Would-Be Poker Ace Decides to Pursue His Other Interests

You sit there at the poker table, expressionless. The cards are dealt and you slowly peek at them, revealing nothing. No one can tell if you’ve just seen two aces or if a spider is crawling up your leg. You study the cards as if poring over an especially difficult Greek translation. You finger your chips. You stare at your opponents, waiting to see if an eyelid flutters or a pupil dilates. Or perhaps a hand movement that will betray a powerful secret.

Other cards are dealt in the middle of the table. They are “community” cards that everyone can use. But no one can use them like you do. You study them, then your own two cards. You study your opponents’ reactions to the cards in ways they can’t possibly fathom. Inside you’re smirking. Outwardly, you’re Washington on Mt. Rushmore.

Then, you make your move. With the steadiness of a diamond-cutter, you push your chips to the center of the table. Your work is done. You wait for your opponent’s anguished cries.

It’s so simple, really. But then, the greats always make it look easy.

I want to be great. But only in poker. So, when colleagues set up a Texas Hold-em poker tournament recently at my boss’ home in Costa Mesa, I believed greatness was at hand.

Surely none of them had watched as much TV poker as I. More reliable than TiVo, I have let no poker program skip past me the last three years. In bookstores, instead of browsing David McCullough’s latest historical effort, I’ve been memorizing “Doyle Brunson’s Super System 2.”

All was in place that Friday night. Nine of us put up $20 each. First place was $100, with $60 for second and $20 for third. One of the players was 14.

I’d imagined the final hand. Me and The Boss, head to head. At the moment of truth, my straight would beat his straight, and he’d surrender his final chips.

Unfortunately, I put those imaginings into a column before the tournament.

From the start, everything seemed out of kilter, as if someone had put something in my water. Despite having watched hundreds of poker hands on TV, I felt disoriented with real players. I couldn’t keep track of who had bet what. From one hand to the next, I couldn’t remember who was betting first -- a critical element of managing your game. I played out of turn once or twice. An office mate had invited two of her women friends, both great-looking. That didn’t help matters any.

Worse, the cards did me no favors. In the early hands, I had nothing to work with.

I forgot the maxim that good players can win with bad cards. Instead, I reinforced the notion that bad players can lose with bad cards.

After a while, I was getting nickel-and-dimed and realized I needed to force the action to avoid being short-stacked and vulnerable. It was time to make a move toward greatness.

I had jack/seven in the hole. Normally a hand to throw away, but I played it, casually making the call as the first-round betting went around. Then the first three community cards were turned over and two of them were sevens.

Now holding three of a kind and a likely winner, I summoned all I’d mastered over the years. Someone raised, and I merely called, planning to entrap unsuspecting players who’d never heard of Doyle Brunson.

Paying particular attention to my eyelids, I revealed nothing. If not Washington on Mt. Rushmore, I was at least Jefferson.

Two others stayed in the hand -- a friend giving a good impression of someone who’d never played poker and my boss, who’d been to Las Vegas the week before.

The fourth community card came. Nothing to worry about. Again, I merely called the others’ bets. Then, the fifth card. Four sevens would have been nice, but it wasn’t to be. Instead, nothing but a measly something-or-other of clubs.

The novice bet. Inwardly, I pitied him. My boss called the novice’s bet and raised it $5 in front of me. That was a sizable bet for the table.

Uh-oh. Did that last club give him a flush that would beat my sevens? Or was he bluffing with a big bet, trying to scare me?

Calling on all my wiles, I stared at my boss, reading him. What I read said, “Come on, sucker, call me.”

I called his five dollars, and he turned over the flush. The novice turned over a seven. He also was playing three sevens. I tossed my losing hand into the pile without turning over my cards.

To the end, revealing nothing.

From then, it was a quick slide to oblivion. A hand or two later, I moved “all-in” with a crummy hand. Everyone saw it as desperation. One or two people laughed.

I was done. Of nine players, I had outlasted only three others -- one of them the 14-year-old. My boss, the man I’d envisioned as my foil, won the hundred dollars.

Greatness is an elusive thing. I’ve concluded I’m an excellent TV poker-watcher and a mediocre player, at best.

So be it. Time to readjust the sights and try to master something else.

Horseshoes, anyone?

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Dana Parsons’ column appears Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. He can be reached at (714) 966-7821 or at dana.parsons@latimes.com. An archive of his recent columns is at www.latimes.com/parsons.