GPS leg 2 Fox TV table part 2

I feel the need to break out of the narrative just for a moment.  I've been posting this experience breath by breath for three reasons: I want to remember exactly how my first live tournament really felt by reading this when I'm old, grey and want to bore even the golfers; I want my supportive-yet-mystified friends and family to really get me that bit more; and I have hopes that noobs like me will find this helpful in some way.

Now that's said:

I find when I return to my former table to collect my chips that it's actually my current and future table - livestream here I go again.  I feel disappointed but much less daunted than when I first sat down two hours ago.  Not much to report here except when I fell afoul of the rules.  Sort of.  I stepped away from my seat to text my friend Nat again "They didn't move me! :(  At least I can wave to mAoife!".  I see the new dealer finishing the shuffle and step back to my seat and place my hand on the back of my chair, scrolling down to 'send' on my phone.  I see I don't get my first card and say 'Hey!?' to the dealer.  He says, "you weren't at your seat."  I say, "I'm clearly at my seat!"  He says, "You weren't in your seat."  Cards are finished dealing at this point.  I flump into my seat grumbling weakly "First dealer said AT the seat. Even you said AT the seat before you changed it!".  New not-a-chance-I-can-like-him dealer doesn't reply.  After a few moments of internal grousing I feel WONDERFUL because I am not even close to crying!

I have to say this is the only time I'm landed on uneven ground by way of dealers/rules. Though in some ways I wish I'd called the floor to find the ultimate "AT v. IN" ruling, I elected to make sure I was always IN after this.  (I did witness 'AT' being good enough plenty of times over the next many hours and never saw an issue about this again for what it's worth.)  I settle in and the rest of the time at this table is uneventful for me.


After four hours of play, my TV table does indeed finally break.

Things I've learned so far:

=  Jac Arama is of course a real human being person with a kids he loves and everything.  (Still a brutal player to have on your left though.)

=  Stowjon was missing from breaks because he was out and playing cash.

=  The massive turn-out had confused procedures for Genting staff a bit what with the two venues and the announcements betwixt and between.

=  It really was just like the Hendom Mob forum league games.  Mostly.

By the dinner break I'm feeling much more comfortable in my skin and more able to play poker now that the unruly crowd of mad thoughts flinging rotten tomatoes my way has tired out.  I have a wonderfully relaxing dinner break with Nick (Ripple22) and Joe (Beevers) with some truly inspiring poker conversation which I won't forget (and won't share any time soon- wahaha it's mine, all mine for now!).

Pardon the expression, but it could be that the urge to 'not be a pussy wallflower' feeling can hit at the wrong time...maybe.  Sometime after 9pm and 8+ hours of play, I decide that I'm being run over and the message "BE STRONG." thumps into my head.  So, I ship it all with AQoff in late position with 18 BB against a mid position standard sized raise by...?  It's a blanket 'Take me seriously!' beligerance that's come over me.  I have no read on the guy or the play whatsoever and he has me covered. Shove for my tournament life with AQoff here?  I know in my regular tourneys online I'd consider very many more factors before I shove than I did here. At least one more factor than '...grrrr!'  The only reason the 'maybe' enters the picture is that I know I have a leaky tendency to 'BE SAFE' my chips away.  But not tonight!

Anyway, original raiser calls my all in with QQ.  Nothing helps and I'm out.


As I stand up from the table and hear the dealer shout "SEAT OPEN!" maybe I should feel gutted.  But what I actually feel is... strong.  And stupid.  But yes, definitely gutted.  18BBs!  Not 12 or 10 but 18!  With many hands to see before the blinds hit me again!  I didn't even look to see if a level change was coming!  But, then again, salve to my wound if not really healing: 18BBs wasn't anywhere near average stack.  I went out fighting, I didn't limp to an 'at least I made day 2' finish line.

It then occurs to me that I'm exiting at approximately the same time as I arrived at the Fox the night before to see Joe Beevers being eliminated from day 1a.  Betcha he wasn't blinded out.

And so I find some perspective before the seat formerly-known-as-mine is even filled.  I hear Grampa Arthur's voice very clearly, "Hey, you did alright. Time for a beer, kid."  Of course, according to him, I was always pretty much alright no matter what I was up to.  He was just that kind of guy.  I do go get a bottle of beer and settle in to being out. I lurk around the tables trying to see who's still in that I know.  Quite a few.  I mull over what it'll be like coming back to rail tomorrow for the final day 1 and then day 2 and...

A whispered chant starts in my head: "re-buy".  I'm unsure.  I picture Grampa Arthur reaching up under his cap to scratch his head and he says, "I don't know tournaments, kid.  I'm regular poker."  The chant swells to a shout.  I'm in London for 3 more days and I just want to live and breathe poker, and my poker is the irregular kind - tournament poker.

