The Grublog Poker ClassicI’d like to say I was trying to win the month’s worth of poker lessons. I’d like to say that I had to get out of the tournament early because my secret super-hero identity was needed across town. I’d like to say I knew what I was doing, that I had a plan, but that I was tripped up by the fates. I can’t. All I can say is, I choked. Big time.
First of all, huge kudos to grubby for putting together a terrific event, full of fun prizes and—for the few minutes I was with them—what seemed like a great group of folks. Congratulations to Mean Gene, whose play was aggressive and whose cards were near-perfect even in those protean moments when I was still at the table. Congratulations also to Liquid Swords, who burned faster than I but brighter by far, and who took home the free poker lessons. Honorable mentions go also to the top 7 semi-finalists, all of whom took home some swag:
The Fat Guy
anisotropy
Poker Code
Grubby
The Poker Penguin
Felicia Lee
Jeremy CJ (who took home the Hammer T-Shirt, as a reminder of how Jeremy cracked his AA with the mighty 72o.)
But most of all, apologies to Ugarte, whose seat I so ineptly and inadequately sought to fill at last night’s game, since he was traveling and couldn’t make it himself. Because, in case you are particularly dense or inexplicably started reading at this sentence, I played poorly, finishing second-to-last (appropriate, as the first player to get knocked out actually got a consolation prize, which my play did not deserve). I won’t bore you with the details, primarily because there aren’t any, and I’ll update with a link if and when a hand history gets posted (I sure as heck ain’t requesting one), but let me tell you what I remember . . .
My discipline cracked almost immediately. I’m pretty sure I raised on the first hand with something vaguely crappy, like Q-10 offsuit, and that was probably my best play all night. In the six or seven hands I played (out of maybe a dozen or 15—that right there should tellyou something, because the best hand I got dealt, or close to it, was the hand I went out on: 99), I overplayed the crap and underplayed anything that might have had a shot at winning. The whole thing (all --what—7 minutes of it?) was like an out of body experience. I had just finished, the night before, lecturing my brother about playing too many hands and staying in with unimproved dominated hands. So what did I do? Here’s how I remember it:
In early position, I get 99. My play so far has been sufficiently maniacal that everyone at the table has got a pretty good feel for my raises. So I raise. Most of the players behind me fold, but (at least) one guy stays in for the flop. I think he re-raised me, a lot, and I called. Here’s the flop, as I recall: 7♦ 8♦ 9♦. Not sure about the suit.
So what do I do? I’m pretty sure I bet. Not terribly surprisingly, he raises.
I call.
I think at this point I’m down to about 400 bucks (out of 1200). The turn comes, and though I can barely see it through the deepening haze imposed by my memory’s own self-protective filter, it looks like it was a 10.
It may have been at that point that some part of my rational brain pushed through long enough to make me check. But when he bet, that rational part got slingshotted back to wherever it was being pinned down, and I went all-in.
If memory serves, the river was a K, and he took me down with the king-high straight. Which leaves me wondering, how could he have been so sure I didn’t have the flush? Could it have been the way I’d been playing?
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