Tuesday, December 29, 2009

The Makings of a Degenerate

I suppose it might be time to tell how I got into poker. Or rather what reignited my passion for card games.

It started with a friend I met at the bar I worked at in 2007. His name was Jim, and he worked for the police department. I later found out that he was a homocide detective and worked nearly all the gang murders and questionable deaths in the township. We discussed lots of topics and finally found a common interest in the game known as poker. I had not played a lot of Hold'em but had learned to gamble at a young, impressionable age. My father taught me the poker rankings when I was a kid and had shown me how to play 5-Card Draw. On casino video games I played 7-Card Stud. But poker had no meaning for me back then, not being able to understand the subtle nuances of the game or how it even worked. Jim found out I was a gambler and invited me over to his house that Sunday night to play poker with "the guys." I was fascinated at this concept, being a bit of a loner with not many friends, and promptly accepted. I was one of those people who lived vicariously through TV, and saw poker night on sitcoms such as Roseanne, Home Improvement and even on my favorite show Star Trek: The Next Generation. (Picard over Kirk any day) They seemed like a simple pleasure, a little slice of Americana, and I wanted a piece to see if I liked it.

The first Sunday I showed up I knew nothing of these people. I didn't even know their names except for Jim. I played aggressively and loosely, as I'm sure they all expected me to, being a young person. (I was only twenty-one, the next oldest was Winston who was nearly thirty.) I ended up bluffing my way into the ground and was eliminated halfway through. It's strange that I came back the next week to play again. Usually if I lose in such a poor way I don't bother trying it again. I recall trying to learn to play Dungeons and Dragons as a teenager (yes, I'm a nerd) and going to my local game shop and asking around for groups who would be able to show me the ropes. I was told that a "session" was held on Saturdays and I showed up promptly with dice, books and pen and paper, ready to pretend to be a halfling rogue named Gimbal Frinsheets. After only half an hour, I realized I had no clue what I was doing and no one was willing to help me. So I left. I chalked it up as a learning experience, something to talk about in conversation some day if it comes up. Why didn't that happen with poker? I suppose the gambler in me was curious and probably a little hungry. I had given him a taste of action that can only be found at a poker table, and it fascinated me. The second Sunday I played with this group, I adapted my play, folding more, bluffing less. I won. Three hundred and thirty dollars. Almost a week and a half's wages in just six hours. Needless to say, I was hooked. A poker addict was born, and he wanted more.

I started playing every Sunday with this group, watching and observing. I realized the distinctions between each player and what they were capable of playing. It was not until 6 months later that I realized that I was not going to learn everything through observation. My mind was not wired to take in every minute detail and decipher it's meaning. I resolved this issue when I read a book for beginners and learned the terms and math behind each move and play. Not only that, I had learned the names of each type of player and who in my group fit in there. I had been given the lessons for Poker 101. For the next three years, I punished myself with losses and scrutiny and rewarded myself with wins and praise. And I learned. Constantly. Every loss is a learning experience. Every win is proof of concept. But every game is my life, no matter the stakes. The sound of shuffling decks is my rapid pulse, coursing with adrenaline. The clicking chips are my abacus, counting E.V. and pot odds. The poker table is my home. I wish it hadn't taken me so long to find it.

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