any amount, other players have the option of calling or reraising all in, as well. How crazy is that? Well, this was not the time to argue the niceties of protocol: I recognized the avenue open to me, and, with a bit more Hollywooding just for fun or practice, shoved all in, covering Mr. M’s stack of some $100 more. How did I know that he wouldn’t call? Because the small blind was all in, meaning that he’d get to satisfy his curiosity about my hand — “I knew he had a monster!” — without having to invest more money. Many people in this situation will reliably fold — certainly players of a certain, uh, caliber, of which this guy was one. Sure enough, he folded, leaving me with about 2-1 pot odds and a hand that, while admittedly trash, didn’t figure to be worse than a 3-2 underdog to the small blind’s holding, which turned out to be A-J.

The fact that I rivered a straight is entirely beside the point. No one at the table understood that I would gladly have sacrificed that $34 for the sake of tabling my 5-2. After all, I’d raised with it, then reraised all in. How crazy was I? Talk about image investment! And this is what I mean when I say that sometimes you’re playing chess while they’re playing checkers. Not only did Mr. M. expect me to show down a real hand there, he couldn’t begin to fathom my thinking in raising with trash and then reraising with trash. Any sane player, one reckons, would just call that $4 all-in reraise and hope for the best. Of course, I couldn’t do that, when I had the opportunity to make Mr. M. go away. Who the hell wants to take 5-2 offsuit up against two opponents when he can make one fold for free?

So, where was my image after that? Did they think I was crazy? Maybe … or maybe they just thought that I was thinking about the game a whole different way. So now, suddenly, I was that guy, the infuriating, perplexing guy no one could understand.

It’s called “tilt equity,” friends, and mine will last for as long as I visit the club. My reputation is made. Although I often say, “They can’t figure out your strategy if you don’t have one,” in this case, clearly, I did. OK, I had a reckless adventure preflop, and got caught with my hand in the cookie jar. But I think my play from that point forward was pretty good, especially in quickly recognizing and exploiting the opportunity to reshove and isolate against the all-in player. That opportunity shouldn’t be there, and wouldn’t be there in any normal cardroom, but this is a place called Nicaragua, which is not normal, so, “I seen my shot and I took it.”

Nicaragua is kind of my second home these days. I spent much of the summer here, and anticipate being back periodically throughout the fall. And trust me, whenever I happen to frequent the Aces Poker Club, I’ll be recognized and talked about as the guy who may be crazy, or may just be playing chess while everyone else is playing checkers. ♠

John Vorhaus is the author of the Killer Poker book series and the poker novel Under the Gun. He resides in cyberspace at radarenterprizes.com. Photo: Gerard Brewer.