As I walk to the cashier to re-buy I feel him smile and shrug and say "Ok kid.  See you later."

I stand holding my re-buy receipt and look around the room.  I realize there's no one speaking in my head.  Sure, if I look for him, Grampa Arthur will lift his cap in a wave but, really, I've stepped out on my own.  And it feels right.  A little bit 'gambly', but alright.  I couldn't care less about sunny holidays with siestas and beautiful landmarks to see and romantic music in the air.  I want to spend my time in over-crowded spot-lit rooms suffering neverending temperature issues filled with mostly cranky men and their 'issues'... as long as there are cards in the air.

GPS leg 2 Fox TV table

The dealer is very friendly as he tells us the standard rules and the extra TV table rules.  As an avid follower of the 'You are the Tournament Director' (YATTD) series on The Hendon Mob forum (http://www.thehendonmob.com/tournament_director5/) I listen very carefully.  The dealer stresses most the new crackdown on acting out of turn: automatic two hand penalty.  The main rule different for the TV table is there is no use of phones or other devices while seated at the table.  He also says each player must be at their seat before the first card is dealt.  I clarify "In the seat or at the seat?"  He answers "At your seat."  Most of the other players, all of whom seem like old hands at this to me, just continue what they're doing and occasionally nod as the dealer speaks.  They remind me of airline passengers pfaffing about while the flight attendants go through their safety spiel.

Jac Arama is the first to act out of turn.  He only mildly protests the penalty.  He also walks all over me and my scared chips.  He's in every pot and takes most of them down quickly enough as evidenced by his growing stacks of ante chips.  He's quite good fun, though I feel like a cartoon character - the clueless runty dog who keeps smiling and slavering 'yeah, yeah, yeah, yes sir Ace!' while the smiling St. Bernard takes all his food.

Inside me the panic tide is rising though.  I still haven't adjusted to being where I am.  Early on I stepped away from the table to text my mate Nat back in Ireland "AUGH! I'm on the fucking TV table!!!".  She sent reassuring messages back: "You know I don't understand poker but you look like you belong there."  and from my favorite 2 year old, her baby girl Aoife, "What's Aunty D doing??".  Really, what was I doing?  Just being the haddock at the table.  Throughout this early bit I've had several visits from the brilliant Mob group- speaking very supportive words and trying to focus me.  Joe Beevers came by and said, "You can do this.  Just pretend you're playing the league."  Bogus (Mob forum royalty to me) got eye to eye with me and said much the same with equal certainty.  I knew what they meant and I knew they were right, but my mind had gone mutiny on the bounty - it shouted: "But I'm sucking in the league right now!!!"

But as the first break nears, I get Joe and Bogus' and what feels like the whole Hendon Mob forum's feet under me.  I know I should've been able to stand on my own two, but my sea legs having gone missing in action, I was glad to have theirs.  Last hand before the break I'm in late position and look at AJ suited.  I open 3x.  Jac Arama re-raises.  I dig their feet in and 3bet. Jac folds and starts gathering his things for the break, chatting away to me as if it's just another day. 

I'm deaf to all he says.  I go semi-hysterical inside at this monumental moment and race away from the table to please god make the ladies room before I burst into tears.  Steps from that refuge I run smack into Danny (AKhater on the forum).  Literally run smack into him.  He asks "Hey, how's it going?"  I duly burst into those tears, apologize, explain that I actually won the last hand, but it's just too much, bit overwhelmed ha ha.  Ugh.  He's very kind, mutters sincere words of comfort and leaves me to compose myself in the skirt room.

I splash cold water on my wrists and laugh into my tear-stained face in the mirror.  (This is the only time I'm grateful there are so few women playing poker as the ladies room is deserted.)  I'm mocking myself picturing Joe Beevers, Barny Boatman, Phil Ivey, Phil Galfond, ANY of the poker players I admire as they run tearfully from a card room- having won a hand no less.  Fucksakes, I can't even picture the most-likely-to-cry-of-the-poker-players-I-admire Victoria Coren being the mess I am now.  Gradually I'm more laughing than crying and the hysteria ebbs away.

I go downstairs to meet the lads on the pavement of Shaftsbury Avenue.  Most smoking, some actually getting fresh air.  We catch up with how everyone's doing.  Leon (X on the forum http://xpokerdiary.blogspot.com/), Danny (AKhater) with Monty (Pizzicato) and Ian (Brodders) in there too.  I'm really settling down now.  We talk about the harshness of Darren (darrensprengers) being stuck at the awkward side tables of the tournament at another site.  We wonder where StowJon is.  I'm feeling more like a poker player again.  As we walk back upstairs we chat about how I'm bound to be moved because the TV table normally breaks every break.

