To be honest, I never really thought spending two years in the same newsroom with Loughrie would do me much good. I mean, he’s a good guy and all (in his own way), but he doesn’t really have the kind of moral framework you want rubbing off on you.

Last night, though, more often than I should admit, I was thinking: “WWJD.”

“What would James do?”

Check. Raise. Fold. Yeah, I’m talking about poker here, nothing cosmic. But when I had a pile of photocopied 100-RMB bills in front of me and the guy across the table said “All in,” what the hell else was I supposed to conjure up?

I almost didn’t play at all. I didn’t even think I’d go out. There are always excuses to stay home and mope, so I dragged myself to the Tin Whistle. The game was a fund raiser for the Wolfhounds, Dalian’s ad hoc Gaelic football team. I keep meaning to join, but that means regular practices and running and not being lazy. And I haven’t decided how not-lazy I want to be this semester. I figured I could do more for the team as a piss poor poker player than a piss poor footballer.

The game was no-limit hold ‘em, starting with 16 players at two tables. A few went for too much too early, and I got a good flop or two that put me ahead. An old golf pro used to tell me: “If you don’t know what you’re doing, fake it.” Works for poker, too, I guess.

Somehow I made it to the final table. I had a wad of paper cash (no chips to be found in Dalian) in my back pocket, which I kept promising to lose so I could go flirt with the Italian girls. It was somebody’s birthday, and they didn’t mind my Chitaliano. I kept saying that, figuring I’d be out in a round or two, then taking the next pot.

It went on like this for hours. Around 1:30 a.m. there were two of us left, me and another equally unlikely player. Martin didn’t come to the final table with much. He got there because someone got too ambitious or didn’t have the cards or something. Hell, I don’t even know how I got there, so it’s no use speculating. But Martin hung in, and he let me knock out Jim, who brought the most money to the final table and who everybody figured would end up with something.

We went back and forth more times than I can count by recollection. I had a big lead, so I figured it was just a matter of time. Then he went all in on a flush draw, clubs. I had a pair of 2s. Both our hands were balanced on the river card. I dealt it: 2 of clubs. That gave me three 2s, him a flush. We started calling him Lazarus after that. He just wouldn’t die.

Two hours into St. Patrick’s Day, the Irish were singing Pirates of the Caribbean songs (Yo-ho and something about rum), and we were still playing.

I went for broke a few times after that, and I won every hand on the last card. When I needed a jack, a jack came up. It happened three times in a row. We were even, then I was ahead, then he took one and I took the next. At 2:30 a.m. we contemplated splitting the pot. Four hundred each would be a good night’s take. He held out, went all in on the next hand and brought me down to a minimal pile again. One more finished it.

How did Martin win? Hell if I know. I’m typing this up with a hangover and trying to figure out how I played five hours of hold ‘em last night and finished second in a field of far better players. My friends back home will testify: I don’t really do this sort of thing. Gambling ain’t me. My worst nightmare, I’ve often said, is a no-limit game with Loughrie and a few of our old editors. Deal me out.

Look how much happier Martin looks with all that fake cash.
Shoulda been me.

This entry was posted on Friday, March 16th, 2007 at 11:20 pm and is filed under the Dalian life. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.