Where I'm Going, Where I've Been, Part II
By Ricky Stern

When I graduated from high school, all the seniors got neat pages in the yearbook which we could customize. My best friend Moe chose as his senior quote "Dost thou know the difference, my boy, between a bitter fool and a sweet fool?" As we all know, this is from Shakespeare's King Lear. If I wanted to sound incredibly insightful and intelligent, I'd tell you that I knew right away why he chose this particular quotation, and the deep meaning that it held in his life.

I'm not going to lie to you; I still have no idea why he chose it. Driving around today, however, I started to think about the enigmatic quotation and what meaning it might hold in the poker world we inhabit. Suddenly, it made some sense.

Let me describe a moment which we all know well; that one second between when our hands touch the cards and our eyes process the little markings on the gifts the dealer sent us; it is Chanukah every three to four minutes, the wonderfully kinetic moment when what we hold is filled with nothing but potential, when everything is A-K suited. But, just like Chanukah, sometimes you get the sweet new home entertainment center, sometimes your mom gives you a silverware set. In the same sense, A-K suited in your mind's hopeful eye can quickly turn into 9 - 2 offsuit. Which I'll get back to.

Now, starting hands are a topic of much angst for poker players and writers alike. Speaking solely in terms of Hold 'Em, we are all familiar with the varying charts plotting out the relative values of possible two card combinations. Some have been anointed as being just wonderful (A-A, K-K, A-K suited) and some have been relegated to dismal (9-2 offsuit). I recognize why the big time hands are so big time; they give you an instantly better shot at winning the pot. The mechanics of it speak for themselves, seeing how with an unimproving board, the Aces will always have it. Even with an improving board for my sad little 9 -2, the big pairs will laugh me off the pot.

Poker is a simple game, eh? No, not really. I read all the books, and they all give a nearly identical treatment of starting hand combinations; add to that a little positional relevance, and yes, you too can play book-type poker. I've since abandoned the strict book style and now have my own requirements, which are just as silly as anyone else's. Actually, my starting hand requirements have swayed vastly in my time playing Hold 'Em. I used to follow a concept that there was some pattern to the (gasp!) LUCK in poker; particularly, I found that more often than not, 9's came out very often with 2's. They seemed to stick together.

Of course, that's ridiculous; I was suffering from the Celica Syndrome, which is when you're thinking about buying a Celica and all of a sudden, all you see on the road are Celicas; or when you break up and now, all of a sudden, everyone everywhere is walking hand in hand with the love of their life. Or driving along with the love of their life in their new Celica. When you think 9's and 2's come out together, lo and behold, they do; but no more often than 7's and 4's, or aces and kings. Try my little experiment and see how often you notice 9's and 2's coming out together, and you'll be amazed not at the frequency but at your mind's perception that there is a frequency above other combinations.

"Ricky! You are straight up rambling!" Yes, I hear you screaming. Just wait! There is a reason for this seemingly ridiculous turn into the world of 9's and 2's. You remember awhile ago I told you about my dear friend Moe and his peculiar senior quotation? And you remember when I told you about my strange affection for 9's and 2's? Good. Let's move along.

I have a strange gift for self-reflection and memory; I have an unusual capacity for remembering myself at given points in my life, as well as my prior thoughts and feelings. It's something of a blessing, and something of a curse. I mean, now that I have good, stolid, dull starting hand requirements, I can both sneer at my old 9 - 2 loving self; I also, however, long for the days when I could play them wistfully and without regret. Ah, the heavy burden that knowledge places on our shoulders as players.

I mean, how often does someone at your table assure you that "any two'll do in this game, son!" How often does that cavalier attitude towards starting hand requirements make your bile rise and your stare to turn acerbic? And then, how often does that same individual smile innocently at you when, indeed, any two DID do, and did you in along the way? Here are two true stories for you.

When I first started playing Hold 'Em, I entered a one table satellite tournament at my local friendly Native American reservation in Hollywood, Florida. Tourneys are the closest thing you can get here to real poker without running the risk of upsetting your stomach with the unpredictable sea or the all-too predictable legislative shackles on the live games. I did fairly well, for being totally uninformed. Fortune, it would seem, was on my side. After several people had busted out, I looked down to find (all at once now) 9 - 2. I was, of course, giddy. 9's and 2's stick together. I was in middle position, and when the betting came around, I called. The flop saw only three players, including the big blind who just checked. The flop was A - 2 - K. The big blind bet out, and I raised, thrilled to pieces with my brilliant foresight of knowing that deuces will bring good tidings. The player to my left folded, and the big blind re-raised me.

Being a true novice, I never thought that perhaps he had two kings, or some such hand; all I could think was that this idiot was actually raising into a possible 9 - 2 combination. Didn't he pay attention? Had he ever driven a Celica? I re-raised, and he called. The turn brought out a 9. Yawn. I bet, and he RAISED! I was appalled. I almost felt bad about taking this poor guy's money; I mean, didn't he realize that he was against fate? Didn't he know that, with no doubt in anyone's mind, the deck would spew out another 9? Or manufacture me another gorgeous 2? Filled with such pity, I was forced to simply call.

