Poker Hints and Tips by Codfish

Like many other poker players out there, I’d learned to play on-line, and had only ever played on the internet. My favourite sites were William Hill and Pacific Poker (they have great Double or Nothing games with ten players in a tournament - the top five are placed and win double their stake money) A night sat at my computer with a cold beer and a bowl full of nachos seemed the perfect way to spend an evening. The nights flew by, and passed even quicker when the computer was switched on, but that was something I was to learn with time.

After a while the initial excitement wore off and so I decided it was time to venture into the non virtual world and play the beautiful game with real people. Where else better to start than The Gut Shot, Britain’s first ever poker club. Bad idea. I sauntered in one Friday night with a nonchalant air and ordered a shot of whiskey. Sitting at the bar, I sussed out my opponents, feeling like Clint Eastwood, albeit a poor man’s version. I went downstairs and took my place at the table. Half an hour later I was even poorer. I’d been humiliated and intimidated, reduced to a nervous wreck. No longer Clint, I was more like Woody Allen, going over my failures again and again with the barman. Eventually he asked me to leave.

“Do yourself a favour,” was his parting shot, “get a taxi to Loserville – and stay there. That’s where everyone else down here lives.”

Intimidation – The buy in had been £50 with re- buys until the break. Fierce, burly men, who looked like they’d caught and eaten a crocodile for breakfast, were going all in on the first hand, staring right at me – daring me to call. If they lost, they shelled out another £50 and bought more chips. If I lost, that was it, game over. £50 was all I had, and I didn’t want to lose it all at once without a chance at a bight of the cherry, so I kept on folding. Ace Ten suited, Ace King, even a pair of Queens – they all got folded. I couldn’t bear to be knocked out so early on in the game - I wanted to have a good time, break the ice with my fellow players and have some banter with my new found pals. But it wasn’t to be. They were sharks down there, and I was new, fresh blood. By the time it came to the break, my chips were well and truly down. When I returned I had to go all – in as soon as I could, I was so short stacked. I took my chance on an Ace Seven, the other guy had a pair of Jacks – no Ace came up and that was me gone.

There were four lessons I learned from this fiasco;

I realised, as a newcomer to the live game, I’d bitten off more than I could chew. My opponents had been good players, they knew the ups and downs of live play and some were even professionals. It was time to play against my own kind. Beginner’s night – Tuesday - £20 buy in with no re – buys. The evening eventually came round and I returned to the scene of my humiliation. I signed in at the reception and sauntered up to the bar, noticing it was the same barman as last time. Strangely, he ran into the cellar, so I chatted to the other players to pass the time. There were sixty of us in total, and generally they were a friendlier bunch than the Friday night shark crew. These people liked to play, they enjoyed the game and the social aspect, and it wasn’t all about winning. We took our seats and play began. This time I felt confident and won a few hands. Knowing I had nothing to lose meant I could play more freely. If I lost, it wasn’t going to break the bank. By the time the break came round, I’d built up a good stack of chips. I took advantage of the free coffee on offer (still no sign of the barman) and began to happily banter with my new found friends. Stories of bad beats and bad calls drifted through the club, along with peels of laughter and hearty backslaps. Friday’s fiasco finally faded away, I felt dizzy with euphoria.

The game continued and it was time to play more aggressively. It was all or nothing this time round, so I took on the challenges and called the all-ins when the odds looked good. The calls worked out well and soon we were down to twelve men standing, but only the last ten received any cash. The game was tight, and the smell of sweat replaced the sound of laughter. I checked and folded until two more short stacked players fell. I’d done it - I’d reached the final table! It lay in the corner; large, green and felted, and sitting majestically at the head of it was its very own dealer. We nervously took our places at the poker player’s paradise – and the cards were dealt.

That night I came third. I made a fatal error of slow playing a pair of pocket kings. A Four of Clubs, Eight of Clubs and a Jack of Diamonds came out on the flop. I checked – the turn card was a King of Clubs. I should have killed it there, at such a crucial stage in the game, and made a huge raise – but I put in a taster, just the right amount for one person to fold and the chip leader to call. A Queen of Clubs came up on the river and he called me all in. I knew he had a flush, why else would he make such a call? But this man liked to bluff; I’d seen him do it earlier. I couldn’t read him – he was as cool as a cucumber. I called him, I’d fallen in love with my kings and I couldn’t let them go. He did have the flush, an ace flush, and my dream was over.

That evening I learned a lesson the hard way – knowing when to fold is as important as knowing when to call. But I left a lot wiser, and stepped out into the early hours of the morning with a jaunt in my step, and £250 in my pocket. No longer a broken man – I was Clint once more.

April 09 - Codfish

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