Amateur gets money’s worth at World Series of Poker event

Conventional poker wisdom, made famous in the movie "Rounders," goes something like this: If you haven't identified the fish (or sucker) after the first 30 minutes at the table, it's probably you.

Meet Carp, the fish at Table 3 -- and later, Tables 119 and 90 -- of the recently completed Seniors No-Limit Hold 'em event at the World Series of Poker.

Carp has never played in a tournament and only twice in a casino card room, two decades ago in Reno. He rarely plays poker except for pennies with teenage grandsons. He doesn't have a clue about odds or percentages, has never read a book about Hold 'em or played online. He has attention deficit disorder and no poker face; his reactions easily read from 500 yards on a moonless night.

He has, however, watched hundreds of hours of poker on TV. He's over 50, the minimum age to play in this event, has the $1,000 entry fee and, more importantly, his wife's blessing for a Vegas memory.

But now, on the Monday morning of the tournament, Carp isn't so sure this is such a great idea. He nearly sideswipes a car as he heads to the Rio on Interstate 15, then misses his exit. He finds a parking spot in an adjacent ZIP code, and the long walk only increases his anxiety. He walks up the red carpet and pauses to send an e-mail, only partly in jest, to a friend at work.

"Having my last smoke outside. Feel like I'm about to be blindfolded and executed next."

That's quickly followed by another: "Tell my family that I love them."

Carp settles in at Table 3, Seat 3. He has no illusions or expectations. None. Nada. Zilch.

Word in the room has a dignitary kicking off the event. Might the opportunity to shout "shuffle up and deal" be part of the rehabilitation of Sen. John Ensign, who at the time is the points' leader for the coveted 2009 Philandering Politician of the Year?

No such luck. It's U.S. Rep. Shelley Berkley, preaching and pandering to the room about her efforts to legalize online poker. She gets only scattered, polite applause. The guy in Seat 4, from northern Kentucky, turns to Carp and asks: "What was she talking about?"

World Series photographers quickly move among the tables to snap each of the 2,707 players, just in case they want to buy a souvenir later. Carp wonders if they got the guy whose visions of the $435,000-plus first prize ended when eliminated first, just minutes after the start.

Table 3 is a friendly and safe place with lots of chitchat. The two forced bets, or blinds, are both $25 for the first hour (or level), and no one is getting hurt much. Carp plays his first hand about 15 minutes into the event, after pairing 8s in the hole. The flop (the first three common cards, dealt face up) shows only face cards, however, so he folds to the action.

He can't resist the potential karma when he's dealt 3s a few hands later and calls a small raise. The flop shows aces and faces; he mucks again. He is down about $700 from the $3,000 in chips everyone started with. A flopped straight (and later aces and nines) cures that; and by the time his first group is broken up to fill other tables, Carp is even. Better yet, he's not been hooked.

• • •

Some "real" poker players love sitting at a table with fish on the menu. They know that barring a miracle, eventually they will get the suckers' money; the more fish entered, the bigger the prize pool. Other pros prefer that guys such as Carp be content to watch the game on TV. Occasionally, a fish does something really stupid and still wins the pot, costing them money in a card room -- or their tournament lives.

There is, of course, a lotterylike chance that a fish can win it all or at least crash the big dance known as the final table. It's happened before, though not by someone with Carp's paucity of skills.

But hey, Norman Chad -- he of the face for radio and a voice for print -- has caught lightning in a bottle as the analyst and resident smartass on ESPN's coverage of the World Series. So, yes, anything can happen in poker.

Carp originally hoped to make it to the second day of the three-day seniors' event. Then he read the structure sheet from WSOP and saw that would require 10 hours of play, starting at noon the first day and, with breaks, lasting past midnight. The second day's action started at 2 p.m. and might not get over until Wednesday morning about 3. At age 61, the only time Carp is up that late is to pee.

• • •

The move from Table 3 to 119 yanks Carp's security blanket, destroying any confidence the flopped straight has temporarily given him.

Three players already have doubled up, the raises larger and more frequent as the big stacks cast, troll and jig for more chips. Carp drops a grand in tournament chips quickly, and two other factors elevate his anxiety.

A high-stakes cash game is going on at a table directly behind him, and railbirds are there to watch Men "The Master" Nguyen -- he of six bracelets and 63 in-the-money WSOP finishes -- and Greg "Fossilman" Raymer, winner of the 2004 Main Event and its $5 million.

A new player joins Table 119 about halfway through the second level of play. He looks familiar but Carp doesn't learn his name until the break. It is Joe Awada, who, along with a bracelet as the 2004 Seven-Card Stud World Champion, has one of poker's more interesting backgrounds. Awada emigrated from Lebanon as a child, became a circus juggler, moved to Las Vegas as an adult and performed at Circus Circus and other venues until becoming a card room dealer and then a poker pro.

Awada's stay is brief. Two bad flops leave him the short stack, and when his suited king-queen doesn't catch what he needs on the river (the last common card), he busts out.

Carp's day improves in one hand. Not only does his wife show up, he gets a king on the flop to match two pocket cowboys. The $2,000 pot doubles his stack, he has outlasted a bracelet winner and his biggest fan is grinning. Maybe this fish can actually swim.

Soon, however, he would move into deeper water.

• • •

When registering a week in advance, Carp joined a line of 70 to 80 people, mostly men signing up at the last minute for a $2,000 Hold 'em event that day. Many were just kids. Damn, Carp thought, I have hemorrhoids older than a lot of them.