Dare I finish the story? Of course, right on schedule, came the last 2. I bet; he called, suddenly wary. He flipped over his A - K and started to wrench his face in anger because he knew. He had no doubt. I was looking right back at him, happiness and pity glimmering in my eyes, wide and open like dulcet ponds of dew.

While I was raking the pot, he unleashed his rage. "9-2? 9-2? Are you stupid? You are the worst player I've ever seen!" He quickly got help from his friends as they too wrenched their faces in grimaces of uncontrolled anger and fire as they chewed their dentures down to grainy white dust. "9-2! Security! Get this guy outta here! Ruining the game!"

In this situation, I was the sweet fool. I didn't know any better. I honestly thought that 9-2 was as powerful hand as there was in the entire deck. I loved 9-2, and I happily gambled with it, played a fun game called poker. I was indeed a fool, but I was a sweet one, both unaware of my foolishness and of the deleterious effects my winsome betting had on my poker playing compatriots.

Remember, however, that King Lear wonders about the difference between a sweet fool and a bitter one.

I was in Las Vegas this past December, and I played a lot of Hold 'Em at the ultra-glamorous Bellagio. Wow, that place is a delight. Now, this is a new and improved Ricky; this version is armed with the best and latest poker information, a human sponge of all things poker. I am RoboRock, a tight-aggressive wrecking ball capable of demolishing all games that enter my path. Uh, right. Fast forward three days into the trip, bleary eyed, insane with action, with near-empty racks quickly depleting, bets on eleven NFL games, screams from the craps games ringing in my ears, brain fizzling with inane poker table conversation. I am now Robo-ATM-Machine, benefactor to all who cross my path. All of a sudden, my previously intractable starting hand requirements begin to fray and I let my eyes linger just a few seconds longer on hands like K-9 (I'm a cat lover, but man, sometimes you want to play "canine." It's just too cute).

All of a sudden, after hours of muck, muck, muck, I see glory sitting right in front of me, nestled in my hand. "What was it, Ricky? Rockets? Cowboys? Even a pair of Lucky Ladies?" No, man! Have you been reading? It was 9-2 offsuit. Uh huh. Now, keep in mind that this is no longer little ingénue Ricky playing, this is new me, who kinda pretends to understand pot odds, who can say things like "oh, poker has almost nothing to do with bluffing, you silly person" and feel cool. This is the man who tosses away such nostalgic hands as 9-2 with disdain, waiting for sensible starters which I can ultimately settle down with and have children.

I bet. I just bet. A gentleman across the table raised me, and I raised back. A few words about my adversary: I did not respect this guy's play. I mean, I felt that he was terrible; raising with garbage, losing track of the action, drinking heavily. I said to myself, "I'm just gonna outplay this guy, this one hand. I will use my superior ability to bluff him out, then coolly turn over my hand, and watch the color drain from his face as he realizes that he has locked horns with a true master of the game." As you know, these are the things you say when you're stuck a few dollars in an around the clock feeding frenzy of cards and chips. So, I re-raised this guy. Who did he think he was?

The flop came out A-9-Q. I bet without even thinking. He would soon feel the shame of everyone at the table, the dealer, and the surveillance crew in the ceiling as he would fold his hand before my unrelenting skill. As you well know, he didn't fold. He raised me.

Ack! What's he doing raising? I checked my script, and sure enough, there it said clearly "Unskilled guy folds." But lo, there he was, raising. I had to think to myself, "maybe this guy has a hand." It seemed pretty apparent that he did; I mean, I was well versed in poker theory, and it was clear he had some kind of ace, and possibly A - Q. I knew that the right thing to do was just to fold and meekly go up to my lavish bathroom to take a bath and eat a Snicker's bar.

Re-raise. He couldn't even restrain his glee as he reraised me back, and I realized that from here on out, I was on auto-pilot. I had doggedly decided to clamp onto this pot and never let it go. For the life of me, I was going to slam so much cash into the pot that he would HAVE to respect me and leave. Right? I called, and awaited my fate. I don't even remember the betting details from then on. What I do remember is that it was into calm. The turn was a blank, and the last card was another smirking, stupid Queen. He flipped over his A - Q and calmly said, in his drunken yet lucid slur, "What the (expletive) did you think I had?" I glared at him, at the table (who were staring at me like I had grown a giant sign on my forehead that said "FREE PUPPIES! FREE MONEY!") and proceeded to lose every cent in front of me.

Sitting alone in my luxurious tub, eating my Snicker's, I realized somewhat late that when I latched onto my 9 - 2 in all the face of danger, I had morphed from a knowledgeable player into a bitter fool. Foolish not for lack of information, but for the lack of sense to use it. I knew what this guy had, and yet I got so ridiculously attached to the notion of beating him with "skill" that I quickly grew bitter against the man betting across from me, my own run of terrible cards, the ozone layer depletion, the multitude of accidents including harmless manatees, and yes, even the game of poker itself. So, foolishly, I followed my bitterness into the void called "being broke."

Moe, I can tell you now that I do know the difference between a bitter fool and a sweet one. It's eating a comped meal at the hotel steakhouse and sitting in tepid bathwater chewing on a melted candy bar.