Pair of 3s

March 2002

TheNew England Poker Classic. My first No Limit Tournament. The cards are going my way. I'm playing aggressive, raising with AQ and AJ from middle position. Hitting a lot of flops, raking in the chips. I get AA under the gun, make my usual raise 3X the big blind( like it said to do in the book I read the day before). Another guy goes all in. I call. Sorry AK. Too bad for you.

I think, you know I like it when people look at me and say to themselves, "I got to watch out for the big guy, he knows how to play this game." On the other hand, I don't know if my people reading skills are so good that I could differentiate respect and awe from the sight of wolves licking their chops.

Hours go by. An old bald guy who looks like a frog has been struggling. He finally gets AA and doubles up. He's the only one at the table who really worries me. During the breaks, I can see the reverence others give him in the smoking area like he's a real player. I think I've got to be careful with him.

Late in the afternoon. The field has already been cut in half. My stack is not quite as big as it was. So I called an all-in reraise with AJ and lost half my stack to KK. What are you going to do.

I'm the big blind. Froggyman makes a small bet up front 2x the blind. It is folded around to me. I look down and find 33. I call. I mean what the heck. Maybe I'll hit a 3.

The flop comes 10s 7c 2c.

No three for me. I check. Froggy makes a small probing bet. He's got AK I think. How or why I have no idea. I just think AK. I call his bet. I want another chance at a 3 so I can stuff him.

All I know is the next card isn't a three. That's all I'm even looking at. I check. He makes another small bet. I find myself calling. I want a 3. It is my destiny.

The last card hits. No idea what it is, but its not a three. I am really disgusted and unhappy, miserably unhappy. I shake my head, then for some odd reason, I thrust my stack forward. "I'm all-in," I declare.

Froggy stares at me. I feel myself wilting. A wry smile breaks across his face. "I think I'll call," he says.

He turns over his cards. "3 tens," he says. Or maybe he says, "A flush." I don't really remember. All I remember is everyone looks at me, and what I turn over as I stand. "All I got is a pair of 3s," I say.

Froggy collects the chips, I don't even know if people are looking at me. I think they are. I think they are shaking their heads. Already the dealer is spinning out the cards for the next hand. Now I feel invisible.

I collect the plastic bag under my seat that holds my New England Poker Classic souvenier tee-shirt. I turn and walk out, passing other tables, then going through the section where people are playing blackjack and roulette. I walk on through the long hallway pasts the shops toward the garage.

I'm out. I was doing great. I was a player, then just like that I'm out. Not just out, but exposed. My vision blurrs. I feel dizzy. I feel very very tired.

I make it to my car. Start it up and drive home up route 2, toward Hartford. It seems like I'm the only car on the road. I never even turn the radio on. What was I thinking? A pair of 3s. What came over me?

I don't show my face back at Foxwoods for almost six months. When I do see Froggy again talking to a player with lots of jewlery on his fingers, I slink behind him so he won't see me.