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.
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