Wednesday, January 19, 2011

The bile. It rises as easy money hits time and again in key hands but calls any preflop. Eventually, some of the bubbly green juice spills over, and the best of us manage only an utterance tinged  with the wish that what is eating you could poison him.

— I have no business calling.

It’s a mantra.  I wonder how he will crack my Aces, but the K3o doesn’t hold up. The way it should be. Loves 45s too. Played it twice, once against a 6xBB all-in. Catches a straight on the river.  God, I want to nail this kid. Of course he hits second pair on the turn when I have him out-licked and I’m the first one gone at the final table.

Could be worse. Could have been for money. Could have been last week’s home game.

Let’s call it “Hamburger and Fries” poker.

I didn’t see that the board was paired when he raised my straight,

I worried that I had mucked the best hand on the showdown, when clearly I hadn’t.

I flipped over the river card on my deal just a hair too soon.

I led out from early position without the nut draw in O8.

I reminded myself to concentrate, to no avail. But eventually the meal has to wear off, right?

An idiotic game, Tahoe, called by the guy to my left.  Three cards, use two, but no where near midpoint between Texas and Omaha.  Yet he was where any winnings I had so far had come, and was pleased when his flush came at the expense of my boat on the turn. But who was this other kid calling? All low cards, slim chance of a straight flush, raising when the J comes on the river. ..

2.5 buy-ins gone, I got up and left. I could have lost more.  Small consolation.

I even hesitated telling you about it.

I should eat something…

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