Taking the Next Step

Recently I found myself in a game with an opponent I hadn't seen in quite some time. I'd suspected his absence hadn't been by his own choice, and my suspicion proved correct; in fact, confirmation came from the horse's mouth, as one of the first things he did was to boast about his reinstatement following his exile by management. No further details were needed. The revelation that he'd been barred came as a surprise to no one, since everyone was aware of his tendency toward extreme verbal abuse of dealers.

Many have written about the problem of dealer abuse; I've thrown in my own two cents' worth from time to time. In a column that appeared in these pages a couple of years ago ("Kill the Dealer," Sept. 14, 2001), I suggested that players who hold dealers responsible for random outcomes share the primitive mindset of those ancient rulers who followed the urge to "kill the messenger of bad news." The dealer, after all, is merely the messenger – and he is no more responsible for your busted flush draw than Tom Brokaw is responsible for the high gasoline prices his job requires him to report. While the river card he's holding may carry disappointment, there's nothing personal about it, and to blame the dealer for the random turn of a card makes about as much sense as blaming the paperboy for the bad news in your morning paper – which is to say, none at all.

I was curious to see whether our recent parolee, let's call him Sam, had changed his spots. And the answer was: yes and no.

Eager to play the role of model citizen, Sam went out of his way to assume a calm, composed demeanor in the face of his disappointments. He even tried to smile at the dealers. But his disappointments were many, for a couple of simple reasons: (1) he played far too many starting hands, and (2) he got married to big cards in spots where they were obviously beaten. In other words, he was consistently putting himself in position to be disappointed. So, after a couple of hours of faking a serenity he didn't really feel, the strain began to show. Although he never directed any verbal abuse toward a dealer, he stared at them more and more often – and when I say stared, I mean his eyes emitted tightly focused laser beams of hatred right through them.

But he was determined not to get tossed again, so he suppressed his urge to explode. That is to his credit – and to the credit of cardrooms that deter such conduct by refusing to tolerate it. But although he had modified his behavior by maintaining his outward composure (except for the staring), he hadn't addressed the root cause of the problem; he hadn't modified his unwillingness to take responsibility for his own play and his own results. He was still blaming the dealers – and simply wasn't allowing himself to express it. And since the pressures within him were being denied any outward release, Sam was imploding.

On the surface, Sam had corrected the problem of abuse. But players in Sam's condition are engaged in a form of self-abuse – abuse of their dignity as individuals capable of making independent choices and bearing their consequences, and abuse of their potential to make better choices – not to mention abuse of their bankrolls … oh, what the heck, let's mention it.

In one hand, Sam raised preflop with pocket queens from early position – a sensible standard play. But when a tight-aggressive player made it three bets, and the ensuing flop quite prominently featured an ace, Sam dutifully check-called on every round. When his opponent turned over pocket aces, Sam's facial expression revealed a ton of disappointment – but not an ounce of surprise. Yet, it would never occur to him simply to admit to himself: I knew he had me beat, and I knew it would take a miracle to catch up, but I still paid him off three times. Instead, he once again turned his attention to the dealer, staring daggers at him. Sam had been given three separate choices on three separate betting rounds – after the point when he knew he was toast. It wasn't the dealer who chose to donate Sam's money in those spots; all three decisions were Sam's. Nevertheless, in this and many similar instances over the next several hours, Sam claimed that the dealer "had killed him" – even though his wounds were quite self-inflicted.

In his refusal to take out his irrational frustrations on others, Sam took an important first step. But if he is ever to see better results, and thus remove himself from a never-ending cycle of frustration, he will need to take the next one.

It is often written that such players must learn to accept the "blame" for their own poker decisions, instead of transferring it to others, but I don't think this approach generally works. Blame isn't exactly a positive, and let's face it, there's not much appeal in the idea of embracing blame. (Blame can also lead to guilt, which is usually self-defeating.) But to embrace the responsibility for your choices is to take charge of them; it is to assume control – and is therefore both liberating and empowering. The day a poker player realizes that every single decision is his and no one else's, on every single action of every single round of every single hand – the decision to bet, to call, to raise or reraise; to check, check-raise, or fold; to use position to acquire information and then to act upon it; to save bets by folding and waiting for a better opportunity; to make extra bets by setting a trap; to make adjustments on a dime as new developments occur; to change gears or change games or to call it a day – that is the day he becomes a winner, because that is the day he truly grasps the concept that the idea is to play cards, not to passively allow the cards to play you.

On the other hand, an unwillingness to accept responsibility for one's own results is such a powerful negative force that it can totally obscure the very object of the game. Sam, for example, has completely lost sight of something so fundamental, so elementary – in fact, so downright self-evident – as to be something he surely was aware of the very first time he played; namely, that the game is played against the other players. Instead, he has come to think of poker as a game played against the dealer, and therefore, against the house.

In regard to those strategic considerations listed above, Sam can't exercise those options or even appreciate the latitude they afford him, because he's too caught up in a good luck/bad luck tug of war with the dealer. So, when he finally rose from the table the other night, after five hours of frustration, and exclaimed, "I've had enough of this, I'm going to go play blackjack," I couldn't help thinking: You're going to go play blackjack? Considering how hard you've been trying to "beat the dealer," isn't that what you've been doing?