Anatomy of a Tournament

I finished 14th in the ace-to-five lowball event at the World Series of Poker. I barely got my buy-in and entry fee back; the $260 profit did not even pay my expenses. Nonetheless, I was understandably happy about finishing in the money. When we finally got down to two tables, after more than 13 hours of play, I said to observer Jeff Shulman, "Now you'll have to list the 16 finalists in the results, so that you can put my name in boldface."

This is not an exhaustive tournament report. I was concentrating too hard to take notes; I just wrote down some impressions later on, and will chronicle a few highlights here. I had to make some tough decisions, got incredibly lucky twice, had some heartbreaking losses, and made one audacious desperation play that earned the plaudits of onlookers while propelling me one spot higher in the final standings.

The ace-to-five tournament could well be the toughest event of the WSOP. This is for reasons I have written about, that as young players abandon lowball for other, more action-oriented, games, by a process of elimination, those who remain are older and tougher. And I think I was at the toughest table. Shortly after the tournament began, Bob Thompson announced, "Last year this event had 128 entrants; this year there are 127. Someone died during the last year."

One heartbreaker cost me a lot of chips. At middle limits, perhaps $200-$400, someone opened for a raise from early position. I reraised from middle position with a pat 7-6. "Miami" John Cernuto, in the small blind, four-bet, and the opener called two more bets. Naturally, I reraised. The other two called, generating the largest pot so far at our table, five bets three ways. John and the opener each drew a card; I stood pat. After the draw, John bet out. The opener folded. I did not like my hand, but I had to call for the 9-to-1 that I was getting: There were maybe five sevens that I could beat, plus he could be betting a smooth 8. I didn't even consider the possibility that he might be bluffing. John had made a 6-4. This put me down to a few bets.

A tough decision came a bit later, when I was down to even fewer bets. The player on my left had been very straightforward. After the draw, when passed to, he never bet a 9 and showed down some of his rougher eights. He didn't bluff once, even when making a hopeless hand like a pair of sevens that could win only by bluffing. And the time that he made that pair of sevens, he would have won by bluffing, because the first player had essentially given up by making a pair of fives and passing. This apparently straightforward player opened a pot for a raise from first position. (Opening for a raise was standard at my table, whether a player was drawing or pat – none of this "gypsying-in" seen in some of the looser Southern California games. That was another aspect of what made this the toughest lowball table I had ever played at. In the first 13 hours, I saw only two gypsies, and one was an accident. The other was at the first level, with blinds of $25 and $25, when everyone passed to me in the small blind, and I declined to come in for a raise with a three-card draw, and the big blind – the fellow who presented me with the difficult decision I'm currently describing – was kind enough not to raise with his two-card draw, allowing me essentially to draw three cards for free. I didn't win the hand.) I had the big blind, and I made my blind good (that is, I called the one-bet raise) to draw two cards. This left me with exactly two large bets. The opener drew one. I caught a 9 and a 7. I checked, hoping that he would just show down if he missed. Unfortunately, he bet, in the time-honored tournament strategy of putting the pressure on the short stack. Something seemed suspicious about the way that he bet, though. Earlier, whenever he bet a winning hand, he usually contemplated for a few seconds before making the bet. This time, however, he tossed the chips in instantaneously after I passed. I hoped that was a tell, and called. I was right; he had paired, and now I had four and a half large bets.

Another tough decision came shortly afterward, when my stack was on the way up. I opened for the usual raise from early position with a pat 8-7-6. Everyone folded to the small blind, a player who had been moved to our table when a space opened, an aggressive player from his talk and the few hands I had seen him play, but someone I otherwise did not know. The Southern California players, who made up perhaps three-fourths of the field, had an edge, since many were familiar with each other's play; since some had greeted this player, they probably knew how he played. This player three-bet the pot. In a ring game, I might reraise, depending on the player, hoping he's drawing and to get him to commit more chips, or hoping he has a pat 9 that he stubbornly won't break. In a ring game, I also often would not reraise in this situation. The trouble with that, though, is that it's a weak play, and the first player feels impelled to fire with any 8 and many nines after the draw. He also bets all sevens and better, of course, with impunity. The first player stood pat, and I stood behind him. I hoped for him now to check, and I would just show down my hand. If he passed, I would not risk a big bet that would more likely be called by a hand that would beat mine than one that would not. Unfortunately, this fellow was not going to make it easy on me. He bet. I did not hesitate in my call, although I felt a lot of uncertainty within. I believe that when I make up my mind to call, doing so quickly projects the positive kind of image that I want to emanate. After I called, he very reluctantly showed his hand, 9-8-7-something. I didn't say anything, but I thought his bet was not very smart. He could not win if I called, since I would not open from early position with a worse hand than his and then stand pat behind a pat hand and call a bet. If I'd had a hand like 9-7 or a better 9, I likely would have broken it after he stood pat; if I didn't, chances were pretty good that I was planning on calling a bet if he made one. In any case, he had put the pressure on me, but his bet had been a little too quick and he seemed to be trying to exude a bit too much confidence. (That assessment may just be my attempt at justification after the fact, and I may merely have gotten very lucky.)

