Sitting in silence
I saw my future right now
And I'm terrified
But I tell myself
I saw my future right now
Why should I be scared?
It's just because I,
I saw my future right now
Is that not enough?
Wednesday
All in -- final edit
All In
The windowless building is a depressed and ugly brown. There are no words on the marquee, and the only source of light, a single bulb dangling by its socket, flickers as it sways in the wind. The chill cuts at my eyes, and I quicken my pace to the front door. The intimidating slab of grey at the end of the narrow path opens outward. I take hold of the handle, and turn. A sudden wave of warm, stale, and cigarette clouded air attacks my face as the cold wind seems to push me in. I close the door with a resounding thud that forces eyes to turn my way from the many circular felt-covered tables scattered across the floor. The inside of the building is markedly different from the outside. The air is warm, and the bright lights are many. Friendly pots of off color plastic foliage hang from unfriendly metal hooks on the ceiling. There are no clocks, no televisions, and no radios. The only sound is that of the players.
As I enter, Frank is seated atop a metal table, with several sets of red, green, blue, and black poker chips and a tarnished lock box. My eyes shift from wall to wall, showing my apparent amateur discomfort to the lookers on at the tables before me. My hand in my pocket jingles my car keys. Even though this is just a false show of apprehension, the circular motion of my fingers stirs thoughts around in my head. There is still time to leave.
I told her that I have to work late again tonight, not that she really believes me anymore. I try to vary the lies, but I usually end up using work as my excuse. I guess if I continue down this path, she’ll leave me. I’ve thought about it before, about the unseen damage that all the lies must be doing, but I figure I’m not hurting her or anyone else, so there’s really no problem. Every man needs a vice, and this is mine. And anyway, what she thinks I’m doing isn’t nearly as bad as the truth. I’m the one who controls my hobby. The hobby doesn’t control me. I could walk away anytime, easy. But I’m here, so-
What’s the buy-in?
Two thou’.
Two thousand dollars. The buy-in has increased quite a bit since I started coming here however many years ago, but in the end, a higher buy-in makes it that much more interesting because you have that much more to win. I take out my wallet and leaf through the contents. I know exactly how much I have on me, but I still methodically count out the bills and place them in four stacks of five hundred dollars each in front of Frank and his lock box. Frank shakes his head subtly and offers a thin smile as he hands me a multicolored stack of chips. Frank knows me, and he knows my game. Counting out the bills, my unsteady gaze across the room, and the unsure fumbling of my keys are the first steps of my pregame show. I’m pretending, acting like I’m someone else when I come here; someone unsure and hesitant. I’m showing the sharks that I’m new to the game and here just to have some fun. This tactic of mine won’t work against many of the more experienced players, but an edge over some is still an edge, and in this game, any advantage is welcome.
What table?
Frank, without looking, makes a lazy gesture with his hand in the direction of the playing floor. Any table will do at the start of the tournament. And anyway, sitting at a table with the night’s winner would afford me the same odds as being placed with the night’s first loser. In theory, at least.
I carry my stack of clay poker chips with me to the nearest table with an unoccupied seat. As I sit down, I purposely drop my stack, scattering the chips on the table.
Oh, sorry.
No harm done.
The first to speak is a balding forty-something with a pair of ostentatious purple and pink sunglasses covering a third of his bristly face. He gives me a forced smile, showing a set of yellowing teeth. Sunglasses no doubt thinks himself a regular pro in relation to me, but he’s already fallen into my trap. I find the over confident ones and slowly but surely eat away at their stack of chips until they realize too late that I’ve done this before. It usually stops working after the second time, but like I said: any advantage is welcome. Sunglasses helps me gather up my chips, and I give him a trusting smile in return.
Thanks.
Sure. You be careful, now, son. Another slip like that and the sharks’ll be all over you.
I’ll be careful. Thanks.
With a wink that I can just barely see behind the black plastic of his glasses, he sits. Making sure to take obvious note of how the others at the table have stacked their chips, I neatly arrange my multicolored disks in towers of five chips each, and then put them in a tidy row in front of me. The others at the table, including Sunglasses, observe me, but say nothing. Frank stands from his table and blows a whistle he had stowed in his pocket. Time to begin.
