Trampled by pocket jacks in the People’s Poker Tournament

I had only two rules for playing in the World Series of Poker’s “Colossus” tournament.

No. 1: Don’t embarrass myself at the table like I did a few years ago at a local casino when I lost a sizable pot, shouted several awful obscenities and was politely escorted to the parking lot by security.

Check.

No. 2: Don’t do anything stupid with pocket jacks.

I hate you, pocket jacks. I hate you so very, very much.

The “Colossus” event was billed as the People’s Poker Tournament, an invitation for anyone who’s ever played on a dusty table in the garage or quoted “Rounders” to mosey on down to the Rio Convention Center for their shot at a WSOP bracelet. And what better way to prove that than to have a lowly Review-Journal reporter sign up.

So, I decided to plunk down my $565 and joined 22,373 other entrants for the largest live poker tournament in history.

Like many in my age demographic (late 30s), I started playing poker online in the early 2000s and went on to earn the nickname “Einstein” at the renowned Bay 101 card room in San Jose, Calif., though I’m fairly certain it was due to my Seth Rogan afro and not my intelligence.

I also was the worst player at the late-night, $10 buy-in tournaments we frequently staged at our friends’ apartment using the host’s seashell collection instead of chips.

“I’m all-in for three murex, 10 sand dollars and a conch.”

Over the years, I enjoyed only marginal success at the poker tables. Not much has changed since I moved here in 2008, though I did win the midnight tournament on WSOP.com a few months back, and I chopped the first-place prize with four other players at Green Valley Ranch’s daily tournament two weeks ago.

Deep down, my goal was to make the money in the “Colossus” tournament, not for the cash but because I really, really want my own player profile on WSOP.com. Realistically, though, I was just hoping to make it to Day 2.

I figured my experience covering the World Series of Poker would help overcome my lack of skill. After all, I wouldn’t be awed by the atmosphere, and if I had to use the bathroom during the break, I knew I needed to leave a few minutes early to avoid the long line.

None of that prevented the anxiety from kicking in about 5 p.m. Saturday. I tuned the TV to the World Poker Tour desperately hoping to learn something from one of the hands, and I played for a bit on my phone app, but the whole thing felt as useless as cramming in a round of miniature golf two hours before playing Pebble Beach.

Yet, all the signs were there for me to make a deep run.

The fortune cookie I received at lunch said, “Participation in sports may lead you to a lucrative career.” The Toadies’ “Possum Kingdom” came on the radio during the drive to the Rio. Even my starting table for Flight 1D consisted entirely of my favorite number (333).

After I walked past the Roman Centurions greeting players at the Rio Convention Center entrance and sat down in the Pavilion Room, I immediately noticed another positive. None of the other nine players at the table were part of the young, Bet Generation.

The older guy in seat 1 had an oxygen tank at his side. Seat 3 looked like former Arsenal and Netherlands soccer star Dennis Bergkamp. And the Filipino woman in seat 5 kept asking for a shot of tequila. The only player I thought was a professional was in seat 9, and I stayed away from him.

From what I could tell, the final starting flight of the “Colossus” resembled a home game on steroids and hallucinogenics. During the third level of play, there was nearly a fight involving a player and a dealer at a nearby table. Shortly after that, one of the players vomited at another table.

And a few tables away, a mime was playing.

Vegas, baby.

My chip stack bobbed up and down for the first two hours and I reached the opening break with a bit more than the 5,000 we started with, but I found myself as the table’s big stack soon after play resumed.

Holding ace-jack, I paired both cards on the flop and re-raised all-in after the Filipino woman with a shot of tequila shoved her remaining chips in the middle. A third player spent what felt like 47 minutes deciding whether to also call (it was probably closer to five minutes) before he eventually pushed in his chips with a drawing hand.

The next card was a jack, giving me an unbeatable full house that eliminated the Filipino woman with a shot of tequila and pushed me past 16,000 in chips.

The table feared me.

As play continued, I started to plan how I would throw shade at Daniel Colman in my victory speech when I received unexpected news.

Table change.

My time at the WSOP prepared me to handle many aspects of the tournament, but this wasn’t one. And Table No. 207 wasn’t nearly as kind as Table No. 333.

Table 207 had a few of those young, Bet Generation players I feared. And I got tangled up with one not long after sitting down.

My opponent performed the classic “stop-and-go” play, calling my re-raise, or “three-bet,” before the flop and then shoving his remaining chips all-in after the three community cards were dealt.

I peeked at his chip stack and it didn’t appear to be much compared to the hotel tower I was building in front of me. I then looked at the three under cards on the board and, still feeling frisky after crushing my first table, quickly called.

I had pocket jacks.

He flipped over pocket aces.

In retrospect, that hand cost me the opportunity to reach Day 2. A more skilled player would have folded in that situation. Instead, I lost nearly 50 percent of my stack and never recovered.

Two hands later, my pocket aces were cracked by pocket jacks — what else? — when my opponent made a straight on the river, leaving me with less than 20 big blinds. And a second table move made matters worse.

On my first hand at Table No. 300, I was dealt pocket fives and the flop came with one of the two remaining fives in the deck. The guy in seat 3 receiving a back and shoulder massage called me all the way to the river, though, and when a fourth spade hit the board along with a possible straight, I was forced to fold.

That setback left me with only 10 big blinds, and my demise came a little after 11 p.m. Saturday.

Facing a raise and a call, I sent my final 2,925 chips into the middle gambling that my pocket nines would hold up. The guy in seat 3 getting a massage called, which didn’t worry me since I learned after our confrontation that the word “fold” wasn’t part of his vocabulary. And the original raiser mucked his hand, giving me further optimism.

But when the final player shoved his entire stack forward, I knew I was toast. And what was he holding?

Pocket jacks. Of course.

I stood and stared at the five cards on the board, searching for a way I could win the hand. Did I make a straight? Flush? But there was no avoiding the walk of shame.

In all, I lasted nearly six levels and went out in approximately 7,694th place, well ahead of six-time WSOP bracelet winner Layne Flack and three-time bracelet winner Barry Greenstein. So there’s that.

And I’ll always remember the way I completely owned my first table at a World Series of Poker event.

Most of all, I’m just glad I outlasted the mime.

Contact reporter David Schoen at dschoen@reviewjournal.com or 702-387-5203. Follow him on Twitter: @DavidSchoenLVRJ.