The queue was full of guys sporting baggy shorts and T-shirts, or sports shirts and khakis that looked like they had been slept in -- all week. A handful reminded Carp of the infamous "Saturday Night Live" skit, in which the late Chris Farley played a desperate salesman. If they didn't cash in an event soon, might these guys, too, be "livin' in a van, down by the river"?

Many in line seemed to know each other. They exchanged waves, nods, hand slaps or greetings of "good luck." Which brings up a seemingly valid question about poker's attempt to be considered a legitimate sport.

Certainly, playing poker well takes skill, thousands of hours of practice, physical and mental stamina, and emotional discipline.

Many pros play it straight, the old-fashioned way -- pay your money and take your chances. But others are part of a team or have backers, usually other players, who have ponied up part of the entry fee for a percentage of any winnings. Standing in the middle of the main corridor that registration day, one agitated, well-known pro bellowed that a team member hadn't arrived for the $2,000 event just under way.

Now, a cynic might wonder what would happen if two team members or two guys with shares of each other wound up at the same table. How would anyone know? And how honest a game would that be for others who drew such a tilted table? Can you imagine Tiger Woods having a piece of Vijay Singh at the U.S. Open? How about Tom Brady and Eli Manning making a deal for one to get the Super Bowl ring and the other a larger part of the payoff?

Such is poker's dirty, not-so-little secret.

Not that Carp didn't have his own financial backers. In exchange for 5 percent, a Phoenix friend mailed him a logoed hat and a Doc Holliday T-shirt from his magazine, True West. And a San Francisco friend is sending 5 percent of his winnings from a friendly weekly poker game in exchange for a piece of Carp's WSOP action. The first payment came recently: a dime and a nickel taped to a card along with a single and a two-dollar bill -- $3.15.

His coach also got 5 percent. To a select group of friends of more than 50 years, he is known simply as Dan the Man. Generally quiet and unassuming, it is believed he possesses gurulike qualities.

After giving it a couple of days thought and research, Dan the Man surmised that Carp's best chance was to confound and frustrate his table mates by playing the doddering old fool.

• When the dealer gives you two hole cards you don't like, act confused and ask for two others.

• If you get two bad hole cards but decide to bluff, loudly say, "Hot damn," and bet on them.

• When your first bluff is exposed, look puzzled and say: "Aren't we playing lowball?"

• Ask the dealer if it is permissible to split aces and then bet on whatever you are holding.

• Call a tournament official and ask to be moved to the Faro table.

• Constantly mutter under your breath. Fidget and complain about how anyone could expect a seniors' event to have bathroom breaks only every two hours or a dinner break at the ungodly hour of 7 p.m. Ask if the early-bird dinner special will still be available then.

You were born to the role, Dan the Man said: "Just be yourself."

• • •

Officials dispatch Carp to Table 90 when they break up 119. Of 10 players at the new table, his stack is third from the bottom. A thousand players already have been eliminated, and as the blinds increase to $100 to $200, so does the intensity.

A new dealer/stand-up-wannabe doesn't help much as he rattles off quips about seniors, the last group on earth unprotected by political correctness. Most just ignore it or play along, but one takes offense. The tension escalates a bit with each rim shot until a buff oldster, who appears to just make the age 50 cut, implies that maybe they can settle the matter outside at the break. The jokes stop.

Carp drops a smallish pot just before the break when his "big slick" -- ace-king -- loses to a pair of deuces.

He knows the blinds will soon increase again, that he needs to start building a stack. He revisits an e-mail he got earlier from the friend at work, which quoted financier Warren Buffett: "When others are greedy, be fearful. And when others are fearful, be greedy."

What Carp really needs is a quick tutorial on conquering his own fear, abysmal lack of talent, short stack and much bigger fish lurking in darker water.

Still, the fifth hour of play starts well. Two pocket kings deliver just a small pot as only one other player stays in the hand, but Carp is heartened. Through the first four hours, he has seen more bad hands than a year of TV commercials for arthritis, psoriasis and anti-aging cream -- combined.

Fifteen minutes later, two ladies peek back at him. He bets and is called by two players. The flop brings another queen and another bet. Only one calls. The turn is an ace, and both check to a blank on the river. The big stack bets $1,200; Carp confidently calls. But three aces beats three queens -- always.

He's been hooked, played, landed, gutted, filleted, dusted in flour, dipped in egg, sautéed and topped with a lovely lemon, butter and caper sauce -- in just under two minutes. Now on life support with only about $900 left, Carp goes all in two hands later with pocket jacks. His pair doesn't improve, and a hand with three aces sends him to the rail -- in about 1,500th place.

• • •

There are no lovely parting gifts for WSOP losers. Not even a stick of sponsor Jack Link's Beef Jerky, much less a seniors bag full of discount gift certificates for Viagra, Depends, Metamucil or a hearing aid company.

You just walk out the door.

Still, his five hours as a "professional" poker player were worth every penny of the entry fee. In six decades, Carp has spent much more on memories worth far less.

Might he try it again?

Nope -- it's too much like work.

Should he have done anything differently?

Perhaps follow the teachings of Dan the Man.

Charlie Waters' new poker handle is Carp. He is director of editorial support services for Stephens Media LLC. He can be reached at cwaters@stephensmedia.com.