At the Commerce, 4pm is the precise moment when no one looks at you funny whether you're drinking a coffee or a beer, and after a long day of cards, I needed to have both. In the cupholder to my left, a Stella Artois. To my right, a mug that I picked up years ago in the United Kingdom in the colors of the Union Jack.
In chips, I had just over $1,500. The game was a very aggressive $5/$10 No Limit Hold'em with six players besides myself. The two men directly across the table, distracted by the basketball game on the TV, were my marks. Of the last ten hands I watched, they were both in a majority of them, together, betting and raising with the conviction of someone who knows the other person is full of shit. They are both right. When I look down at the in the cutoff, I decide to gamble. Villain 1, under the gun, raises to $30, and Villain 2, MP calls. The table folds to me, and I call.
The flop might have produced an audible groan in the shoes of a lesser man.
I am never confident looking at a middling flush draw against aggressive opponents, but when Villain 1 bets $50 and Villain 2 calls, I decide to come along for another card. Fortunately, my hand gets much stronger on the turn, which brings a , giving me the nut straight and hoping, now, that the flush doesn't come after all.
To my delight, Villain 1 bets $100 and Villain 2 makes an overbet, $350. I push the rest of my chips in, happy to shut the hand down now, without letting any more cards come that could take away the big pot I stand to win. Villain 1 folds immediately, but villain 2 surprises me with a call. I turn over my cards, for the straight, and he turns over , for an unfortunate set. The river blanks, and I rake in the pot.
He throws his cards across the table, his anger at the cards only magnified by the fact that Georgetown was losing, badly, to Florida Gulf Coast.