Where Sam doesn't play anymore ...Rick's Cafe Americain

Simon hosted the game, and he invited four of his friends.  I, dear readers, was the fly drawn into the web this time.  I should have known that playing with five loosely connected strangers was a bad idea, but this was merely the first in a string of gruesome mistakes.  I would turn this into a game in which you, the reader, could count my mistakes if I could count them myself.  Alas, too much of the evening was a blur to recall everything I did wrong.  I remember nothing from my first buy in to my first taste of felt.  $60 down the chute and I don’t remember a thing.  I think the denoument involved a flop to the bottom two pair for a pre-flop caller (Peter) with rags when I caught the top pair.  Then I blacked out as his improbable two pair morphed into a flush with running diamonds.

In any event, mistake #2 was to decide I was OK with a game of 2-4 NL hold ‘em.  The players at the table were Simon, Nash, Gabe, Peter, Joe and yours truly.

Wait a second, Ugarte.  Rewind that back.  Did you just say NL?  As in No Limit? Yes, I did say “no limit.” More importantly, are you talking to yourself? Yes, I am talking to myself, but I think it is indicative of the state of mind I was in all night.  Consider playing under those conditions mistake #3.

Actually, I’ve gotten way ahead of myself. We need to restart the mistake count.  The night was full of omens and portents.  Signs that a merciful god exists and believes in me, even though I don’t believe in Him - and he tried to keep me away from this game.  The bad weather came overnight, screaming at me to go home, build a fire and give myself some much needed sleep.  Simon cancelled the game twice for want of a full table, practically begging me to make alternate plans.  The 3 refused to go further than Chambers Street, but I walked crosstown to the 5 and continued on to my doom.  Then He mostly gave up and let free will reign.  Not that he didn’t keep screaming from outside for me to leave. The wind whipped and the snow swirled up from the ground, only hinting at what He wanted me to hear.  $160 later, I know what he was saying. (Seriously, Dude.  Just learn English.  I know it is easier to learn a second language when you are young. I know that You are infinite. But it is clear that I will never learn your language, so the burden is on you.)

It didn’t help when I flopped a baby straight when I got 36o in the big blind.  My modest raise on the turn got everyone to throw away their cards. It didn’t help when I was dealt QQ because the flop came A-K-x.  It didn’t help when I was dealt JTs and the board came T-x-x because I ended up betting into QQ.  (Confession: I should have seen that coming.  Nash raised preflop and read me as top pair after as if my cards were face up.  Note to self: Shit. Second note: Why, exactly, did you call that preflop raise?) However you slice it, that QQ broke me for most of what remained of my second $60. It left me enough to give the rest of my chips to Nash to pay for dinner, since I had no intention of playing anymore that night.  I spent the next hour dealing the cards for the table and learning ... nothing about the rest of the table.  I learned nothing so well that I dipped into my wallet for another $40.  Cue the violins.

Most of that money went away on a hand that I should have bet differently (though much of it was a victim of some severe tight-weak on my part).  Holding Th8h, I limp in hoping for some of the flop magic I have been witnessing all night to come my way.  The flop comes Ah-8-3 with one heart. Nash (the only other player, and the BB) checks to me.  I make a modest bet ($5).  I am sure that my middle pair is the best hand at this point and I am surprised when he calls; I figure him for two overcards to my 8s.  A low heart comes on the turn and we both check.  A fifth heart (again, small) comes on the river, he checks to me again and I go all in with the AT flush.  I am badly outchipped, and with less of his stack on the line, Nash makes the call with Jh2h, saying “King or Queen?” Damn that check on the turn.  I knew my 8s were still good and his odds weren’t good enough to risk drawing to the river for the runner-runner flush.  There goes the last of my chips and with it just a little more of my pride.  As it turns out, it goeth right along with the fall sometimes.

Actually, to say I didn’t belong is a bit of an exaggeration.  Nash is really the only guy at the table clearly out of my league (despite what you will soon read).  The shocker here is that Nash didn’t come out the big winner.  Peter - who spent the night ramming and jamming - blew away the table.  He caught a couple of great flops with rags early in the night and used his stack see almost every flop and then to steal the preflop bets when the board showed low.  Lest this be seen as a criticism, it really isn’t.  He was in a position to profit from being a bully and he profited from being a bully.  Kudos to him.  More kudos than I thought I would ever give to someone in one stinking night.  Gabe spent the night treading water and Joe dug a deep hole and almost made his way to the surface.

Were I to make a modest defense of myself, I would say that my cards sucked all night.  But it wouldn’t be much of a defense.  I deserved at least 75% of the beating I took, and one can only hope for the future.

Once again the math doesn’t add up and I fear that it is because Simon doesn’t keep track of how often he buys in.

Final, gruesome tally:

Peter: +315 (Yes, you read that correctly.)
Nash: +69
Gabe: +7
Joe: -4
Ugarte: -156
Simon: -160 (reported), but my addition skills say it is closer to -230. Sorry, friend. You hit some very rough seas early in the night.

Lesson learned? Not exactly. But I really have to play limit against these guys until I figure out what the fuck I’m doing in the world of No Limit.  The Churchwarden’s game is on Monday, and I really need to get my head on straight before I sit down or it could be another long night in a rough neighborhood.