They say you can't finish in the money in a tournament without getting extremely lucky a few times. I did so twice.

I opened for a raise from first position with A-2-3-joker-J. Everyone folded to the big blind, a Northern Californian whose play I am familiar with. He's a very solid player. He raised. I was hoping, probably somewhat misguidedly, that he was drawing, or that if he had a hand like a smooth 9, he would break it for a reraise. I reraised. He reraised, putting in the fifth bet. I knew now that he was pat, and just called his bet. As expected, he did not draw. I did, and caught a 7. He bet out. I figured the chances were very likely that he had a 7; my prior knowledge of his play indicated that he would probably check an 8 in this situation, and, in fact, would not have put in the fifth bet with worse than a smooth 8 in the first place. Nonetheless, of the 21 hands he could be holding, six beat me and 14 did not, making the odds approximately 7-to-3 in favor of my having the better hand. (The actual constitution of my hand changed those odds slightly, but they were still close.) I raised. After thinking long and hard, he finally folded. The player to his left informed me in amazement that my opponent had folded 7-5-3-2-A, only one hand worse than mine. That was a good laydown, albeit one that I knew he was perfectly capable of making. Given that, in later analysis I wondered whether my raise was so good, since the only hands with which he would call were ones that had me beat. But I also idly speculated whether he might also have laid down a straight 6. I don't really think so; I don't know many lowball players who would fold a 6 for one raise. He immediately began questioning me about my hand, in that postmortem fashion that old-time lowball players have, wondering what hand he had caused me to break. He assumed aloud that his raise had made me break an 8-5, and chided himself that had he not raised, I would have stood pat on said 8-5. I had not the heart to tell him that I had been drawing all the time, and probably also didn't want to admit that I had been extremely lucky, so I said nothing. He then wondered whether I had ended up with a 6 or bicycle, and, again, I did not say that I had raised him with a 7. At the dinner break, a friend of his asked me the same two questions, to which I replied truthfully, but I'm not sure he believed me. I think they both were more inclined to believe tight play of me than the actual wild, aggressive play that I had exhibited at both junctures of the pot.

I got lucky again a little later, arising out of my possibly misplaying a hand. In the precursor to my getting lucky, I opened for the usual raise from the small blind with 9-7. The very tight old man in the big blind reraised. I called. I think in retrospect, given his position (reraising only the small blind), I should have stood pat, but I drew. (I threw the 9.) When a pot is passed all the way to the middle blind, who opens, a raise from the big blind indicates one of three or more possibilities. The most likely, in order of probability, are that the big blind is drawing a card to a reasonable hand (better than 9-7), is pat with worse than a 9-7, or is pat with better than a 9-7. Even for a tight player, the last is the least likely; I had just given him too much credit. I caught a king, and checked, and he immediately showed down his 9-8-7. What happened in that hand became part of the reason for my getting lucky.

I opened for a raise a few hands later, at the $300-$600 level, from early position with 8-7-5-4-3. Right behind me, the tight player reraised. My initial silent reaction was, "Aha! He's trying the same trick. My 8 is better than his rough 9." I reraised. He reraised. Oh boy, in trouble again. As soon as his fifth bet entered the pot, I realized that (1) he was pat, (2) he was pat with a better hand than mine, and (3) he had no intention of drawing if I stood pat. Ancillary to the last case, an action player might reraise trying to get me to break a hand when he was himself drawing all along. If I then broke, for example, a 9 to draw to a 7, he would change a situation of negative expectation for himself to one of positive expectation. I didn't think this player was capable of such a play, though, so I realized that my pat 8 had to be no good. Part of my reasoning was that since he had pushed a rough 9 earlier, he would not likely be doing it again; thus, another reason to eliminate his having a worse hand than mine. All of this made me decide that I had played my 8 much too aggressively, and that I had better now break it. I called, and threw the 8. As expected, the other player stood pat. I caught an ace, and bet. My opponent called. My 7-5-4-3-A beat his pat 7-5-4-3-2. I had been extremely lucky and had caught one of the few cards that would give me a tie (a deuce) or a winner (an ace). He had been a huge favorite. My catching a 6 or 8 would have cost me the pot, and one more bet; a 9 would have cost me the pot and possibly another bet.