No limit, Texas hold’em, blinds starting at ten and thirty, tripling every half-hour. Pay out to the top two, with the second getting only half of their money back, and the winner getting everything else. It’s a smaller than usual crowd tonight; only forty some odd players. With any luck I’ll be home before my wife goes to bed, with some inexplicable extra cash lining my pocket. But luck is a harsh mistress to rely on.
There are two people you need to watch out for when you’re playing tournaments like this. The first one doesn’t have a name. He always sits directly across from you. He never smiles, never frowns, and he never loses. His face is frozen in a look of stoic and apathetic patience as he stares at you with unreadable eyes, never giving away his hand. He doesn’t need stupid gimmicks, like good luck charms or giant sunglasses to take all your money. He’ll clean you out without saying thank you, and without so much as a victorious glance in your direction. And then you’re out, and it’s time to go home and explain to your wife, mother, or children why you’re late and a couple thousand dollars poorer. He’s your biggest fear, and at the same time your highest hope. He’s the one you want to become; the one that other people fear and respect. More importantly, he’s the reason you go to these shady card rooms late at night in the middle of nowhere. He’s the hope of glory and a better tomorrow that the down-and-outs cling to as their reason to wake up every morning. But no player like that exists anywhere. He’s really an itch in a place you can never scratch, but you always try anyway.
While it is this ghost from a dream that brings you to this place, it is Lady Luck herself that keeps you here. She’s always standing there, behind your chair, urging sweetly and quietly in your ear for you to pay to see the river, because after all it’s just one more card, and she knows for a fact that the other guy doesn’t have the flush that presented itself on the turn, and your two-pair is the best possible hand on the table right now. She’s the really dangerous one to watch out for. She’s tells you, “It’s okay. We’ll get him the next hand. That was just a fluke. You’re really better than him; than all of them.” It’s not that you can’t leave. You don’t want to leave. With one hand on your chip stack, and the other down your pants, she keeps you in your seat, primed and ready to see the next card.
I had some good luck with the cards so far, and won some pretty good hands. I managed to knock Sunglasses out of the game early on, at the fourth hand. When we turned our cards over after I put him all in at the turn, he took his sunglasses off, and with a peculiar nonchalance tossed them onto the table in front of him. For the first time, I saw his eyes, no longer masked behind plastic, and I felt a painful twitch of compassion. Suddenly he was no longer just my opponent, but he was a man. There was something about him vaguely familiar in the way his eyes closed and his hand rubbed roughly over his scalp. He was someone’s father and someone’s husband, and, just like me, he found himself here, chasing the hint of a better future, but unable to finish the race.
He showed no emotion as he looked from my pocket nines to his king, jack, off suit. Not a bad hand under normal circumstances, but I was showing a full house against his two-pair, and he was all in. The last card, the river, came and was help to neither of us. Without a word, he stood slowly up from his chair, as if carrying on his shoulders the weight of all the possible excuses he was going to have to give his wife when he got home. As he turned to leave, Rabbit’s Foot, another player at the table, pointed out that he was leaving his glasses behind.
Keep ‘em.
I couldn’t watch him any longer, because the next hand was already being dealt. No rest for the wicked, I guess. Sunglasses was the first to go home tonight. A few more hands passed. I won some, and I lost some. And then I forced Rabbit’s Foot, then Cowboy Hat, and then Unlit Cigar all in; the eighth, thirteenth, and fifteenth to go home tonight. Frank’s whistle sounds to signal an increase in the blinds for the sixth time as the tenth place player packs his things to leave. We’re down to the final nine.
My usual tactic worked unusually well against the small fry, but now it’s time to get a little more serious. Seated at one table, the last nine of us eye each other over. I know most of them, but there are some newcomers too. Newcomers are always dangerous, so you have to keep all your senses working in order to glean any kind of hint at their playing styles. I’m not very good at reading the tells and all that, so when I get to this point in the game, I play conservatively for the most part, folding at more hands than I usually do, and going in only when I have something good.
I recognize Headphones, Keychain, Pocket Watch, Silver Dollar and Robert. Robert owes me some money, that’s why I know his name, and aside from that, he doesn’t have any gimmicks that he brings to the table. None of us are family, and none of us are friends, but the regulars, that’s including me, all know each other to a certain extent. Last week, Robert asked me if he could borrow three hundred dollars to play. “Think of it like an investment,” he insisted. “If you win tonight, you’ll just get it back anyway.” I knew I’d probably never see the money again, but I was feeling uncharacteristically generous that day, so I gave him the money, and made him write out an IOU on the back of a cardboard coaster. In retrospect, it’s probably not the smartest thing I’ve ever done, but I don’t do a lot of smart things. Now, without so much as a thank you, Robert tosses me the coaster with three one hundred dollar bills rubber-banded to it. I smile at him, and without looking at me, he smiles back. He’s my toughest competition at the table. He plays fast and loose when it suits him, and intelligently close to the vest when he needs to. I’ll have to watch out for him.
