Will the Real Pocket Pair Please Stand Up?

A long time ago, when I was an actor in New York and the other guy whose photo graces this column was an actor in L.A., I took a month's vacation to the West Coast, during which my brother introduced me to Texas hold'em. After coaching me for an afternoon on the basics, we hit the cardroom, and he got me settled in a $3-$6 game before going off to play in the top section. I've never forgotten my very first Texas hold'em hand – that is to say, the first one I played all the way to the end – because my reason for winning it was unusual, to say the least. Some healthy early action had produced a decent-sized pot, but by the end we were heads up, and when the river brought a third suited card, I led out with nothing but a busted straight draw. After eyeballing me for what seemed like three weeks, an eternity that had my insides rising and falling like the Cyclone at Coney Island, my opponent, whom I'd never seen before in my life, finally pronounced with great conviction: "I've played against you too many times not to know you've got the goods" – and laid down his hand.

At that moment, I thought being an identical twin was the greatest gig in the world.

We had a good laugh over it a few minutes later when my brother stopped by to check on my progress and the poor guy's eyes nearly bugged out of his head. That is, Brian and I had a good laugh; the guy who'd laid down the hand looked like he'd been sold some swampland in Florida.

A few years later, after we'd both given up acting for a living, I moved out to San Diego for a couple of years and took a job as a house player in a room where my brother had already worked for some time. Aware of his reputation as someone who didn't give away any chips, I spent the first couple of weeks on the job splashing mine around, to interesting effect. Although I soon returned to my normal game, a game that was almost as similar to my brother's as was our physical appearance, our images remained forever different, so much so that over the next couple of years, comparing notes as to people's assessments of our "markedly different" styles of play became a source of much private amusement. It was a striking illustration of the power of first impressions; two people who played alike and looked alike perceived for years as stylistic opposites because of a first impression one of them spent a week or so casually manufacturing. Certainly, there's a poker lesson there.

Of course, having someone around who looks just like you can get you in trouble in a poker room, too. Several years ago, we were playing in a no-rebuy tournament at a club we both frequented, and the field was large enough to require tables in two adjacent rooms. A couple of hours into the tournament, my brother busted out, and the tournament director, eager to break a table, scooped up his seat card, hurried into the other room, and announced "Last hand" to the table at which I was playing. When the hand ended and he spread the seat cards, what seat should I pick but the one from which my brother had just been evicted.

When I arrived at my new table, there were some chuckles and cracks about my "quick change of clothes," which made me realize who I'd replaced at the table, but while it was an admittedly odd coincidence, it wasn't anything I saw as a sticky situation since I knew just about everyone there. One player, however, wasn't laughing, but asking in a rather cold tone of voice just what I thought I was doing. Having played with him many times before, however, I interpreted both his question and tone as deadpan humor, and responded with some glib remark that I was exercising a rebuy option available only to a few select customers – a reply that produced some table chuckles, but served only to agitate him more.

What never occurred to me was that although he'd played with both my brother and me on several (separate) occasions, he'd apparently never seen us both together and had no idea that we were more than one person. When he continued to ask about what was going on, and I continued to answer glibly, everyone at the table (myself included) thought it was just so much repartee. That perception was abruptly broken when he suddenly pulled over the tournament director and demanded to know how this "blanking blankety-blank" could so brazenly put himself back into the tournament! Eventually, of course, it all got sorted out, and he wasted no time completing the daily double: Within five minutes, he'd sent me to the rail, too.

If being a twin makes for some confusing situations, it also carries certain obligations – at least so contends my other half. A few days ago, for example, at a table where I'd just sat down, I made it three bets to go preflop with a hand I wouldn't normally call a raise with, a funky give-'em-something-to-think-about move that I happened to make just as my brother was walking up behind my chair. When the deck dropped on me like an anvil, no one within six counties put me on the nuts. The result was a monster pot, and at the showdown my cards raised every eyebrow at the table and a couple behind it. Although he undoubtedly enjoyed the scene, he quietly slipped away without my noticing his presence, and later in the day casually asked about my session to see if I'd mention it. When I failed to do so, he gave me a good-natured chewing out. "Isn't it brotherly duty to tell me when you pull something like that?" he quipped. "How else am I supposed to know the world's gonna be gunning for me? Do I have to go to the post office to find out I'm a wanted man?"

For identical twins, it seems, exchanging "image" stories is not only better form than exchanging bad beats – it's a defensive necessity.