Where I’m Going, Where I’ve Been
By Ricky Stern

I’m getting ready for yet another trip out to Las Vegas; even though my mother has repeatedly told me that I am a loser for going out to the desert all by myself for five days, I don’t think she understands what playing poker seriously is all about. Of course, I don’t mean playing poker for serious money; law students aren’t famous for our hefty bankrolls. I mean playing poker seriously – being serious about every decision and being serious not about winning or losing, but about making sure that whatever happens, at least you offered up your best game.

My mother’s view is that Las Vegas is a vacation destination like any other, where the fun is increased exponentially with every new person to share the ride; in fact, as we all know, any true poker trip can’t be enjoyed with anyone else unless they are as involved a poker player as you are.

Imagine traveling with a blackjack player, someone who wants to see the sights, or even (gasp!) a slots player. It’s not the case, such as in other gaming situations, where getting up and moving along really makes no difference. The shoe, no matter what casino pit mythology teaches, is a cold and unfeeling adversary; the wheel spins on without memory. The only game where your possible victory changes with every different line-up of opponents is our beautiful game.

So, although I go with the heavy notion that my mother thinks I am a total loser, I know that it is in the best interests of my trip that I go without the annoyance of having to tailor my schedule to anything other than my own whim.

My trip, not so coincidentally, coincides with the last three days of the Championship Event of the World Series of Poker. Now, understand this – I have always been a gambler, since my father started taking me to the horse-track when I was eight years old; I’ve been everything from a devout craps player to a well-studied sports bettor. I still like these games, but only as momentary diversions from my true love, poker.

Most people don’t have the pleasure of knowing in which exact moment they fell in love. My moment came when I was a Junior in college, skipping class and flipping through the channels on a lovely spring day in Ann Arbor. I happened upon an overhead shot on a dealer shuffling cards, surrounded by players and stacks of chips. I decided to keep it on, just to see what it was, and a love affair was kindled.

After Scotty Nguyen had won the prize and was posing with the Binion family fortune, I went directly to my local bookstore and bought myself every book on Texas Hold ‘Em that I could find. I simply devoured them; many of the terms and situations described went directly over my head (try explaining Sklansky to someone who hasn’t ever been involved in a pot).

Even though most of my newfound learning material was lost on me, that was beside the point. What struck me right to the bone was the very existence of learning material; sure, if you were a complete idiot you could buy a hot pink seventy page booklet guaranteeing success at baccarat, but here was a game with talented authorities expounding intelligent and intriguing ideas. At least they sounded intelligent and intriguing, I didn’t know any better.

What I did know was that in this game, the amount of work you put in seemed to have a direct result on your ability. What a concept. This was buttressed by a quick jaunt over to a listing of the WSOP winners, and finding so many repeaters, so many final table regulars; TJ, Stu, Chan, Moss, Puggy, Slim, and the rest of the poker world’s glitterati (perhaps it also helps poker’s appeal that words like “Puggy” and “glitterati” can be used in the same sentence while keeping a straight face).

There comes, as there must, a first time for everyone. For me it came in perhaps the lowliest of all poker destinations, one of the Native American "casinos" here in Miami. I have nothing but respect for the Native American peoples, and I have almost none for the Florida legislature. As it stands, only "home" games may be run legally here, handcuffing the tribal casinos to pots of $10.00 or less. Ack! Imagine staring at quad jacks on the turn (yes, this happened to me) and languishing helplessly as the pot is capped at the ludicrously low amount the legislature has deemed appropriate for our moral development. The jerks.

Understanding before long that I could never develop as a tribal casino player, I had to look elsewhere, and I found myself on a cruise ship leaving port with one singular purpose – gambling. I was not prepared for the rush that real live poker can offer, but once it hit me, I knew I was sailing for life.

One hand on that inaugural cruise will stay with me forever. Although I have made this hand again, and even bigger ones, it just doesn’t ever get any sweeter than the first time. The cruise was nearing its end, and I was down a few dollars in a $1-4-8-8 Hold ‘Em game. I had spent most of the time playing scared to death and asking "what's the bet?" to the collective sighs of the retirees, all of who had played with each other for apparent eons. I had dragged just enough to keep myself afloat, and was staring at $170.00 of my original $200.00 buy-in.