The newcomers end up not being particularly good, and are the first of the nine forced home. The others follow suit and Frank’s whistle blares for the tenth time of the night, as the blinds are raised to a frightening level of one ninety-six eight-thirty and five-ninety four-ninety, the third place player slams the door on his way out. It is down to Robert and me.
I have the unfortunate position of being the short stack by nearly two hundred thousand chips. If I continue to play conservatively, Robert could easily end up taking all my money by consistently raising before the flop. And that’s what he does. The first hand of the eleventh round, he bets double the pot without even looking at his cards. With a sly smile and a knowing twinkle in his eye he nods at me. I see that I have literally the worst possible pocket in the game, with the least statistical chance of coming up with anything good: two, seven, off suit.
I fold.
I know what he’s doing, and he knows that I know, but I can’t play just yet. I have to be smart. And lucky. As the cards are collected by the dealer, I close my eyes and pray to the faceless and nameless gods of this forgotten and forsaken place. The man without a name sits across from me now, showing no emotion as he carelessly glances at his facedown pocket cards. His stare is indelible on my forehead and he’s going to win if I keep playing like this. Lady Luck’s grip on me stiffens and her silent whisper in my ear gives me a temporary boost in confidence.
You’d better start playing.
The dealer deals to me and then to him. I’m the small blind, so I am the first to make a move. I have a pair of pocket tens. I know for a fact that if I call, he’ll raise, and if I raise, he’ll call, so, to stay in, I have to raise. I can’t afford to be wrong, so I raise double the pot just to be sure. He looks at his hand for a long time before finally calling. Is he unsure if he should stay in or unsure if he should raise higher? The flop is king of clubs, three of diamonds, and seven of spades, and it gives me nothing. I knock once on the table. Check. He looks at his cards again, and then looks at me. I can see the gears behind his eyes working to figure out what I have. Looking back at the flop, he squints and taps the table with his finger. The next card, the turn, is the king of hearts. I now have two-pair, kings and tens, a dangerous hand to play in any circumstance, but I put in half the pot’s worth of chips from my stack. Robert smiles and throws his cards at the chips in the middle of the table. A small victory.
The back and forth between Robert and me continues well into the thirteenth cry of the whistle. The small blind is five million one hundred forty-four thousand four hundred ten and that’s over a third of my chips. The game will likely be over shortly. On the table is a flush draw, three and seven of clubs with the seven of diamonds on the flop, and the queen of clubs on the turn. I have in my pocket the five of clubs and the king of clubs. It’s Robert’s turn to play. For a long time he looks at me with expressionless eyes, no doubt calculating the odds in his head, but still not giving anything away.
How much do you have there?
He nudges his chin in the direction of my chips. I take longer than needed to count out my stack.
Fifteen point seven, give or take.
I’ll put you in for half.
Okay. I’ll call.
The river is the two of spades and does nothing for me, but could potentially be a problem if Robert has a two in his pocket. Without any hesitation, he checks. This worries me. I don’t know what he’s planning. If he has something good, he could be trying to check-raise me, or maybe he really has nothing. His eyes continue to drill holes into my skull.
What do you have?
Two, seven, off suit. You?
Ordinarily, that would be an excuse to let out a little chuckle, but now, with a two and a pair of sevens on the table, two, seven, off suit actually gives Robert a full house against my king high flush. Is he lying? There’s no way he would go in on two, seven, off suit. No sane person would.
Full house, huh?
Did you get your flush?
Maybe.
That’s good.
I have a really good hand, but, if he’s not bluffing, so does he. The choice is not an easy one to make. Robert closes his eyes and scratches at his messy black hair. Leaning back in his chair, he stretches as if he had just woken up from a nap. His lips move but I hear the words whispered sweetly in my ear.
It’s your move.
