dippy9
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http://www.bluffmagazine.com/magazine/The-Sickest-Hand-Ever-Adam-****sky-1712.htm
The Sickest Hand Ever
June*2009 | Adam ****sky
They fl ew in from around the country – seven people on fi ve different aircraft and not a commercial fl ight among them. Four of the seven used their own planes – three latemodel Gulf Streams and a Dassault Falcon. Two used NetJets or some similar fractional jet ownership service. And the remaining individual hitched a ride with his private planeowning friend. They were coming to the High Sonoran Desert for one reason and one reason only – a high stakes poker game. I’m talking really high stakes, folks. **** you money high stakes. For those not familiar with the term, **** you money is when you have enough cash to say “**** you” to virtually everyone – God included.
I learned about the poker game through my father. My parents are members of Desert Mountain, one of the more prestigious private gated communities in Scottsdale, Arizona. During a round of golf on one of DM’s six Jack Nicklausdesigned courses, a member of my dad’s foursome, knowing I’m into poker, gave him the skinny on the game – which would be taking place at his house – and said he would gladly have me over to watch and chronicle the action, so long as I didn’t reveal the players’ legal names for, ahem, tax reasons.
Saturday night rolled around and I drove out to the proper address. The game wasn’t held in a residence behind the DM gates but in an even more exclusive locale – the Carefree Homesteads, a well-to-do gated community with home sites ranging from 12 to 36 acres. The purchase price for lots alone started at seven fi gures and the average cost of the homes therein was well into the multi-million dollar range.
I arrived at my destination and my jaw dropped. Before me, near the peak of its own mountain, was an architectural masterpiece of stone, steel and glass. I’d seen some impressive dwellings in the course of my travels but this one took the cake. Wait. Scratch that. This one took the whole ****ing bakery!
The interior of the near 7,000-square-foot single-level abode perfectly complemented the exterior: imported rock everywhere, endless mountain and city views from every window and window-wall, a towering ceiling, numerous huge stone hearth fi replaces, a kitchen any professional chef would drool over, gorgeous custom furniture, amazing contemporary artwork; it was as if every single aspect of the home – from construction to decoration – was plotted out long before the pad was prepared, the concrete slab was poured, or a single nail ever pierced a board. I was informed that both the architect and the builders had previously done work for major entertainment industry celebrities. By the looks of this house, I was not surprised.
As every poker player knows, nearly every home game has some sort of edible offerings on tap for the players. Trust me when I tell you, this game was not a “chips and dip” type of gathering. Hell no! This was a catered event, featuring a wide variety of hors d’oeuvres and delicacies that any Zagatrecommended restaurant would be proud to serve. Fresh Kadota fi gs stuffed with bleu cheese, Caspian Sea caviar and crème fraiche on brioche toast points, ultra-creamy pâté en croûte, a variety of imported meats and cheeses that I didn’t even bother trying to identify, and the piece de resistance – numerous overfl owing seafood towers that both Mastro’s and Ocean Club would be proud to call their own. And let’s not forget the open bar, where every bottle was a marquis “top shelf” brand, including some varieties of single malt scotch that I’ve never heard of but I’m reasonably certain cannot be acquired at the local liquor store.
While making it a point to sample as much of the upscale smorgasbord as possible without appearing to be a complete and utter pig – just doing my job! – I had the chance to speak with a few of the players, none of whom I recognized save for the owner of the home. I have to admit, I was a bit surprised that no well-known cardsharps had been invited to participate but that curiosity was cleared up almost immediately.
The fi rst person I chatted with, a corporate raider from Chicago, gave me a stinkeye stare when I asked him about the lack of known poker greats. “Why the hell would I want to play cards with any professional poker players?” he retorted. “I wouldn’t want to duel with a gunfi ghter, nor would I want to play golf against a PGA pro. When it comes to money and competition, I want to be the one with the big dick.” So I mentioned Andy Beal and his penchant for playing against those considered the best poker players in the game (Doyle Brunson, Ted Forrest, Phil Ivey, etc.). The Chi-Town megamillionaire dismissed me with an animated wave.
“That has everything to do with ego and nothing to do with intelligence. If I wanted to get it on with professionals, I’d just hire a trio of pr0n star babes and call it a night – although my wife would undoubtedly have an issue with that.” He continued: “Clint Eastwood said it best: ‘A man’s got to know his limitations.’” Makes sense to me.
