TATER

He approached the table, like a pew in church, genuflecting to the wide expanse of green felt, a nod to the deacon holding sway, as his brisk hands swallowed the deck in a fluid motion cutting, riffing, shuffling, cutting, and placing the yellow card on the bottom, protecting the last card from curious eyes.  The butterflies were buzzing in his belly, and he could feel his heartbeat kick up a notch or two.  He glanced over the table taking careful note of his opponents, separating the sharks from the fish in the time it took to reach his seat and unrack his chips.  His was seat eight, two to the right of the dealer, smack dab between an unknown, and Fat Tony. 

Fat Tony had on his wayfarers, and his blue striped polo shirt.  The uniform seldom changed, tipping any one observant enough that this was his lucky shirt, and his lucky seat.  He smiled at Tony as he sat down, knowing that “lucky” translates to loose, and that he was hoping to gather up some of those chips old Tony would spew with a marginal drawing hand, hoping to get that lucky river card to complete his straight or flush holdings.  Next to Tony sat Church Lady, whose play was as tight as her lipless grimace.  She only played premium starting hands like AA, AK, KK, QQ, AQ, AJ, and KQ, playing only the big wired pairs early, the other holdings from middle to late position as the dealer button made it’s way around their little prayer circle.  He reminded himself to always raise her blind antes, knowing she was easy to bluff and steal from.

There were a few other known players to him, but he needed a little more playing time with them to know their quirks and weaknesses.  He glanced over to the other side of the table and noted the fish.  College Boy in seat two looked like fresh meat.  He was trying to look hard and mean at the table, overcompensating for his lack of live play experience.  Internet player, most likely.  King of his frat house poker group, maybe.  His eyes darted back and forth, trying to get a read of the new player at the table.  His $170 in chips looking a little anemic and battle worn.  He guessed that college boy is steaming/tilting a bit, and stuck for around $130.  He will be playing overly aggressively with marginal cards, anxious to make a come back, and have some victory stories to share with his buds.  Seated next to him is DorkFish.  A player so awful, that no one has bothered to catch his name, and whom everyone just calls “Dork”.  He calls down with any piece of air in his hand, always assuming his opponents are bluffing, and trying to push him off the pot.  It was great to see him sitting there, and a nod and a smile were directed to and returned from him.  He had made many players mortgage payments in his time, and yet he played on like a little dork soldier.

Unknown player to Dork’s left smelled fishy.  He was short stacked and kept fumbling all his “chip tricks”.  He couldn’t stack shuffle his chips worth a damn, and every time he attempted a back to front thumb flip, he dropped a chip.  Next to him was Minty.  A seasoned veteran, and a fine card player.  Knows when to play straightforward poker, and when to change up his game.  He was one to be careful with, knowing he could be holding a monster, or air, and was willing to play it all the way to the river aggressively.  He wasn’t a limper or a “caller”.  When he was in a hand, it was usually raise or fold.  Minty was sitting pretty with an amused look on his face, and a large chip stack in front of him.  He had been having a nice little fish fry with only one or two other players getting to share in the meal.

To his left was the crazy asian maniac player.  He was always ready to “make gamboooool”, and incredibly loose aggressive.  LAGgy players were his favorite.  He loved giving them enough rope to string out their bluffs, and then snapping them off like shelling peas.  By The Book was next to him, and had been having a decent morning as well.  By the Book was a tight methodical player, whose gift of mathematic excellence, was used to carefully craft his game.  He played by always evaluating pot odds, implied pot odds, compared to the probability odds of hitting his hand.  He had the “perfect system”.  It did work well against the fish, but the other sharks at the table realized that he seldom mixed up his game, and refused to pay off his big hands, and often priced him out of calling their marginal ones, by raising and re-raising enough to price him off his draws.

He glanced around the table again, letting the atmosphere and the other players all sink in, as the dealer flicked out the hole cards around the table.  He knew contentment on this velvety battleground, knew where he stood in relation to the world surrounding him.  He took a slow deep breath and exhaled. 

“You are going to kick ass today.  You are the best player at this table.”  He thought to himself.  He smiled at all the others, knowing the pain of their current games.  He had sat in every one of their chairs, and had lost money in all the same ways in his journey to this seat.  He had paid his learning taxes just as they must now tithe to him.  He didn’t envy their prospects, nor did he pity them as he raked their chips.  Wisdom must be earned one chip, and one table at a time.