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"live in san telmo" |
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Sunday, October 15, 2006
There was one table running, the occupants of which ranged from forty to fifty years of age, with a single bearded anomaly who resembled Dolye Brunson right down to the sad, wise, unwavering glow of his eyes. I scrutinised each person carefully, with the meditative efficiency of a bee as it roams an exotic flowerbed.
"We're fucked", I said to Erik. A lone, full table of regulars - possibly some of the richest men in the district - stared back at us as if we were the very girls they might later purchase with our money.
After an impassioned wait we both sat down and bought in for the minimum 1000 peso. With an ante of 25 (there were no blinds) and a standard bet being at least the size of the pot it made sense to play safe and forget about raising non-premium hands. But this didn't seem to matter to most players and chips flew from stack to stack like silver between neighbouring magpies. After just three hands I had never felt more comfortable in my life.
By my 3rd Jack Daniels I'd won 1500 in chips and by my 6th I was up another 1k. A flopped ace here.. an overpair there.. As long as I didn't continue bet too much things were going swimmingly.
Well, inevitably the tides change, this tide in particular being the alcohol flowing through my blood. My opponents' habit of overbetting makes any mistake costly, and calling a river with ace high is simply idiotic.
In my final hand (stacks I can't remember, but they were large enough) I rather impatiently raised QJo to get one caller and a flop of Q55. This was an instant push and my opponent gaily flips Q5o; amidst a barrage of cussing scoops the pot.
"What the fuck was that? What the fuck are you doing? Queen five off? What the fuck?" I gave him the middle finger and promised I would be back for my money another day.
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