“About three in the morning some large fish leaped, and the loud splash made me jump as though a gun had been fired.”
– Joseph Conrad
At a recent low-stakes home game with a North Toronto crew of paisans I have known for years, we welcomed into our circle – and circles are always sacred no matter how profane – a cousin of one of the regulars visiting from Palermo, Sicily.
Table talk takes different forms in poker. Of course sociable exchanges are the norm, nothing too committal, meaningless chit chat, like how are you and the wife and the weather kind of nonsense. Personally I don’t care how your wife is doing when I’m playing poker against you, and I could give two shits about the weather, bro.
We have all encountered occasions at the poker table when, for instance, our jack-nine unsuited hits a straight on a flop but two suited cards also show. Then on the river another of the suit arrives and suddenly our lovely straight can be crushed by a flush, to which anyone still in the hand was likely drawing.
We’ve all read about the many scandals involving athletes of every métier taking drugs to enhance their performances. Weightlifters, sprinters, cyclists, baseball and football players, swimmers, biathletes, and even bloody bowlers: the list goes on and on.
After a dawn-to-dusk hold’em session at Fallsview, where I profited despite not catching a single pocket pair all night, a group of us hit the casino’s excellent breakfast buffet for a weary feast. Though fatigued and in need of showers and shaves, we were all wolfishly hungry; like any intense activity, poker depletes the body and the brain. Anyway, a lively conversation erupted.
In Tournament Poker and the Art of War, David Apostolico – bloating the military metaphor to zeppelin extremes – has written an entire book based on the idea of applying Sun Tzu's strategic principles from The Art of War directly to no-limit tournament poker.
Let me state it succinctly: being card dead is like not being at all. Being card dead is like floating through the infinite vault of space with a failing oxygen tank. You find yourself isolated, frustrated, suffocated, beyond all help and consolation. Nor will any prayers to the poker gods shake you from the numbing, soul-shrinking funk that being card dead occasions.
Well, I celebrated New Year’s Eve last week playing 5-10 no limit hold’em at the Fallsview Casino with a group of alcoholics, among them three men in tuxedos with red noses, a trio of women dressed in glittery evening gowns, and two large, bearded men in pinstriped suits and sunglasses.
This is a strong pre-flop play when you have a good read on a table, whether or not you are holding good cards. You’ll see experts and pros make this move all the time and get away with it. Much of it has to do with your perceived table image.
That emotional control is one of the keys to winning at poker often gets lost in the shuffle of other factors. Well-timed aggression, mathematical understanding, bankroll management – name whatever factors you will, but emotional control may be the most paramount of aptitudes.
Well, after a drizzly but blissful Sunday afternoon of NFL football, cosy in my den under an eider-down duvet, bathed in the warm trembling glow of my giant HD-TV, sipping coffee after coffee and several Grand Marnier and cognac drinks called Beautifuls, and feasting on jalapeno poppers, duck jerky, and under-microwaved Swedish meatballs, after all this comfort and joy, it seemed that nir
Often during a poker game someone will come forward and represent him or herself as the “sheriff” of the table, prepared to call down any player whom he or she feels is bluffing or holding a marginal hand.
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