Then it hits me. There’s only one thing I can do. If I lose this hand by checking, then I might as well just give him the rest of my chips, but if I win… I lean forward and push my entire stack to the center of the table.
I’m all in.
The windowless building is a depressed and ugly brown. There are no words on the marquee, and the only source of light, a single bulb dangling by its socket, flickers as it sways in the wind. The chill cuts at my eyes, and I quicken my pace to the front door. The intimidating slab of grey at the end of the narrow path opens outward. I take hold of the handle, and turn. A sudden wave of warm, stale, and cigarette clouded air attacks my face as the cold wind seems to push me in. I close the door with a resounding thud that forces eyes to turn my way from the many circular felt-covered tables scattered across the floor. The inside of the building is markedly different from the outside. The air is warm, and the bright lights are many. Friendly pots of off color plastic foliage hang from unfriendly metal hooks on the ceiling. There are no clocks, no televisions, and no radios. The only sound is that of the players.
As I enter, Frank is seated atop a metal table, with several sets of red, green, blue, and black poker chips and a tarnished lock box. My eyes shift from wall to wall, showing my apparent amateur discomfort to the lookers on at the tables before me. My hand in my pocket jingles my car keys. Even though this is just a false show of apprehension, the circular motion of my fingers stirs thoughts around in my head. There is still time to leave.
I told her that I have to work late again tonight, not that she really believes me anymore. I try to vary the lies, but I usually end up using work as my excuse. I guess if I continue down this path, she’ll leave me. I’ve thought about it before, about the unseen damage that all the lies must be doing, but I figure I’m not hurting her or anyone else, so there’s really no problem. Every man needs a vice, and this is mine. And anyway, what she thinks I’m doing isn’t nearly as bad as the truth. I’m the one who controls my hobby. The hobby doesn’t control me. I could walk away anytime, easy. But I’m here, so-
What’s the buy-in?
Two thou’.
Two thousand dollars. The buy-in has increased quite a bit since I started coming here however many years ago, but in the end, a higher buy-in makes it that much more interesting because you have that much more to win. I take out my wallet and leaf through the contents. I know exactly how much I have on me, but I still methodically count out the bills and place them in four stacks of five hundred dollars each in front of Frank and his lock box. Frank shakes his head subtly and offers a thin smile as he hands me a multicolored stack of chips. Frank knows me, and he knows my game. Counting out the bills, my unsteady gaze across the room, and the unsure fumbling of my keys are the first steps of my pregame show. I’m pretending, acting like I’m someone else when I come here; someone unsure and hesitant. I’m showing the sharks that I’m new to the game and here just to have some fun. This tactic of mine won’t work against many of the more experienced players, but an edge over some is still an edge, and in this game, any advantage is welcome.
What table?
Frank, without looking, makes a lazy gesture with his hand in the direction of the playing floor. Any table will do at the start of the tournament. And anyway, sitting at a table with the night’s winner would afford me the same odds as being placed with the night’s first loser. In theory, at least.
I carry my stack of clay poker chips with me to the nearest table with an unoccupied seat. As I sit down, I purposely drop my stack, scattering the chips on the table.
Oh, sorry.
No harm done.
The first to speak is a balding forty-something with a pair of ostentatious purple and pink sunglasses covering a third of his bristly face. He gives me a forced smile, showing a set of yellowing teeth. Sunglasses no doubt thinks himself a regular pro in relation to me, but he’s already fallen into my trap. I find the over confident ones and slowly but surely eat away at their stack of chips until they realize too late that I’ve done this before. It usually stops working after the second time, but like I said: any advantage is welcome. Sunglasses helps me gather up my chips, and I give him a trusting smile in return.
Thanks.
Sure. You be careful, now, son. Another slip like that and the sharks’ll be all over you.
I’ll be careful. Thanks.
With a wink that I can just barely see behind the black plastic of his glasses, he sits. Making sure to take obvious note of how the others at the table have stacked their chips, I neatly arrange my multicolored disks in towers of five chips each, and then put them in a tidy row in front of me. The others at the table, including Sunglasses, observe me, but say nothing. Frank stands from his table and blows a whistle he had stowed in his pocket. Time to begin.
No limit, Texas hold’em, blinds starting at ten and thirty, tripling every half-hour. Pay out to the top two, with the second getting only half of their money back, and the winner getting everything else. It’s a smaller than usual crowd tonight; only forty some odd players. With any luck I’ll be home before my wife goes to bed, with some inexplicable extra cash lining my pocket. But luck is a harsh mistress to rely on.