Many old-time lowball players would have played the hand passively. They would have opened for the usual raise, called the reraise, stood pat, checked, and called the bet from the player who stood pat behind them. Had I played the hand that way, as opposed to my aggressive reraise, I would have had no indication that I was up against a hand better than mine, and never would have broken the 8. Instead of winning $2,550 (8.5 small bets, including the blinds), I would have lost $1,500 (five small bets). Depending on how you look at things, playing the pot the way that I did meant a difference, then, of $4,050, nearly seven big bets.

Earlier, at the $200-$400 level, I got two extra bets because of an opponent's inattention. He opened for $400. I raised to $600 with 5-4-2-A-K, a wheel draw. He quickly put in four $100 chips, and started to discard a card. I realized what he had done. He had thought he was just calling my raise, but was thinking in chip-unit terms from an earlier level, and inadvertently put in two extra chips. It was clear that he had no intention of reraising, but the chips were there. As soon as I saw the extra two chips, I said, "Oh, you're raising? Then so will I," and immediately went one more bet. I knew that my draw was better than his, and I knew that he was drawing, because he had already separated the draw card from his hand. This was not a ruse, though, one that's common among low-limit lowball players who try to get you to put in more action than your hand warrants because you think they're drawing; since most lowball players are familiar with this ploy, though, it usually has the opposite effect. But earlier, I had seen this fellow legitimately pull his draw card out more than once and follow through on the draw every time; it was just that every other time, the betting had been equalized and it was his turn to draw. He didn't look happy about having to leave the extra two chips in the pot, and then have to call an additional bet, but realized his mistake and did not protest. We each drew a card. He checked. I caught an 8 and bet, and he called. He had caught an 8 himself, drawing to a 7. I had gotten lucky, of course, even though I had the best of it. Had I caught a 9, I would have bet that also, and lost.

When play got down to 17 players, on three tables, the tournament director had us go hand for hand, because after one player got eliminated, everyone else would be in the money. At this point, play suddenly tightened up. No one wanted to go out on the bubble. As for me, I was going to play any hand I would normally play from my position, but I didn't get any hands to play. There were several stacks shorter than mine, and I hoped to build my stack up while others merely waited. For the longest time, no one opened any pots at my table. Someone even remarked that no one was going to play anything except the nuts and take a chance on being first to bust out. Finally, Vince Burgio opened from first position for the usual raise. The big blind, already short-stacked, who had been playing extremely tight thus far, called and took two cards, and Vince took one. The big blind checked, and Vince showed the jack he had caught, drawing to a 9-5 with the joker. "Nobody else was going to open, so I figured I'd take a shot." This same player, on his penultimate hand, while again in the big blind, called someone's raise and stood pat, and then checked after the draw when the opener took a card. The opener bet. The big blind went into a long study, and finally called, leaving himself one small bet, which would have to go in the next hand as the small blind. The opener had made a 7, and the big blind showed his 8-6, congratulating himself for not having gone broke on the hand. Anyone else at the table, even as tight as they were playing, would have reraised before the draw, and lost the remaining chips after the draw. He survived the all-in bet of the small blind when Burgio, in the big blind, made nothing in his "free" three-card draw. Everyone else at the table groaned at this, knowing they would still have to wait to see who busted out. Any of the several small stacks at the three tables could go next, now that the tight survivor had enough chips to nurse for a full round if he retreated into full-blown survival mode, which seemed likely. In fact, he did not play a hand until his next big blind, during which time one or two of the small stacks at other tables managed to survive their own all-in situations. But the tight survivor finally went down when he had to put in all of his chips to cover his next big blind and ended up with something like a three-card draw. Everyone went back to playing lowball.