No such luck.

March 29, 2012 GPS leg 2 FOX

The Hendon Mob Forum (THMF) poster who is most kindly persistent for a pre-tournament meet up is Stowjon.  He is Mr. 'I'm not f*~!?! short' but still undeniably ginger.  According to texting arrangements, I arrive outside the Fox just before 12:30pm - tournament start time is 1:00pm.  In fact, I arrive quite a bit earlier, thinking to get a meal in, but food service doesn't start in the poker room until 12:30pm so I grab a ready-made egg mayonaise sandwich from the caf down the road.  I eat half of it at their tables outside, basking in the glorious sunny day (it IS the end of March so warmth and sunshine really do qualify as glorious).

Minutes later, I stand at the bottom of the Fox steps (yes, again- I now regard this as part of my comfort zone).  I know Jon is delayed having received f!*%g traffic texts etc.  A few minutes later I identify him immediately as he walks down Shaftsbury Avenue toward the club.  My first thought is: he really isn't that f!*?/g short.  This whole time I've been picturing your man the dwarf from Lord of the Rings and Jon clearly doesn't have to strain to reach up and shake my hand.  In reality, he's quite the gent in a chatban trenchcoat.

We proceed upstairs and order coffee.  Jon graciously takes the host role and all joking aside about him buying our free coffees, solely because of Jon I feel that bit more grounded.  Though I must admit the timeline gets a bit blurry for me from this point.  I know he introduces me to other THMFrs and I remember who I meet that first day, but I'm really unclear in which order and when.  SeanFoley (Gary), X (Leon) and AKhater (Danny) are among the first.  Then it is finally table draw time and all the fellas are so kind to pretend they don't feel the drag on their coat-tails as I struggle to understand the screen.

I go searching for my table and find it.  I want to cry.  I'm on the 'TV' table to start the day.  No chatban way!  This is not on!  I can't do this!  This is my first big live tournament and the fecking poker god clowns have put me on the live-stream table?!  In middle position where I can't be free of public scrutiny ever?!!?

As I'm trying to pretend that I'm not a pinball machine run over by a soul-taken bulldozer driven by Stephen King, the player to my direct left arrives to take his seat.  Oh.  Excellent.  Jac Arama.  Genuine broadcast television's Late Night Poker funny glasses madmeister.  No time to adjust to that as the dealer tells us the special TV table rules.  Cue grey cloud descending over my brain.  I think in literature they call it a 'fug'.  I think in this instance they left out the CKIN and also the HELL on the end.

I have no plan for this.

Some minutes later

28 March 2012 some minutes later

I had signed up on line to be a member of the Fox Poker Club many weeks previously.  When I finally get myself to the top of the stairs and approach the reception desk I'm told I don't have to be a member because I've earned temporary membership via my Genting Poker Series Tournament entry.  My inner whacko yells "NOOOO!  I wanna be a REAL poker player!!!".  I wait out my mental tantrum and politely say, "I'd like to be a full member."  As the receptionist continues through my membership process, all I can hear in my head are several THMFrs laughing: 'she wants to be a full member! wah ha ha ha!'  and it's when both receptionsits look up at me quizically that I realize- I've been reacting to imagined sordid jokes which they obviously can't see and I certainly can't explain.

I receive my genuine, bonafide Fox Poker Club London membership card and proceed to walk boldly down the hall.  I can see only a bit of the room as I go forward.  On entering the room I see several tables on my left and more tables on my right and THEY'RE ALL LOOKING AT ME! THE NOOB!  I veer off to my right (just follow the path, just follow the path) and I take another right when I'm able and I end up in the toilet area.  I breathe a sigh of relief.  No kidding.

My head is spinning.  I continue on down this hall and coming to a junction I realize that I've returned to my starting point and no way am I going to make another eejit circuit.  I backtrack and see that in this hallway there exists more than toilets - Official Smoking Area FTW!  It's empty and I light up to catch my breath.  I silently whinge and moan to Grampa Arthur.  He doesn't get what I'm on about.  "It's just cards."  Huh.

I reminisce... mulling over the last several lifetime minutes.  The poker player in me starts to emerge.  My happy monkey 'Hiya!' to Joe Beevers.  A man descending the steps of a poker club where a tournament is ongoing and no one else follows.  It's not a fecking break. It's the ugly 'seat open!'.  I'm stunned that he had the grace to smile and speak to a random shiny face on a London avenue.

I gather myself and re-enter the room.  This time I actually look around a bit.  Furtively.  Players, dealers, chips.  Reality adjustment.  Approximately a million more tables than I've ever seen in my local 'classic' tournaments. More ipads than I've ever seen in one room ever.  No one, absolutely no one, cares who I am after noting that I'm not a new dealer/player at their table.

