Snowball effect

Right now I'm enjoying the pleasant sensation of a man who's just faced the long drop, only to have the rope snap on the way down (and whose executioners just shrug their shoulders and say "ah fuck it, let's let him go"). I played some seriously dodgy omaha this evening, but thankfully the poker gods decided merely to spank me lightly, before giving me a lollipop and telling me I'm a good boy really. They're such teasers.

Fresh from some minor satellite success, I decided to leap into a comfortable-looking 1/2 plo game for some post-tournament relaxation. Of course, best-laid plans and all that, and within 30 seconds I'm slinging $200 in with top 2 against top set, goodnight Vienna.

Not one to let such things irritate me (ha ha), I sink into 3 other 1/2 games, and do my money in all of them. No, MURDER my money in all of them. In cold blood. I felt like some sort of benevolent and rather insane monarch, spraying money around to all my loyal subjects. It was just embarrassing.

One rush of blood later, I'm playing short-handed 5-10. The last refuge of the desperate man (or Matt the Jug, where the hell is he when you need him anyway?). After 1 hand I'm down a monkey. Marv! Things can't get much worse. Oh, tell a lie, Alan Betson wipes out the recipient of my money in a $5000 pot, so now we're heads-up. Thanks but no thanks. Let's not and say we did.

Only one thing for it then. Ahoy, the verdant pastures of the 10-20, for once mercifully devoid of the Jones/Ashby element. One last roll of the dice for Lord Miros. What's the worst that could happen?

Luckily I don't even like Dr.Pepper, otherwise I'd probably be writing this from the deck of the slow boat to China. There was one point where I was faced with a pre-flop re-reraise of $1200, holding a very sexy QQT7 (single-suited). I love crap like that! Clutching my head in my hands, I knew this was the defining moment. If I slung it all in with this absolute piece of dogshit, I knew I might as well give up and turn my computer off for good. But I really, REALLY wanted to. And it would get me right out of it!

Needless to say, I passed, and I would've won. But I think that pot finally made me knuckle down and get on with it. From there on in, I never lost another pot. The old Miros magic started to flow again. My dodgy 10-high flushes held up against trips; my speculative bets with two pair and the blockers found callers, but then the miracle pair-up arrived. And of course I cold-called a raise and a reraise with the classic 3789, et voila, the old 993 floperoo. Ah, just like the good old days!

So I struggled my way out of it, accepting a small loss as a very reasonable price to pay. I'm not a greedy man, you see. The poker gods don't like greed. And it doesn't pay to stir them up.

Thanks for the ride, boys. Most of all, thanks for getting me out of it. I promise I won't do it again.

Return of the king

Well, it's over. I was only in Vegas a week but it felt like an eternity. I don't think I've ever had so many highs and lows in such a short space of time. Mainly lows, it must be said. I don't want to talk about the main event too much as there isn't much to be said. In short, I played like a god on day one, took a vicious beat, and wanked my chips away on day two in 20 minutes flat. That's about it.

Even though Vegas was generally depressing, I did achieve what I set out to do. I survived day one, albeit in vain, and I knocked someone out. In fact I knocked three people out. Eerily reminscent of my rabbit-shooting post.

I won't tell you about it now, because I suspect nobody cares, which is fair enough. Anyway, my Vegas experience this year didn't really revolve around the WSOP. Most of the depression that I felt had nothing to do with how badly I played on day two, and more to do with how soulless the series felt, and how much I was missing Alice, and my own loneliness in general. I noticed this year just how dependent I've become on other people's company, and while I think this is probably a good thing (as it stops me being such a cunt), it's definitely not a good thing in the Rio where you can't find a friendly face when you need one. I went the whole trip without seeing either Neil Channing or Richard Gryko, two of my closest friends, and frankly it pissed me off. Hopefully Caesar's Palace next year will prove a more sociable atmosphere.

Incidentally, there's a particularly unflattering picture of me at http://www.pokerstarsblog.com/2005/07/your-reputation-precedes-you-miros.html , and a rather better one at http://acehighwins.blogspot.com/2005/07/jos-ones-to-watch-in-wsop.html

I think I need to lose at least two chins by the wedding. Or at least try to look rather less smug (it comes naturally). I wouldn't blame Alice for calling the whole thing off on the back of that.

And on the third day he spunked again...

After some rather tiresome e-mail shenanigans, a very nice man from the Rio finally told me what day I start on in the WSOP. Joyfully, it's the third (Saturday). This is utterly wonderful news. Last year I had to start on the first day and I absolutely hated it, especially when I played like an eejit and made a deserved early exit. The next day was probably one of the most miserable of my life, as I had to mooch around absorbed in my own self-pity / self-loathing, watching 1200 excited faces just starting their own poker adventure. Wankers.

The Bahamas was even worse. Alice and I got royally screwed by some inept fool at Heathrow who had cocked up our connecting flight (we realised, all too late, that when we landed at Miami our connection had already left). Considering that we were both due to start on day one, at 12 the next day, this was an ill omen, especially when a rather unconcerned airline employee told us: "looks like that was the last flight of the day". Marv. Eventually we squeezed onto a dangerous-looking twin-prop operated by Bald Eagle, or something like that, and arrived in Nassau at 3 a.m. only to discover, of course, that our luggage would not be joining us. We both busted in time for supper on day one.

But now the shoe is on the other foot. This year I'll have the luxury of kicking around in bars and bowling alleys for two days, listening to Nick Persaud's 5-3 suited "bad beats" and inwardly gloating over the fact that thousands of tosspots are out, while I haven't even fired a chip in anger. Also, if by some extraordinary bad luck I bust out early, I'll only have to endure a few more days of dice and despair before going home.

I know a lot of people think it's a disadvantage not to get a rest day, but I really couldn't disagree more. Sure, Dan Harrington was the only day one player to make the final last year, but I think that was a fluke. This year I'm betting there'll be an even spread on the final (including my good self, bien sur). I hardly ever find poker exhausting - perhaps that means I'm not concentrating hard enough? Obviously I'm not in a position to comment, having never made it beyond day two, so maybe I'm wrong. Hopefully this year I'll find out.