What doesn’t get as much attention is when the prodigal son returns and it’s the same old shit. Where’s the parable for that one, eh?
I had Skirts in the hole two hands in a row, first UTG then…well, you know where, and lost more on the second than I won on the first from the same shortie; shorter the second time, he resigned to call off and hope for an Ace. I was cool about it. After all, right? I know, right? Just wait, right? Apparently.
I was showing down with strength, which in my book says, “Keep it up, Pal, and your gonna get kicked in the teeth.” Mind you, I’m not saying it; I want the little voice in the opponent’s head to say it so I can pull off something a bit later. In better position.
Or at least middle with 89h. Yeah, that’s worth a limp with half a dozen other players. Except then the SB min-raises, which is nothing more than a back-assed straddle in my book, because everyone goes along for the ride.
The flop is Ah5c6h and I’m liking it. SB leads out with 1/3 pot. UTG, formally the shortie, now bought in full and perhaps a bit tipsy announces, “I have a gutshot” and calls. Well, imagine that. I sweeten it with a new half-pot and both come along.
The turn is the 9s. I have a pair! I figure the SB is sitting on a big Ace and Chatty Shortie has what he says he has (I know him well), both check to my show of strength on the flop and fold when I bring down the hammer.
It’s a nice little pot and erases my deficit with interest, and I’m pleased.
And then I note an old, familiar feeling. Fleeting, but familiar. Enough for me to shut it down for the night…perhaps for good.