liked her tea, he knew she was bluffing and he took her money.
My sympathies are with Betty. I like a nice cup of tea at the table, too.
♠
In a dream, I am just in the middle of folding a 67 offsuit when I am tapped on the shoulder by another me. She is older, filled out in some places, slimmed down in others, still looking very comfortable in the card room.
She says, ‘I’d have raised with that.’
I laugh.
‘No kidding,’ she says. ‘It’s a lucky hand.’
‘So has it all turned out all right?’ I ask.
‘Pretty good,’ she nods. ‘You’ve grown up happy enough. You sometimes wish that you were still a teenager, but only because you’ve forgotten what it was like. You play poker all the time now, because there’s nobody to stop you. The game has taken over your life. You’ve won a million dollars. You’ve been to the World Series of Poker. And Al Alvarez has sent you an email, congratulating you on becoming the European Champion.’
‘What’s an email?’ I say.
‘It’s something that took over everybody else’s life,’ my older self replies.
I think for a little while.
‘Have I got a husband and babies?’ I ask nervously. ‘And a nice house with a big garden?’
She has her own little think now. Maybe she doesn’t want to scare me. But she also wants me to know that girls are more honest when they’re older.
‘No,’ she says eventually. ‘You could probably afford the house and garden, what with the million dollars. But you’ll quite like your little flat. You won’t especially want to move anywhere else. Husband and babies . . . you’re in no rush.’
‘When I’m over thirty?’ I ask, in horror. ‘Not married? No children? Aren’t I incredibly lonely? Am I going to die alone?’
‘You might,’ she says. ‘But you won’t find it such a scary idea by then. And you’re not lonely. You’ve got poker. You’ve got lots of people. You’re not lonely at all – apart from occasionally, in an enormous, black, existential way, at four o’clock in the morning, when you are driven mad by the mind-blowing concept of finite human consciousness. And fifteen husbands couldn’t cure that!’ she chuckles.
There is a pause.
‘But I’m not at school any more, right?’ I ask.
And she nods.
I pick up my next hand, a pair of tens, and I think, well, that’s all right then.
A PAIR OF JACKS
Two jacks! Often a trouble hand. And the trouble is: you’re more likely to see an overcard on the flop than not to see one. So it can be kind of a relief if everyone passes before the flop comes down.
A pair of sevens, something like sevens, that’s easier to play after the flop. You know fine well whether you want action or not. Jacks . . . not quite a big pair, not quite a small one . . . they have this horrible habit of continuing to look good even when they have gone behind. Frozen there, preserved: could still be as good as they look, or could be artificial beauty now. So hard to tell sometimes. The Botox hand.
How much should I raise with these jacks, then? All-in would be dumb. Let’s not be dumb, on the biggest final table I’ve ever reached. My chip stack is too big to move in; anyone who called would have to be beating two jacks. Suicidal. And I don’t want to chase away every hand that’s worse than mine.
I don’t mind one caller. I’d like one caller. Blinds 8,000–16,000. I’ll make it 40,000. Enough to show I’m serious. But less than the full pot, give the weaker hand some odds. I bet 40,000.
Sid Harris re-raises all-in. Damn. I didn’t want anyone to go all-in. I certainly didn’t want Sid Harris to go all-in. Sid plays a hand once an hour or something. Aces, kings.
Hard to pass a decent pair, though. Haven’t had a good hand for ages. Pairs are so pretty, so enticingly symmetrical. Two curvy jacks, like Christmas stockings hanging in a fireplace. Or two round, juicy queens, like quail on a rotisserie. Two spiky kings, determined and macho, like marching soldiers in profile. Two clean, sharp, pure aces. God, I love looking down at my hole cards and finding a pair of matching picture cards. Painted twins.
Does Sid have a prettier hand than mine? ‘Whores’ or ‘cowboys’, as the Old School parlance goes? I would never call them ‘whores’. The queens aren’t whores. They are fat, proud, classy ladies. Like Mma Ramotswe from The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. And the kings aren’t cowboys. Cowboys are American, and America’s a republic. The kings look Persian to me. Noble Persians, from that ancient land where cards were played in the fourteenth century. Carpets, cats and cards: what a beautiful culture. Has Sid got kings?
I like Sid. He’s Old School. He lives in Hove and writes books about horse racing. Been playing for a long time. He’s like a classic Vic player. I’ve never actually seen him in the cash game at the Vic, but he would fit right in. Looks right, talks right. Not one of these crazy teenage Swedes. No mindless all-in, all-in, just for the sake of aggression. Thoughtful, gradual poker. And he seems like such a nice man. I don’t really want to knock him out.
Wait, wrong thought process. I want to knock everybody out. No pity, no mercy. No feminine. He’s not a nice man, he’s an obstacle to victory. I want to knock Sid out. I want to grind him into the ground. I want to send him home skint. I want every chip, I want him pleading for the bus fare. I want to obliterate them all.
Crazy teenage Swede, of course, it’s easy. I would call in about three seconds. Less. Two jacks, raise, all-in re-raise from a crazy teenage Swede: my chips are in the pot before Björn’s even moved.
With Sid, you know, it’s more difficult. I have to think about it. The railbirds might disapprove of that. Let’s say I call, cards come over, Sid was making a move, I’ve got massively the best hand – then I thought too long, it looks like a slow roll. But Sid doesn’t seem to make a lot of moves. He’s a solid player. I respect that.
Then again, I can’t pass. For this situation, I’ve got a hand. It’s a chance to knock out a player. More money. Good chips. He could maybe do this with any pair, any ace. Even if he’s got me beat, I’m not dead. Five cards to come. Plenty of jacks in the deck.
Well, two.
But you have to get lucky to win tournaments; got to give yourself the opportunity to get lucky. And this is the most important tournament of my life. It’s the final table of the London EPT, that magical week when the all-important European Poker Tour comes to my own home casino. My regular poker opponents are gathered on the rail, watching. Some of them have shares in my action, others just want to see a local player do well in the big event. $1,000,000 available as first prize. No woman has ever won it before.