By now, I was one of the short stacks. When four tables still remained, I had been the chip leader at my table, and thought I had a shot at the final table, but missed draws took their toll. At the $4,000-$8,000 level, I had 17 $500 chips left. I had to put eight of them in for my big blind. David Hoekstra opened for a raise, and I put in eight more chips on a one-card draw; David stood pat. I paired, and did not think I could win the pot on a one-chip bluff. I checked, and folded when David bet. He showed me that he had had an 8-5, so no way would I have gotten away with a bluff. If he had drawn, I might have tried it. The next hand was my small blind, for which I would have had to put in four chips if I had that many. Since I didn't, I put in my one remaining chip. Phil Hellmuth opened for $8,000. No one called until it got to me. I was already all in for my one chip, one-sixteenth of the bet. The big blind did not call. The dealer now gave $11,000 back to Hellmuth, his bet plus $3,000 from the big blind. He already had a profit of $3,000 on the hand. Normally, the blinds would total $6,000; since I had only $500, they totaled $4,500, and I had action on $1,500.

I now made my brilliant play, a desperation move that enabled me to finish one spot ahead of Hellmuth. It wasn't worth any more money, just a bit of satisfaction at having outlasted a brilliant tournament player, someone well deserving of the title of world champion. Hellmuth is to be congratulated for having made the money in a game that is not his specialty. I admire his achievements in every major form of poker, and going as far as he did in the WSOP lowball event is further attestation to his tournament skills.

I looked despondently at my cards. What a way to finish the tournament, I thought: K-Q-J-9-7. I did not want to draw three cards to a 9-7; if I did that, Phil could stand pat on a queen and still have the best of it. Drawing four to a 7 would be even more suicidal, and two to a jack was just as ridiculous. My only choice was to stand pat, hope that he was drawing, and then hope that he paired. Not much chance, but better, I thought, than the multiple-card draw that was my only other choice. These choices all flashed through my mind, but as soon as the dealer asked how many cards I wanted, I immediately indicated that I was pat. If Phil had a pat hand, it was all over; I was resigned to getting up in that likelihood, figuring I'd given it my best shot with that last chip. Had he clearly had a pat hand, he likely would have just shown it down, but now Phil seemed to have a dilemma. He started talking out loud, meanwhile spreading his cards so the players next to him could see what he was thinking about, but I couldn't. "I could have you beat right now," he said. I realized what his dilemma was. He had either a pat jack or pat 10, and didn't want to give up those three chips without giving himself a chance. I didn't know whether saying anything would help or hinder me at this point, but figured silence might be too suspicious. After all, it's a classic move to say nothing when you're bluffing, so as not to precipitate unwanted action from your opponent, but I was sure that Phil knew this, so I said something. "I couldn't very well indicate the strength of my hand by raising; I'm all in." Phil kept thinking, and finally threw the 10 away faceup. I then said, "Your 10 was good." It didn't matter at that point to reveal the strength – or rather, lack of it – of my hand. Phil disgustedly announced that he had paired threes. I rather triumphantly spread my horrible cards, and the gallery went wild. That is, the other players made admiring remarks and the three or four RGPers who were cheering me on from the rail applauded. I survived my all in with three chips. Phil had broken 10-8-5-3-joker to draw to the 8. RGPer Bill Chen, part of my rooting section, immediately informed Phil that even after breaking, he still was a 4-to-1 favorite on the pot. By breaking his hand, he had gone from 100 percent equity on the pot to 80 percent, still a huge favorite. Equally, though, my standing pat, having convinced Phil to break his hand, had changed my expectation from nothing to 20 percent. Phil said that if he hadn't had the joker, he'd never have drawn. Everyone else at the table made sure to point out to Phil that they would never have broken a 10 in that spot. Well, everyone but me. I didn't say so, but I would not have broken a 10 against a desperation player with one chip remaining who was forced in the small blind to play whatever cards fate happened to give him. There were far more hands worse than a 10-8 that a player in such a position would stand pat on than better. (By the way, I confirmed later with Poker Probe that of the multiple-card draws that I was contemplating, drawing either three or four cards would have given me less than half the chance I had against the one-card draw.)

I would love to say that I was able to run those three chips into a victory, but I got no miracle hands. Phil went broke before I was forced to enter a pot, so I did manage to outlast him. Places 13 through 16 all paid $1,850, so my victory was essentially a Pyrrhic one. But that was $1,850 more than I had after buying in to the tournament, so I was pleased.

I received nothing promising until the big blind was one away, when I was dealt 6-2-joker-X-X. I figured a decent two-card draw was better than the five random cards I would be forced to play on the next hand. I threw in my last three chips. Two other players came into the pot, and my two-card draw didn't make anything. I was out. (My RGP friends later told me they had been speculating whether I would open with any two-card draw in that spot, or limit it to having the joker. I told them I had the joker, but that didn't really prove anything.)