I decide I'm going to play cash.  I want to acclimatize myself.  I riffle my own chips at home while playing online (yes, really) but fucksakes that's my entire experience handling chips outside a Las Vegas blackjack table with JodyLee.  And blackjack definitely doesn't count at a poker table.  So.  I present myself at the counter.  Everyone is very kind as they inform me they're the Genting tournament staff and I need to go 'over there' to the cash window.

As I walk over to the cash window which sits on the edge of my rescue toilet/smoking hallway, I mull over my situation.  I can't concieve of pretending  that I know what I'm doing.  Disaster this way lies.  So when I arrive I go front street.  "I'd like to play cash.  How does that work please?"

To my relief they are completely accomodating.  And friendly.  (Meaning no one at any time makes me feel as stupid as I feel.)  I sit down and hold my own.  Mostly I work like a sponge: my cash table, the tournament tables, the Fox Poker Club in general.

I head back to my hotel after a couple of hours and a massive amount of observation.  Some of which:  It is really true that the charismatic, funny guy at the cash table makes people happy and makes money (Mike); Old guys are not necessarily the weak spots; Bar/food service here is sad and not dependent on whether one is a good tipper; real live poker is perfectly satisfying to my imagined games from my Grampa Arthur's stories.

I leave knowing I'll really be okay starting my tournament tomorrow - day 1b- as long as I avoid the TV table.

And the poker gods laugh.

Naivite survives

28 MARCH 2012 

I stand at the foot of the staircase leading up to the Fox Poker Club in London.  I focus on my breathing.  My mental dialogue goes like this:

"This is it!  I'm here!  I found it!  I made it!  I'm so excited!...  I CAN'T GO IN!!!"

Random panic memories flood my mind, the most gut-wrenching on auto repeat:  

Several years ago, my beloved JodyLee (who understands and supports (!) my poker dreams) gives me a $300 bankroll, takes me to her local Indian casino and says "Go!".  I walk through the door and pause to get my bearings and sit at the nearest one arm bandit to center myself.  Some sort of Egyptian Treasure claptrap.  I keep glancing at the poker room doorway, willing myself to get up and walk.  I sit.  And I sit.  After several hours I get up and ring JodyLee.  Time to leave.  I'm bust and I hate myself just a little bit. 

So, here I am at the foot of the Fox Poker Club stairs.  I don't see any crushed cigarette butts and other rubbish on the pavement.  I don't hear the mad Shaftsbury Avenue traffic noise.  I see banks of slot machines and far off in the right corner I see the door to the card room.

I blame the Hendon Mob Forum.  I wouldn't be here otherwise dammit.  The feckers are so supportive and encouraging once you get passed the chainsaw-in-shite humour.   And the Mob themselves - fucksakes!  I've watched them since the first days of Late Night Poker.  Fascinated me.  Do they have to be genuine as well?!?

So, yes, I'm still stood rooted at the bottom of the stairs of the Fox Poker Club where I've pre-regged online for the second leg of the Genting Poker Series.  Lotta money.  For me.  This time I didn't spend it on my children or my bills.  The money was generated from my poker play and I'm going to use it on my poker play.  I am.  I will.  ...  I'm still standing here.

Grampa Arthur.  (JodyLee's dad)  He was a reg at the low limit cash tables.  I listened to his too brief stories in fascination.  I always hoped to join him on one of his trips to the casino.  I didn't make that hope a reality in time.  Still kills me, that does.

So we're all standing there, at the bottom of the Fox Poker Club stairs on the Wednesday night (including those weighing on my shoulders):  Me, Grampa Arthur, THMFrs Bogus, StowJon, DCSW7, Pizzicato, AKhater, Ripple22, DroptheHammer, Joe Beevers, ... ... WAIT!

So in the time that I'm (let's all say it in chorus) standing at the foot of the Fox Poker Club stairs and all the events written above riot through me, nothing has changed.  All of London has been frozen around me as I stare up at the doors.  And then comes Joe.  Joe Beevers.  The Hendon Mob's Joe Beevers.  Walking down those fated stairs.  Not a soul has appeared before then.  We're talking EMPTY stairs that I've been staring at.  And here's Joe!

My mental dialogue:

IT'S A SIGN!  IT'S A SIGN! GRAMPA ARTHUR! WE HAVE A SIGN!!!

A broad smile usurps my face and I say "Hiya!" as Joe meets my eyes.  Joe smiles politely and says "Hi." and then he continues on at pace.

I pause and sort of laugh at myself.  My usual behavior when meeting someone I admire has been to avert my eyes and pretty much act as if they don't exist.  This time 'IT'S A SIGN!" had taken over me and it still went okay.  Mad.   So, I think, I might as well climb the stairs.

And so I did.