The Graveyard Shift

20/40 Limit Hold Em at 3:00am, and it’s capped 6 ways before the flop, then checked around on the flop!   It’s a mini-epidemic of FPS (Fancy Play Syndrome), and I'm the sole ethnic minority in the game, again.  Only at Diamond Lil’s.

The main attraction right now is Madeline, a remarkably cute young woman who deals pit games in some other casino.  She played fairly tight and conservative all evening.  Like a girl.  Doh.  

But then she chugged couple drinks with her friends right at last call, and went completely nutso.  Now she’s playing every hand, straddling, betting, raising and folding out of turn, and often “in the dark,” and, in general, just burning chips like they were soaked in gasoline.

Madeline takes a break, an Asian kid I’ll call Nelson open raises from early position, and I three bet from the middle with 99.  Button calls, and blinds fold.

So we see the flop 3 way:  K 8 7 Rainbow.  Checked to me, I bet, button calls, and Nelson check-raises.  Oops.  OK, if he has a King I’m screwed, but the situation, pot size, and the guy behind me combine to say that maybe I shouldn’t hike my skirt up just yet.  So I 3-bet, trying to buy the button.  

Wrong answer; the button calls.  Then Nelson caps it.  Well, shit, my game plan for this hand sure went to hell in a hurry.  I was trying to dominate, thought I might be best, but it looks like I’m toast.  Only a miracle 9 on the turn, or maybe turn some kind of draw, can save me now.  Should I chase it?

I smile, and remind myself that this is exactly why I count bets going into the pot, and I call.  The button is “telling” me that he’s just calling.  Once he does, there will be 22 bets in there, and I’m 22-to-1 against spiking a 9, with plenty of additional (implied) bets to be made if I do hit it.

And probably I wouldn’t be telling about this hand, except, yes, all that practice finally paid off, and a lovely two-outer nine did hit the turn.  Turned out Nelson had AK, and the button flopped 2 pair with his 87 suited, so plenty of action.  Then the button “gets lucky” and fills up on the river, but of course I have the bigger boat, so lots more action there too.  Then I stack a big pot and also get to hear some ranting about how far behind I was on the flop, and how lucky I got.  So this hand made me look like an Action Player, and that’s good too.

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It was Charles, last December, who got me hooked on the Graveyard Shift.  After the kitchen and bar are closed, the bigscreen subscription music thing in the bar that plays mostly 80’s hits all night gets turned up so loud that you can hear it at Table 1.  Charles knew every lyric for every song they played, and would sing along, and damn he was good.   If you don’t know Charles, just imagine Mr. Clean of cleanser commercial fame, in chocolate-- same physique, same smooth dome, same infectious smile.   And a really entertaining one-man karaoke show most nights, up until year end.  Then nothing.  Hasn’t been in at all this year.  MIA.

Charles, if you’re out there reading this, please know that we miss you!  A couple other guys tried to take your place a few times, and do the sing-along, but THEY SUCKED!  Please come back.  Nobody sings it like you.

So I’m keeping a vigil, waiting Charles’ return.  I work my real job Monday thru Thursday.  Then I’ve been coming in during swingshift — early evening — on Thursday, Friday and Saturday, staying through last call, and then until the kitchen opens back up at 7:00am.  Then I either have or skip the free breakfast, go home and sleep until late afternoon, then get up, shower, go back, and do it again, three consecutive looong sessions per week.

Sometimes it’s is a rammin and jammin thing, capped five ways before the flop, hand after hand.  Other times it’s surprisingly passive — a limpfest.  In any case, it’s pretty much a sure thing that DL’s small cadre of winning players have all gone home by the time Graveyard Shift officially arrives, and we’re left with the boozers and the losers.  One recent Friday night there were FOUR 20/40 games at midnight, then three, then two, then around 2:30am it got down to just one, at Table 1, full, until breakfast.  And there I was, parked in Seat 8, my home away from home.  After breakfast we’re down to eight:  Brad, Mr. Lee, Saejin, Kelly, Ms. T, Steve, Me, and Cal.  One seat open, no board, and this was the last hand I played before I packed and went home:

Three limpers, including the button, small blind folds, and I get a free play in the big blind, with ten seven offsuit.  Flop comes 874 rainbow, and I check, expecting to fold if there’s much action.

But there’s not much action.  Limpers check to the button, who bets, but this guy would bet pretty much anything in this spot.  So I raise, although with a pot this small, that may have been a flakey move.  Anyway, limpers fold, and he calls.  

Turn is a 9, making me an open-ender along with my pair.  Heads up; I bet, and he calls again.

Jack on the river makes my straight, I bet, and he raises me.  Wait, what?  Now I’m as confused as a hungry baby in a topless bar.  If he has a ten too, I can call and we’ll split it.  If he has exactly Queen Ten, I’m screwed.  

Thing is, with this particular guy, there is often no rhyme nor reason for his actions.  You have to be able to put them on a rational thought before you can put them on a hand.  In this case, I can do neither.  

So I just call, and he shows 9 7.  He made two pair on the turn, but “slowplay” is this guy’s middle name, so he waits for the river to raise.  If I were a better player, maybe I could have better understood where I was at here, and realized how likely it was that he was raising with some lesser hand.  Then I could have raised back and won a couple more bets.  Maybe.  As it was, the surprise raise made me fear Queen Ten perhaps more than I needed to.


The Short List

In a post last January I thinly disguised his name as “Will Kagen,” and wrote unkind things about a venerable player named Bill.   I was still piqued about how skillfully he knocked me off pocket Aces, but that’s no excuse.  

I regret those remarks now.  Well, not too much; I was mostly just kidding around.  For instance, I wrote that he talks a lot, without actually saying anything.  You know, just noise.  

Well, that’s not right.  Actually, his table talk is pretty entertaining, and lately I better appreciate how it keeps things light, keeps keeps the players laughing, and doesn’t that make the game better?

Also, when you see The Other Guy play his hands quite differently than you would, it’s way too easy to condemn his play as “bad.”  What’s not so easy, is to admit to yourself that maybe, just maybe, The Other Guy is smarter than you, and knows and understands things you don’t, and the play just seems bad to you,  because it’s a level or three over your head.

Then, one night last week, over a shared monster Burrito Supreme at Baja, Mrs. Rock and I were talking, and we made a list.  We tried to see how many DL 20/40 players we could name, who never, ever, show any anger at all when they take a beat.  Several got honorable mention for keeping their cool most of the time, but almost everyone seems to get mad, and show it, at least once in a while.

But not Bill.  He made that list, and let me tell you, it was a mighty short list.  How short?  Well, in the end, we were able to count if off on one hand, with some fingers left over.

I’ve written before, a couple times, about how “Everyone’s true character shows itself in the poker game, sooner or later,” and making The Short List says a lot about character.  So now I have this new-found respect for Bill, and needed to say so.  Couldn’t just leave that old post out there.  Thank you.  I feel better already.