A Reunion Of Celts

One of the things I like most about playing poker in Dublin’s Sporting Emporium Casino is the variety. Of course, there’s a group of loyal regulars whose friendliness and good humor constantly remind me of the fun nights in The Eccentric’s Club, where Terry Rogers and a cast of characters that wouldn’t be out of place in a Runyon story introduced No Limit Hold’em tournaments to Europe. Add to that there’s always a chance that a celebrity of the sporting or poker variety might join us if they’re in town. And naturally, the club’s upmarket appearance and central location ensure a steady flow of visitors from home and abroad.

Some of the best craic has been provided by visitors who adopt the club as their own. A very Irish American called Joe loves the place and puts in more hours than the locals when he visits Ireland a couple of times a year. Last year, he almost qualified for the cash league final by accident! A couple of years ago, a group of Scottish lads discovered the club when they were in town for a horse racing festival. They were great fun and took to the club like ducks to water. They quickly developed a routine. Poker till 6 a.m. Three or four hours sleep. Breakfast. Race track. Dinner. Poker. Every day was Groundhog Day. Our punters loved them and talked a lot of crap about the brotherhood between Celts. Jesus! There wasn’t even a drink involved. A few months after they went home, I got a call from one of them. I thought he was going to complain about something, but no. He was ringing to tell me they weren’t going to wait for the next racing festival to visit us again. They were coming the following week!

Until those lads visited us, we Irish didn’t know much about Scottish poker. We knew Brian Cowboy McNally from the early nineties. A nice man. Good company. Someone said he’d written a book about poker. Someone else said it couldn’t be very long. A bit harsh. There’s always one. We then had to wait decades until Niall Farrell came along. Top player. Great fun. A tendency to talk a lot about drink. Thankfully, that’s not a crime yet.

Somewhere in between these two guys coming along a Scottish poker team dealt the Irish a body blow. Paddy Power staged an international team event in Birmingham made up of six player teams from Ireland, Northern Ireland, England, Wales, Scotland and France. We played a multi-table event with each team’s score being determined by adding together the finishing positions of each of their players. Lowest total wins.

I was delighted to be selected to play for Don O’Dea’s Irish team. A cap! Liam Flood was the TD and Vodka Police. He wasn’t much good at either. It started well for us. With half the field eliminated, we still had five team members remaining, with Don and I amongst the leaders. Happy days. We were odds-on favorites. All we had to do was stay cool, avoid silly eliminations and we’d get the money, the trophy and the glory. Easy.

But Andy didn’t want to be a domestique and precipitated a collapse instead. Don was furious and went to bed. Andy and I did a deal for the money with the Scots and the French who were the only other two teams who could win on Day 2. The un-fancied Scots won. A team of lads who won their way onto the team via a live satellite had beaten teams full of well-known players. Good luck to them!!!

I have never been to Scotland, so when I heard Fintan Gavin’s Irish Poker Tour was running a paddypowerpoker sponsored event in Glasgow in conjunction with the Alea Casino from 3rd to 9th March, I thought that’d be perfect opportunity to meet old friends and invite new friends to pay us a visit. With the Main Event pitched at a smart £400, it’s certainly poker at the working man’s price. If the rest of the Scottish players are half as much fun as the lads who visit us, that’ll be good enough for me!!

I was saddened to hear of the death of an old pal of mine Miami John. A lovely man and a great champion. We became friendly on the road in America stopping to have a laugh when our paths crossed. John asked me why I was always smiling. I told him it was because I was Irish. I lied. It was because every time I saw him coming, it reminded me of a rant I’d heard from one of the old road gamblers on poker nicknames. It finished off “How come Miami John is from New Jersey and Boston Billy is from Colorado?”