I Play My Hand At PokerStars Caribbean Adventure

Clackity-clack-clack goes the chips inside the Imperial Ballroom.

Over 1,348 players have converged at PokerStars Caribbean Adventure in the Bahamas to determine who will be the crème de la crème of Texas Hold `Em poker.

Not only is this the largest poker tournament outside the United States but the PCA also boasts one of the richest prize pools out of any tournament in the world. Imagine the large smile on last year’s winner, Poorya Nazari, as he took home an amazing $3,000,000 in prize money? I bet that was a very big smile indeed.

At times, the flying chips sound like chirping crickets. Despite the sighting of an occasional Vanessa Rousso, the poker world seems comprised mostly of dudes. (Either poker dudes or girls with poker dudes.)

Poker playing delegates from individual countries (from Sweden to Brazil) congregate in select groups speaking in native tongues with matching jackets.

Some players have flown to the Bahamas for the tournament only to find themselves eliminated from play within 14-minutes into sitting down at the table.

The new school mixes with the old school, as teens who look like they were playing World of Warcraft last year in their mom’s basement collide side-by-side with hardened Vegas backroom traditionalists.

As casino play heats up amongst the dozens upon dozens of filled tables, the Imperial  Ballroom is unusually warmed by the close proximity of bodies, mixed along with nervousness, body heat, and a tense sense of poker hands gone wrong. (What would be the poker equivalent of flop sweat?) Clackity-clack-clack go the chips. Here comes the swarm of crickets.

“No cell phones or texting allowed at the tables,” the announcer’s voice reverberates throughout the ballroom.

A popular style this year amongst players at this year’s PCA seems to be the uni-bomber look.

Yes, it’s the hoodie pulled firmly over the head topped with a pair of sunglasses in order to look like you’re either trying to hide a royal flush or in the midst of plotting to blow up a post office.

The proof is in the poker pudding:

With the amount of players wearing sunglasses at the tables one would think that poker tournaments were actually started by the sunglasses industry in order to boost eye-wear sales.

The railbirds are out in force, standing three to four people back, throwing out such observations as:

“He had aces, and he hit aces on the flop against a King/Queen.”

“What’s the most exciting thing you’ve seen so far?” I ask a Danish poker player who was bumped from the tournament on the first day–now just another railbird sipping a rum drink.

Pointing to a player with a castle constructed in a sea of blue, yellow, and red, he exclaims: “He has $5 million in chips in front of him!”

As players battle down for a prized spot at the final tables, accumulated chips in front of early victors look like colorful pyramids of Egypt or Aztec temples. Not to get all Howie Mandel on everyone, but you got to wonder how many germs are spread through touching poker chips and cards. Just one infected person at a table could spread Swine Flu throughout the whole tournament.

Boy genius poker champ Joe Cada did mention a lot of players were getting sick during the World Series of Poker due to the close contact with chips. I wonder if any germaphobic players sport surgical gloves and hand sanitizer at the tables before touching chips/cards?

Regardless, a last minute addition to the PCA tournament has just been added: yes, your loyal and faithful friend, narrator, and True/Slant journalist. That’s right I’m going to put my card playing proclivities on the line and enter the annual PokerStars’ Media Tournament where I’ll go neck-and-neck with other esteemed members of the press who also branish the prowess of covering this event as we flex our Texas Hole `Em muscles.

I take my place at one of the three media poker tables, nestling myself between a writer for a Finnish poker site and a few French journalists. Generously we each are all given $1,600 worth of chips. (I should really just stuff them in my pocket and get the hell out of here.)

“Can I fold right away and cash out?” I blurt. “Ha-ha-ha,” replies the table. Yes, I’m so very witty!

I don’t know a whole hell of a lot about poker, but I do know intimidation is the key. Not only am I now going by the poker name “Rambo,” but I’ve also decided to have a very unconventional way of stacking my chips. (In an octagon configuration.) I give my best intimidating stare. (It actually could be misconstrued as a look of great pain.)  I size up my competition, and secretly give them poker nicknames. (Frenchie, The Finn, The Twins, etc….)

A journalist from the Sun newspaper in the UK (The Brit) tries to give me a quick crash course in Texas Hole ‘Em. He throws out such words as “flops,” “blinds,” and “river cards.”

I nod and smile.

‘If you’re going to raise a always make sure it’s at least 50% of the pot,” he advices on betting strategy.

I nod and smile.

Tennis great Boris Becker lingers in the background. I’m dealt a 3 and 9. Here comes Rambo! Taking The Brit’s advice, I raise the pot 80%. The Finn folds. So does Frenchie. The rest of the crew follows.

“Pot goes to you,” announces the dealer.

Yes, I’m Bluff-Meister McGee! Just like that I win the first hand and a big pile of colorful chips. Maybe I’m a natural at this? Maybe professional poker playing is really my true calling? Could I be the next Phil Ivey?

“This is the kind of play you’d see at the highest levels,” I announce to the table.

Lightening strikes again. Two hands later I win again; bluffing with a seven and Jack; simply making everyone fold after I push a large amount of pretty chips into the center. (I think I got professional poker figured out.)

I’ve now adopted the aggressive style of play like the new Internet guard rather than the patient ABC game play of the old school like Chris Monkeymaker. (I do believe that Boris Becker might be checking out my game playing for pointers.) Also, the addition of my Jackie Kennedy-style sunglasses has greatly increased my level of play. I give The Brit a respectful nod being this is the point where the student surpasses the teacher. (He has yet to win a hand.)

After splitting a pot with The Finn (he is my rival; the Johnny Chan to my Daniel Negreanu) on a two pair Queen/six split, my poker face squint is beginning to hurt my face; my large sunglasses are making harder to see my cards. The blinds raise to $100.

Maybe I’ll play the next hand safe.

“I’m out!” I announce.

“You can check,” says the dealer, who’s still going around the table and hasn’t gotten to me yet.

“Okay, I check!” I proclaim when he gets to my turn. (I hope the other players will interpret this as a cunning reverse bluff and will quickly fold.)

I decide to go on the advice of Chris Moneymaker and play on instinct: if you think the other player is bluffing then stay in.  After raising Frenchie $500, I have my first crash and burn and lose several of my chips. My chips! My chips! My beautiful, beautiful chips!  Maybe my attention was diverted by the hot woman Boris Becker is now talking to? Perhaps the addition of a hoodie, iPod, and fancier sunglasses would greatly help my level play?

All I want is to relive the glory days of my winning first two hands. I start to go mad with power and play every hand.  Have I contracted what Vanessa Rousso would refer to as the “the tilt“? Everything is beginning to spin. My chips are spinning. The imperial ballroom is spinning. Boris Becker is spinning. My sunglasses keep fogging up. Must relive the joy of winning! Must relive the joy of winning! I push more and more chips into the pot. Frenchie, The Brit, The Finn, The Twins, all take my money. The bastards!

It all comes down to a face-off between The Finn and myself. I know he’s bluffing. I go with my instincts. (I just hope The Finn isn’t going with his instincts being I’m bluffing as well.)

As it turns out, The Finn was bluffing. We each have a king high. The river card is played. The Finn takes the hand with a high seven. Where did all my chips go?It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. I’m the first one out at the table.

I wonder if I could hawk my hotel room towels to get more chips? Rambo now very sad. Yes, I’ve crashed and burned like the Guns & Roses album Chinese Democracy: so much promise and anticipation that delivered so little.