They played Up in the Air on my flight over. The film stars George Clooney as a corporate downsizer who spends most of his life in airports and living out of a suitcase. At first, he embraces this lifestyle, but eventually yearns for more as he realises that he lives an empty, lonely life. This isn’t the film I would have chosen for a journalist preparing for eight weeks living in a hotel room. I would have preferred Alive or Final Destination. I think it’s better to be scared than depressed.
To be honest, flying scares me anyhow. It didn’t used to concern me, but the more I fly, the more anxious I become. I did a maths A-Level at school, so I know a little about probability, yet the more flights I take, the more I misuse the ‘law of averages’ and convince myself that it’s just a matter of time before something goes wrong. It would be like not being dealt aces for the whole day and then thinking your chances of getting them now are higher than before.
It’s not just the act of flying that worries me, but also the security checks. I don’t know if I’m alone here, but I possess an inexplicable fear that I’ve accidentally left weed in my bag, even though I don’t smoke. I also worry that I might become aroused for no reason in the queue, only to be body searched. It’s the same reason why I don’t fancy the idea of having my testicles checked by my G.P. That’s the second consecutive blog entry where I’ve used the word ‘testicles’. I apologise.
The flight itself wasn’t enjoyable. I seem to be burdened with bad luck and if I don’t have the only monitor on the plane that flickers, I get seated next to a group of jocks wearing matching shirts with their ‘quirky’ nicknames on the back. I got both. We were riddled with turbulence throughout with the seatbelt sign flicking on and off like a neon Vegas sign. There were a couple of moments where the plane dipped enough for people to gasp in unison. I hate that sound so much. Turbulence sure makes going to the toilet difficult. After I pissed up the wall on the first occasion, I sat down for the second visit despite only needing a number one. I felt older than Doyle Brunson. One time, I was desperate for the toilet but my film was into the final five minutes so I decided to wait. At that point, an announcement came on saying that they were preparing for landing and that if anyone needed the toilet they should go now. The whole plane jumped up and the queue reached as far back as my seat. Sigh, the film wasn’t even that good.
When we landed, there was a ripple of applause. Why do we applaud bad flights, yet remain silent on the good ones? It would be like tipping crap food in the Rio Poker Kitchen; we’d all be broke by the end of week one. One flight attendant even said thank you, as if she’d single-handedly brought us to our destination. I noticed she didn’t take responsibility for the food they served.
As always, the queue to enter America was longer than Mr. Tickle’s arms. Ahead of me I saw Karl Mahrenholz’s head bobbing above the surface, as well as last year’s Main Event finalist James Akenhead. I suppose when you’ve been on multiple episodes of ESPN, it must be harder to convince customs you’re here for ‘vacation’, but they see so many poker players come through that I don’t think there’s much they can do. How can they possibly prove that you’re not here to just have a good time rather than grind the cash games? For me, and despite a near rubber glove grilling last year, I sailed through like a returning war hero. “Welcome to America,” gleamed the customs officer with a smile. I guess I looked less ‘foreign’ this year.
I entered the Rio the day before the Series kicked off. I had mixed feelings. Although I’m going to feel like a prisoner for two months, at the same time, I’ll be a part of the World Series, “writing history” – as I was told in PokerNews’ introductory, motivational speech – and watching history unfold as another 56 bracelets are handed out. Even if I truly hated working this job, which I don’t, I think I’d still do it so I could say I was there if something epic occurred, such as Doyle winning a bracelet or Russ Hamilton (whose 1994 picture hovers above me in the media zone) galloping in on a white horse to sign up for the Main Event.
Harrah’s appear to have high expectations this year. When I walked into the new Pavillion Room, it almost took my breath away. I was thinking about using the gym at my hotel, but there’d be no need; a few circuits around this room and I’d be as fit as a butcher’s beagle. The room was just a sea of empty tables, almost like the endless rows of pods in the Matrix. At the very end of the room are the bracelets, lined up against the wall in glass boxes and guarded by security, just in case Phil Hellmuth ambushes the vicinity with a balaclava and water pistol. They say the Pavillion is the actual size of a football field, but either way, the Amazon Room is now the ‘small room’. It still takes precedent, however, and with multiple feature tables, will stage the ‘serious poker’ in terms of those ‘big name’ tournaments and final tables. Meanwhile, all the cash games, STTs and satellites have been pooled together in the Pavillion.
Past winners still watch from the rafters in the Amazon Room, with the exception of Joe Cada. He’s currently residing in front of the Pavillion, greeting newcomers with a toothy grin you’d expect from someone who’s just won $8.5 million. As you walk further down the deceptively long corridor and towards the casino, giant pictures of the Player of the Year stretching back to 2004 (I guess everyone played rubbish in 2003) bestow the walls. Something tells me that Daniel will be posing for a lot of photos in front of that image over the upcoming weeks. He’ll grin for Canada, but after a while it’ll annoy him.
The Employees event passed without so much as a murmur, and although it’s a bracelet event, the Series didn’t truly get started until the second day when a who’s who of poker congregated in the Amazon Room for the $50,000 mixed event. After all, it’s not really the World Series until Doyle announces “shuffle up and deal” (just don’t tell the Employees that). Before the event kicked off, a video played on the wall celebrating Chip Reese, with various players passing comment on one of the legends of the game. The mention of his name brought up emotional memories for Jennifer Harman who shed a tear as she explained how Reese’s absence at the Series had left a hole in the event and that she hates returning every year without him in tow.
There wasn’t a single British player in the field. That either means we’re all skint or just not that good at poker, or both. Neil Channing reported that a few Brits claimed they were considering playing, but he remained unconvinced. It is, of course, all about intent. “When the 100K was starting at the Aussie Millions,” he regaled with a grin. “I was in another event, so I just told people I’d had to deregister from the 100K.” To be honest, why would anyone want to stump up a large portion of their bankroll so early in the Series in order to play some of the best players in the world? I believe this is one of just three televised WSOP events, but then again, you have to get to the final to publicise your chosen brand. I guess it helps if that brand has actually bought you in, whether you can play all the games or not.
However, despite the lack of a British flag, the tournament remained jam-packed with all those familiar faces that have made the Rio their home since the Series relocated from Downtown. Scotty Nguyen arrived with his trademark smile, resplendently eighties in a purple and yellow tracksuit and Mr. T jewelry. “Thanks, baby,” he said as a male security guard pulled back the rope. As expected, Huck Seed dressed up for the occasion, lumbering to his seat in his Nike vest, long shorts and scraggy hair. All that was missing was a beach ball. On the flipside, Phil Hellmuth was consciously attired, towering above the table in a bright green shirt after being told that he needed more green in his life by a Feng Shui expert. Yep, it's just gone so bad up until now, so a bit of green should do the trick.
All the other usual suspects were there: Negreanu was vocal, Lisandro was beaming, Singer looked depressed, Seidel understated, Elezra amicable, Bonomo serious, Juanda pensive, etc, etc. It was at his point that it sunk in: I’m back. They might make the occasional change, the odd tweak here and there, but the World Series essentially stays the same, with the same people doing the same things year in, year out. If they didn’t, what else would they do? I guess I’m no different. Let the institutionalising begin.
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May 23: My Old School Teacher