Lest We Forget. How To Blow The Irish Open.

It was ninety-something. Can’t remember the year but I remember just about every second of the day no matter how hard I try to forget. It was Good Friday, the Friday before Easter. I got up about noon and checked my pockets. That didn’t take too long. I had six cigarettes and some coins. Enough to get the bus into town but not to buy more cigarettes. Things would have been pretty grim if I hadn’t had something to do that day. I was still involved in the Irish Open. The good news was we were down to the last two tables. The bad news was they were only paying one and I was in trouble. What’s new? The theorists might be in shock at the thought that a man could be stupid enough to invest everything he owned in one poker tournament. But then again the theorists have never played the Irish Open so what do they know? That’s why I don’t read poker books.

By two o’clock I was in the Jackpot club. These days it’s been refurbished and stuff, but back then it was delightfully seedy. Progress my ass. The late great Jimmy Langan had appointed himself coach for the day which was indeed good news. I was to learn more about tournament strategy that day than I had learned over the previous five years. More importantly we had a great laugh. My friend Pat Crowe, another man who was to die young, appointed himself cheerleader cause he knew his advice was worse than useless.

I suppose I should point out that not all my friends are dead and it’s safe enough to talk to me most days.

Several hours later, thanks to Jimmy’s advice and the support of Crowe’s ever increasing band of screamers (the pubs are shut on Good Friday in Dublin so there’s not much to do) I’d made my way to temporary solvency and the final three which was spookily to be a dress rehearsal for the ‘99 WSOP final three with Noel Furlong and I having most of the chips with, in this case, John O’Callaghan the man in the middle.

Not much of note had happened along the way. As lies go that’s an absolute whopper because what really happened was like a movie. If I hadn’t been there I wouldn’t have believed it. It could only have happened with Terry Rogers as tournament director. Terry, friend of Benny [Binion], founder of the Eccentrics club and the Irish Open and character extraordinaire was having one of those days and spent most of it actively trying to ensure that I didn’t win. I don’t know for sure what this was all about though I was told later that he was agitated because I was inconveniencing another player, who may or may not have been representing the tournament director’s best interests, by stealing too many pots. It would be unfair to name the player here as I have no proof. But I will name him in the book for sure!

Terry started the ball rolling by making two of the worst rulings in tournament history against me and threatened to disqualify me if I didn’t shut up and get on with the game rather than politely point out that he might have been breaking all his own rules. I shut up and got on with it. He stood behind me and, much to the amusement of just about everybody (me included), kept repeating like a broken record that I’d blow up and couldn’t win, so every time I won a pot, Pat’s lads celebrated a tad excessively to wind Terry up a bit more just for the laugh. At one stage he got so red in the face I thought there was a good chance that he was going to burst which would have been bad news indeed as he was standing right behind me.

All good things come to an end. In true Irish style, with John down to just two big blinds, Noel and I got the lot in on a flop. I was pretty sure I was in front but, considering my financial position, the theorists would probably say I could have waited a few hands and then gambled. I hate them, especially when they’re right. The river gave Noel the title and the money and probably saved the cleaners and the pathologist a particularly nasty job. Strangely enough Terry and I didn’t speak to each other for several years but I’m delighted that we shook hands and had a laugh in Vegas in ’99 shortly before he passed on to wherever they send tournament directors these days when their work here is done. I’m pretty sure that if I listen hard enough at this years Irish Open I will hear him shouting in the background. Don’t be surprised if you do too.