There are two people you need to watch out for when you’re playing tournaments like this. The first one doesn’t have a name. He always sits directly across from you. He never smiles, never frowns, and he never loses. His face is frozen in a look of stoic and apathetic patience as he stares at you with unreadable eyes, never giving away his hand. He doesn’t need stupid gimmicks, like good luck charms or giant sunglasses to take all your money. He’ll clean you out without saying thank you, and without so much as a victorious glance in your direction. And then you’re out, and it’s time to go home and explain to your wife, mother, or children why you’re late and a couple thousand dollars poorer. He’s your biggest fear, and at the same time your highest hope. He’s the one you want to become; the one that other people fear and respect. More importantly, he’s the reason you go to these shady card rooms late at night in the middle of nowhere. He’s the hope of glory and a better tomorrow that the down-and-outs cling to as their reason to wake up every morning. But no player like that exists anywhere. He’s really an itch in a place you can never scratch, but you always try anyway.
While it is this ghost from a dream that brings you to this place, it is Lady Luck herself that keeps you here. She’s always standing there, behind your chair, urging sweetly and quietly in your ear for you to pay to see the river, because after all it’s just one more card, and she knows for a fact that the other guy doesn’t have the flush that presented itself on the turn, and your two-pair is the best possible hand on the table right now. She’s the really dangerous one to watch out for. She’s tells you, “It’s okay. We’ll get him the next hand. That was just a fluke. You’re really better than him; than all of them.” It’s not that you can’t leave. You don’t want to leave. With one hand on your chip stack, and the other down your pants, she keeps you in your seat, primed and ready to see the next card.
I had some good luck with the cards so far, and won some pretty good hands. I managed to knock Sunglasses out of the game early on, at the fourth hand. When we turned our cards over after I put him all in at the turn, he took his sunglasses off, and with a peculiar nonchalance tossed them onto the table in front of him. For the first time, I saw his eyes, no longer masked behind plastic, and I felt a painful twitch of compassion. Suddenly he was no longer just my opponent, but he was a man. There was something about him vaguely familiar in the way his eyes closed and his hand rubbed roughly over his scalp. He was someone’s father and someone’s husband, and, just like me, he found himself here, chasing the hint of a better future, but unable to finish the race.
He showed no emotion as he looked from my pocket nines to his king, jack, off suit. Not a bad hand under normal circumstances, but I was showing a full house against his two-pair, and he was all in. The last card, the river, came and was help to neither of us. Without a word, he stood slowly up from his chair, as if carrying on his shoulders the weight of all the possible excuses he was going to have to give his wife when he got home. As he turned to leave, Rabbit’s Foot, another player at the table, pointed out that he was leaving his glasses behind.
Keep ‘em.
I couldn’t watch him any longer, because the next hand was already being dealt. No rest for the wicked, I guess. Sunglasses was the first to go home tonight. A few more hands passed. I won some, and I lost some. And then I forced Rabbit’s Foot, then Cowboy Hat, and then Unlit Cigar all in; the eighth, thirteenth, and fifteenth to go home tonight. Frank’s whistle sounds to signal an increase in the blinds for the sixth time as the tenth place player packs his things to leave. We’re down to the final nine.
My usual tactic worked unusually well against the small fry, but now it’s time to get a little more serious. Seated at one table, the last nine of us eye each other over. I know most of them, but there are some newcomers too. Newcomers are always dangerous, so you have to keep all your senses working in order to glean any kind of hint at their playing styles. I’m not very good at reading the tells and all that, so when I get to this point in the game, I play conservatively for the most part, folding at more hands than I usually do, and going in only when I have something good.
I recognize Headphones, Keychain, Pocket Watch, Silver Dollar and Robert. Robert owes me some money, that’s why I know his name, and aside from that, he doesn’t have any gimmicks that he brings to the table. None of us are family, and none of us are friends, but the regulars, that’s including me, all know each other to a certain extent. Last week, Robert asked me if he could borrow three hundred dollars to play. “Think of it like an investment,” he insisted. “If you win tonight, you’ll just get it back anyway.” I knew I’d probably never see the money again, but I was feeling uncharacteristically generous that day, so I gave him the money, and made him write out an IOU on the back of a cardboard coaster. In retrospect, it’s probably not the smartest thing I’ve ever done, but I don’t do a lot of smart things. Now, without so much as a thank you, Robert tosses me the coaster with three one hundred dollar bills rubber-banded to it. I smile at him, and without looking at me, he smiles back. He’s my toughest competition at the table. He plays fast and loose when it suits him, and intelligently close to the vest when he needs to. I’ll have to watch out for him.