Shortly thereafter, the game got under way. A regulation poker table, complete with an automatic shuffl er, had been brought in, although the chairs were far more opulent and seemingly a great deal more comfortable than any you’d fi nd in a casino card room. The game’s host supplied the dealer – a contemporary of the players, whose net worth was undoubtedly in the same realm; the guy didn’t strike me as a mechanic. Why he was dealing and not playing, I didn’t bother to ask. Perhaps Bernie Madoff had handled his assets?
Every player started with the same amount of chips – $2 million worth – the agreed upon min/max buy-in. Although no cash was ever fl ashed, it was conveyed to me that the players would settle up after the weekend. The game had no pre-set ending time – it would last as long as four of the eight players wanted to continue. As soon as fi ve wanted to call it quits, the game would break. Apparently, this crew was not worried about “hit-and-run” scenarios. Additionally, should a player wish to buy additional chips, he could do so only when he dropped below half of his starting stack, but could not re-buy more than $4 million at a time. Ultimately, that meant $16,000,000 in play with (presumably) a great deal more available. Blinds were set at $10,000 and $20,000 – “enough to make things interesting,” according to one of the players, a consultant from Miami (exactly what industry he consulted for, I haven’t a clue). Jesus, I thought, these guys aren’t ****ing around.
They dealt for the button and the game got under way. Immediately, an air of gravity came over the room. Aside from the odd humorous comment, there was no irreverent chitter-chatter and no distracting prop bets like you often see on GSN’s High Stakes Poker. These guys took their poker seriously and, although it was diffi cult to gauge the level of gamesmanship taking place without seeing their hole cards, from my vantage point there looked to be some extremely solid poker being played.
Approximately three hours in, two players had distanced themselves – chip-wise – from the rest. The corporate raider from Chicago I had spoken with during the pre-game cocktail hour was up nearly two million courtesy of an expertly slowplayed fl opped set of queens against an opponent’s pocket aces, and two pair against another opponent’s busted straight and fl ush draws. The other player who had amassed a pretty penny – a successful New York restaurateur with gobs of old money – nearly doubled up in a set-over-set victory. I was secretly hoping to see these two big stacks tangle at some point and the Poker Gods granted my wish.
Chi-Town made it $85,000 to go in late position and New York decided to call from the big blind. The fl op was a Valentinefs Day special . 7h 10h Ah. New York instachecked and Chi-Town thought for a long moment before tapping the felt as well.
The 5s fell on the turn. Once again, New York checked. This time, Chi-Town pushed out a bet equal to half the pot . $90,000. New York announced a raise and counted out $275k. Well, well. Fireworks, I thought.
I studied Chi-Town’s face intently. I honestly thought he wanted to reraise. Instead, he just smooth called. New York adjusted in his chair when the money went in. I couldn’t tell if that was the result of good nervous energy, bad nervous energy, or if his dry cleaner had accidentally starched his undergarments. The river was the jack of hearts. That’s gotta be an important card for someone, I fi gured.
New York bet out. A cool million. Fireworks had morphed into heavy artillery. “A million, huh?” Chi-Town said, seemingly impressed. “Why don’t we just put it all in?” And he shoved everything he had forward. The artillery barrage had ended. We were now entering the atomic bomb/inter-continental ballistic missile phase of the war. “Why don’t we?” New York said with a sly grin. “I call.”
Chi-Town fl ipped over his hand, revealing the 8h 9h. Straight freakinf fl ush. New York smiled. gYeah, thatfs what I fi gured you had.h And then he fl ipped over his cards: Kh Qh. Royal ****inf fl ush.
A series of low whistles fi lled the room. Amazingly, Chi-Town took the supreme bad beat in stride. “Nice hand,” he said, actually sounding as if he meant it. Standing on the sidelines, I was sick to my stomach, about to disgorge a few hundred dollars worth of snazzy food and drink all over the intricate custom nag stone fl oor. Nearly an $8 million pot – a $4 million loss for one player – and the loser was actually complementing the victor. If it were me, I’d be looking for a gun; the fi rst shot intended for my opponent’s head, the second shot for my own.
While I could easily wax prophetical for hours (if not days) about the virtues of losing with grace and dignity, I’ll simply leave you with this: I will never, ever, ever, ever tell a bad beat story again.
