I’ve absolutely fallen apart as a poker player lately, particularly in tournaments. While it would better time spent to sit out on the sidewalk of Burnley drive every Wednesday evening, passing the time lighting 80 dollar bills on fire, one at a time whilst sipping on Gin and Juice, I keep trying. What it is that makes me so bad lately, I can’t quite put a finger on. Am I too tight, too afraid to bluff, too unsure whether the entry level nimrod, hustling over from another late night in the cubicle at One Wachovia, will have the intelligence to fold his middle pair? Or is it this insatiable desire to do stupid things? I don’t know but I do know that I’m playing like shit.
A little story for ya:
As is typical, last night I get some juicy starting hands in the first level of the tournament and I pick up a few chips. And then, as usual, I piss them away and immediately go on SST (Short Stack Torture), dragging around 10 big blinds, unable to speculate, and, like Larry Holmes in the twilight of his career, wielding not a single weapon but a feeble Sunday haymaker. A case in point from last night, should however clearly explain why I find myself starting the cash game for the last two months.
It was 50-100, the second round of blinds. Since there’s so much contemplating, posturing, ball scratching, and general coffee housing going on at our game, that probably means it was about the sixth hand of the night. Anyhow, BOC opens the pot for 300. In position I have AQ and I feel aggression is the order of the day. We both have chips (like I said, it’s early in the tournament) and I’m pretty sure he does not want to tangle without a really big hand. I make it 1100 to go. Darryl is in the small blind and after losing a decent pot, he’s down to about 6500. That won’t stop him though, he’s a calling station and it’s irrelevant that I think it’s quite perilous to put in 18% of your stack, most likely with Jacks, out of position, after a raise and a re-raise, when putting any chips in post flop will effectively commit the rest of your stack.
As much as I know Darryl, though, he knows me too. I put him on Jacks and he puts me on two big cards and if recent history is any indicator, ain’t no way I‘ll hit the flop. Whatever, he calls, pot odds dictate that BOC reluctantly calls. I don’t know what he has, it doesn’t matter, I have position and I’ll worry about him if he becomes a factor. There’s about 3500 in the pot. The flop is some kinda non threatening junk like 2-5-7. They both check. I know what I SHOULD do here but I just can’t help my self. I look down at my hand, moving independently of all the other oxygen and carbon in my body, effortlessly reaching for 2 orange chips and tossing them in the pot. Before I can even ask my hand why the hell he just threw 2000, in position, with big over cards, into the pot, Darryl moves all in.
His raise is 3475 more, which puts my dumb ass into quite a predicament. There’s now about 11,000 in the pot. I’m getting about 3.2 to 1 on the call. With 6 outs, using the rule of 4, I’m about 77 to 23 on the call, just about the exact odds I need to justify a call. But it isn’t about that anymore. It’s about how moronically I’ve played this pot. I should have either checked or just moved all in on the flop, getting the same odds but reversing the decision onto Darryl’s shoulders. Darryl plays the numbers, there’s no emotion in it for him. He knows from time to time that he’ll be quietly sipping scotch next to the fire, snuggled up with the jacks that just sent him walking from yet another tourney. But that’s the way it goes sometimes. A caller never, a bettor be.
Calling leaves me with about 6000, folding keeps me at 9500. So, if nothing more than to punish myself for my seemingly endless stupidity, I fold.
The simplest of concepts, swirling the drain of my mental capacity. I better get my shit together.
A little story for ya:
As is typical, last night I get some juicy starting hands in the first level of the tournament and I pick up a few chips. And then, as usual, I piss them away and immediately go on SST (Short Stack Torture), dragging around 10 big blinds, unable to speculate, and, like Larry Holmes in the twilight of his career, wielding not a single weapon but a feeble Sunday haymaker. A case in point from last night, should however clearly explain why I find myself starting the cash game for the last two months.
It was 50-100, the second round of blinds. Since there’s so much contemplating, posturing, ball scratching, and general coffee housing going on at our game, that probably means it was about the sixth hand of the night. Anyhow, BOC opens the pot for 300. In position I have AQ and I feel aggression is the order of the day. We both have chips (like I said, it’s early in the tournament) and I’m pretty sure he does not want to tangle without a really big hand. I make it 1100 to go. Darryl is in the small blind and after losing a decent pot, he’s down to about 6500. That won’t stop him though, he’s a calling station and it’s irrelevant that I think it’s quite perilous to put in 18% of your stack, most likely with Jacks, out of position, after a raise and a re-raise, when putting any chips in post flop will effectively commit the rest of your stack.
As much as I know Darryl, though, he knows me too. I put him on Jacks and he puts me on two big cards and if recent history is any indicator, ain’t no way I‘ll hit the flop. Whatever, he calls, pot odds dictate that BOC reluctantly calls. I don’t know what he has, it doesn’t matter, I have position and I’ll worry about him if he becomes a factor. There’s about 3500 in the pot. The flop is some kinda non threatening junk like 2-5-7. They both check. I know what I SHOULD do here but I just can’t help my self. I look down at my hand, moving independently of all the other oxygen and carbon in my body, effortlessly reaching for 2 orange chips and tossing them in the pot. Before I can even ask my hand why the hell he just threw 2000, in position, with big over cards, into the pot, Darryl moves all in.
His raise is 3475 more, which puts my dumb ass into quite a predicament. There’s now about 11,000 in the pot. I’m getting about 3.2 to 1 on the call. With 6 outs, using the rule of 4, I’m about 77 to 23 on the call, just about the exact odds I need to justify a call. But it isn’t about that anymore. It’s about how moronically I’ve played this pot. I should have either checked or just moved all in on the flop, getting the same odds but reversing the decision onto Darryl’s shoulders. Darryl plays the numbers, there’s no emotion in it for him. He knows from time to time that he’ll be quietly sipping scotch next to the fire, snuggled up with the jacks that just sent him walking from yet another tourney. But that’s the way it goes sometimes. A caller never, a bettor be.
Calling leaves me with about 6000, folding keeps me at 9500. So, if nothing more than to punish myself for my seemingly endless stupidity, I fold.
The simplest of concepts, swirling the drain of my mental capacity. I better get my shit together.
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