The newcomers end up not being particularly good, and are the first of the nine forced home. The others follow suit and Frank’s whistle blares for the tenth time of the night, as the blinds are raised to a frightening level of one ninety-six eight-thirty and five-ninety four-ninety, the third place player slams the door on his way out. It is down to Robert and me.
I have the unfortunate position of being the short stack by nearly two hundred thousand chips. If I continue to play conservatively, Robert could easily end up taking all my money by consistently raising before the flop. And that’s what he does. The first hand of the eleventh round, he bets double the pot without even looking at his cards. With a sly smile and a knowing twinkle in his eye he nods at me. I see that I have literally the worst possible pocket in the game, with the least statistical chance of coming up with anything good: two, seven, off suit.
I fold.
I know what he’s doing, and he knows that I know, but I can’t play just yet. I have to be smart. And lucky. As the cards are collected by the dealer, I close my eyes and pray to the faceless and nameless gods of this forgotten and forsaken place. The man without a name sits across from me now, showing no emotion as he carelessly glances at his facedown pocket cards. His stare is indelible on my forehead and he’s going to win if I keep playing like this. Lady Luck’s grip on me stiffens and her silent whisper in my ear gives me a temporary boost in confidence.
You’d better start playing.
The dealer deals to me and then to him. I’m the small blind, so I am the first to make a move. I have a pair of pocket tens. I know for a fact that if I call, he’ll raise, and if I raise, he’ll call, so, to stay in, I have to raise. I can’t afford to be wrong, so I raise double the pot just to be sure. He looks at his hand for a long time before finally calling. Is he unsure if he should stay in or unsure if he should raise higher? The flop is king of clubs, three of diamonds, and seven of spades, and it gives me nothing. I knock once on the table. Check. He looks at his cards again, and then looks at me. I can see the gears behind his eyes working to figure out what I have. Looking back at the flop, he squints and taps the table with his finger. The next card, the turn, is the king of hearts. I now have two-pair, kings and tens, a dangerous hand to play in any circumstance, but I put in half the pot’s worth of chips from my stack. Robert smiles and throws his cards at the chips in the middle of the table. A small victory.
The back and forth between Robert and me continues well into the thirteenth cry of the whistle. The small blind is five million one hundred forty-four thousand four hundred ten and that’s over a third of my chips. The game will likely be over shortly. On the table is a flush draw, three and seven of clubs with the seven of diamonds on the flop, and the queen of clubs on the turn. I have in my pocket the five of clubs and the king of clubs. It’s Robert’s turn to play. For a long time he looks at me with expressionless eyes, no doubt calculating the odds in his head, but still not giving anything away.
How much do you have there?
He nudges his chin in the direction of my chips. I take longer than needed to count out my stack.
Fifteen point seven, give or take.
I’ll put you in for half.
Okay. I’ll call.
The river is the two of spades and does nothing for me, but could potentially be a problem if Robert has a two in his pocket. Without any hesitation, he checks. This worries me. I don’t know what he’s planning. If he has something good, he could be trying to check-raise me, or maybe he really has nothing. His eyes continue to drill holes into my skull.
What do you have?
Two, seven, off suit. You?
Ordinarily, that would be an excuse to let out a little chuckle, but now, with a two and a pair of sevens on the table, two, seven, off suit actually gives Robert a full house against my king high flush. Is he lying? There’s no way he would go in on two, seven, off suit. No sane person would.
Full house, huh?
Did you get your flush?
Maybe.
That’s good.
I have a really good hand, but, if he’s not bluffing, so does he. The choice is not an easy one to make. Robert closes his eyes and scratches at his messy black hair. Leaning back in his chair, he stretches as if he had just woken up from a nap. His lips move but I hear the words whispered sweetly in my ear.
It’s your move.
Then it hits me. There’s only one thing I can do. If I lose this hand by checking, then I might as well just give him the rest of my chips, but if I win… I lean forward and push my entire stack to the center of the table.
I’m all in.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)