Suddenly, under the gun, I'm staring at J – Q offsuit. The betting went around, with one raiser and five callers, including myself. I called in turn, and the flop came: 10 – K – 5 rainbow. First to act, I checked and it went around to the raiser, who bet, and he garnered calls from all except one. The turn: a beautiful Ace.

I checked, in hopes of doing a check-raise (the chapter I was on in my book), and sure enough, the raiser bet out. The elderly lady to his left folded, and amazingly, everyone else called; when it got to me, I raised it up another $8, and even more amazingly, the raiser RAISED me. I did not know the game as well as I do now, but I still knew enough that, at this given moment, I had the best hand. Everyone dropped after him save for one caller and myself, but you better believe that I raised him back.

If any true player had been at this table, they would have had an aneurysm trying to process all the tells I was flashing – I mean, I’m shaking, trembling, sweating, coughing, the works. I look like someone who just spent the night with King Herod after winning a naked Iditarod. But, even with my clear signals that, yes, I have the nuts, these two individuals call me back. Now, I know that at least one of them has my exact hand, and I'm figuring someone else is looking for a full house, but the boat possibility sinks when a blank falls on the river.

I bet out, the raiser calls, and the last gentleman folds. I flip over my hand to much adulation from the also-rans, and I’m already thinking about how much half the pot is when the raiser simply mucks his hand and grumbles to himself. Someone else asks him, incredulously, "What did you have?" and he barks out "Pair of Kings." PAIR OF KINGS? What a maniac! Then again, a broke maniac. It took me three full hands to stack my chips after that hand, not so much because the pot was huge, but because I was trembling so violently from the rush.

Having the absolute nuts and winning isn't such an achievement, but man, did it feel good. After the hand, a man said "Walking on Broadway," which is, of course, another name for an ace high straight. I always have a little smile cross my lips whenever I get Broadway now, not only for the memories but also because, well, it's a nice little hand.

The next major poker experience I had was in London. In England, you can't just walk into a casino, sidle up and start playing. There is a requisite 24 hour application period; I suppose it's to stop people who want to fall in to a casino dead drunk and hose away their life savings. Poker is an extremely popular game worldwide, and in London they boast some of the finest players, and they all seem to enjoy playing at the Victoria Casino on charming Edgeware Road. I spent the summer across the pond as part of a legal study program, but my education went far beyond the rules of evidence and international human rights.

As anyone who has ever tried to get a game in England knows, there is only one game in town – pot limit Omaha. At this point, what little I knew of Hold 'Em, I knew far less about Omaha; I still have trouble remembering what cards I have in the hole. Another interesting wrinkle in the English system of playing is that, at the lower tables, the game is self-dealt. While nerve-wracking (dealing correctly when you are a punter like myself is difficult enough without murmurs of "bloody yank" distracting you from the task at hand) it was wonderful experience. Self-dealing probably saved me a few bets per round because I'd fold anything even close to marginal so I could concentrate on dealing well enough not to anger the locals.

I played at Edgeware about once a week, living off of cheap scraps to save up enough pounds (as in the English currency, not the body fat – I never have to save those up) to make the minimum buy-in. I would love to get into that game again one day when I’m not perennially short-stacked, but I had to low-roll it every time. If you didn't know, playing pot-limit Omaha short-stacked is terrifying. It is clear that at any point, you may be busted out and sent back to the Underground for the long ride home (I advise all players to do as I did and always buy the return ticket BEFORE you enter the card game). I had one experience where I lost my whole stack and had to go home on my very first hand – not a pleasurable moment.

One lesson that I learned the hard way in England was not to ever, EVER fall in love with a hand. I fell hard for one particular Omaha hand. All I can tell you is that I ran myself up to about 400 pounds before I lost all my precious little pence on this ill-fated hand; it's never fun to drop aces full to a straight flush (a straight flush!), but I deserved it. I ignored the warning signs, which were as plain as the board in front of me. As I stood up to go, and I endured the usual hard stares from the locals (who always complimented me on "lasting so long today"), I knew that one day, I'd return. And probably still do my bit for the English economy.

But, as I said, I'd never have been sitting in an English cardroom losing badly in pot-limit Omaha had I not, in a moment of true serendipity, stumbled on Scotty Nguyen's finest hour in the WSOP. I made a decision never to miss a WSOP Championship final table, if I can help it, whether I'm watching or, when I'm filthy rich, playing. I'll be there this year, I'll be in the room when the winner hugs made the Binion family fortune, and I'll be smiling. See you there.