Backup

Suppose I were to tell you that starting tomorrow, I'm going to be printing up paper money. I don't mean counterfeit U.S. dollars, I mean my own currency. That's right – Barry Bills, in denominations of fives, tens, and twenties. Pretty cool, huh? And if everything goes according to plan, I'll soon be adding Benjies and C-notes.

I'm not talking about some cheesy "play money" here. No, no, these are going to be first-class notes all the way – portraits of presidents, bald eagles, Latin phrases in calligraphy … the whole bit. In fact, the artwork on Mulholland Money is going to put Uncle Sam's cabbage to shame. But before I start the presses rolling and sink all of my savings into paper and ink and artists' commissions, I need to know one little thing: Will you honor my dough? Will you accept my bills as legal tender in exchange for merchandise and/or services rendered?

You won't? Why not? What do you mean, they won't be worth anything?

They'll be worth plenty – fivers, saws, and double saws, each and every bill. Heck, it'll say so right on them. In fact, the bearer of these notes will carry the full faith and credit of the United State of Barryville.

And on that note – how do you rate my chances for success? Slim and none, except for the slim? Yeah, you're probably right. Let's face it, the public is going to turn down its nose at Barry Bills for one very simple reason: They're not backed up by anything.

Details, details.

Backup is vital, and not just in gold supplies and the minting of money. It's pretty essential in a whole slew of things; international diplomacy, Omaha high-low, and parachuting, to name just a few. But backup is about more than just alternatives and contingencies; it's also about commitment and resolve. It's about endowing one's words with effectiveness and meaning by supporting them with action – as opposed to draining them of meaning, and rendering them empty, by backing them up with nothing. As a friend of mine puts it, if you want credibility in this world, you've got to put some backup in your giddyup.

I was playing hold'em recently in a cardroom that consistently features a standard of pretty lax enforcement. Sitting next to me was a polite older gentleman who was getting no more in the way of starting cards than I was, so for a while, we were relegated to the role of spectators. We sat and watched as people passed chips, coached each other on their hands, and spoke in foreign languages while still involved in the action. The floor's response to this was an occasional frown, and half-hearted admonition – at which point, the offending players would nod politely, the floorman would depart, and within minutes the chips were flying, the kibitzing resumed, and the conversations returned to their international flavor. After about an hour of this, my neighbor let out a heavy sigh.

"Tell me something," he said. "Why does this sort of thing go on so much in some cardrooms, and not in others?"

The question wasn't rhetorical; I could tell by his tone that he genuinely sought an answer. Before I could reply, however, he continued with his thought.

"And why," he added, "don't they do anything about it?"

His second question framed the first one so perfectly that the idea of a verbal reply suddenly seemed superfluous. Instead, I simply gave him one of those arched-eyebrow, ironic looks intended to convey the thought that the answer, if not self-evident, was at least right in front of him. Sure enough, after eyeballing me curiously for a moment, the light bulb clicked on.

"Of course," he said, a sheepish smile spreading slowly across his face. "It's plain as day. The second question answers the first."

Bingo.

Many people working in cardrooms today privately admit that the reason they don't do anything about the widespread, routine breaking of certain rules is that so many people are breaking them. It never seems to occur to them that the reason so many people are breaking them is that they don't do anything about it.

Never in my life have I walked into a cardroom and found the poker rules posted on a sign under the heading: "Suggestions." That's because they're not suggestions; they're rules. But in what sense is a rule a rule if it's not enforced? And in what sense can a rule be considered enforced if there's never any penalty for breaking it?

It's a utopian pipe dream to expect that universal agreement will ever be reached on what constitutes the proper enforcement of rules, but if we're ever going to get anywhere at all, it's essential that we at least agree on this: It must consist of something. The idea prevalent in some cardrooms that hard looks and warnings constitute an appropriate response to those who enjoy a cumulative edge through systematic violation of the rules is, frankly, absurd. Meaningful change will never occur as long as the rewards for violating the rules outweigh the penalties. That's simple human nature, and you don't need a Ph.D. in psychology to understand that writing someone a $5 ticket for robbing a hundred bucks from a 7-11 is a strategy guaranteed not to reduce crime, but to raise it. Unfortunately, a hard look and a warning, if never backed up by anything else, isn't even a $5 ticket. What it is, is … well, let's face it, it's simply nothing at all.

Imagine living in a city where the police responded to bank robbers by saying, "Hey, you there, with the drill and stethoscope and satchel full of cash – don't you know bank-robbing is against the law? Move along now, and be on your way. That's a good fellow – now have a nice day." What kind of result do you think such a policy would yield? I think it's pretty safe to say that while such an approach would undoubtedly produce some awfully polite bank robbers – "Yes, sir, thank you, sir, I surely will, sir" – it's doubtful that it would produce many reformed ones. If anything, it would soon be a growth industry, and they'd be holding job fairs for safecrackers and second-story men.

If you truly want to protect something – whether it be the value of your money or the integrity of a poker game – you have to back it up with something. And it doesn't work to back a thing up with more of the same thing: threats with more threats, concessions with more concessions, worthless paper with more worthless paper. That's a recipe for disaster. If you want something to retain its value, you back it up by supporting it with something tangible, something you've held in reserve, something whose nature, by its difference, works to achieve balance – diplomacy with strength, paper with precious metal, words with action.

This is not to suggest that poker rooms should establish a policy of chest-thumping. Sanctions must always be imposed judiciously and responsibly. The threat of penalty is not something that needs to be flaunted, or waved rudely in people's faces – but it does need to be there. It's the backup in the giddyup. Without it, the structure upon which the game depends weakens, and deflates in value – like so much paper money with nothing behind it.

Goodwill is a vast resource – but it's not infinite, and management that fails to adopt meaningful measures to protect its players will eventually find its reserves depleted. That's a crash that we must work diligently to avoid, for when that happens … well, then the rules aren't worth the signs they're printed on.