One of the rugby guys grew up in South Dakota. Let’s call him Jack. Jack’s a very unique individual. One of his talents is that he’s one of the best storytellers I’ve ever met. Which is good, because he has lots of great stories to tell. He grew up working in the slaughterhouses and had us in stitches one night as he described how he worked his way up from the entry-level job of cleaning up the spilled entrails of the cows to the vaunted position of head killer. At one point he was testifying in three murder trials at the same time. During the Spilotro reign of terror, Jack and some of his homeboys were dealing in some merchandise that was on the Spilotro family menu and Tony wanted in. Tony and a few of his henchmen set up a meeting with Jack and a few of his crazed-looking buddies. Tony basically told them he was in for half the profits with none of the expenses. Jack told him to take a hike. Tony’s requisite threats were met with the following response: “You see these two guys. There’s 20 more just like them. They all just got back from Vietnam and they’re looking for another war!”  Tony re-evaluated his position and decided to find some other partners. Jack and his brother, let’s call him Will, were as wild and crazy as anyone. One day we learned where they got it from when their father came for a visit. Will had killed a guy in a bar fight and went to prison in Carson City. He had just gotten out at the time the rugby club was staging a major tournament. Will volunteered to help in the concession stand. The tournament director was a bit of a nerdy guy. He noticed Will working the stand and became concerned. He questioned the wisdom of letting Will handle the club’s money. Unfortunately, he voiced his concerns within earshot of the father. “Hey,” the father said gruffly, “My son’s a killer, not a thief!”

Since the WSOP ended I haven’t played much poker, but in the times I have I’ve gone about 0-for15 in all-in confrontations. I’m not complaining. How can I? I had a wonderful three-day stretch where things lined up and I was lucky enough to win a bracelet. Some of my friends say I can never complain again. But, the truth is, although I’ve never considered myself a particularly lucky poker player, I’ve never wasted time bemoaning that fact. If I’d never won a bracelet, or if I’d won ten, my poker varience is relatively meaningless. I won my most important showdown a long time ago. Here’s my story:

 I grew up in upstate New York. When I was a senior in high school, one of my friends who was a year older had gone to college and joined the rugby club. During the summer he talked a bunch of us into playing the game and put together the Troy Rugby Club. Since he was the only one who had ever played, and only for one year, we stunk. However, especially back east, rugby parties were legendary. In fact, we recruited players through the parties, which usually worked because they were so good that guys wanted to be a part of the scene. While we never came close to winning a game that first year, we never lost a party. When I went to college I played at Cornell. The quality of play was much better, and the parties were as good as ever.

Besides being a great game, the rugby community is very open and supportive. When I got out of college in 1976 I put my shit in my car and, with $400 to my name, drove west. I didn’t know anyone, but I knew if I found a rugby club I’d find friends and assistance in finding my way. I bounced around California for a few years, working various jobs and joining rugby clubs in Riverside, San Jose and Palm Springs. I enjoyed the game and met many good people who remain close friends to this day. The only disappointing aspect was that the parties were pretty tame compared to what I was used to back east. In 1980 I had a job offer in Las Vegas and jumped at the chance. While, in general, post-college rugby clubs consist of mostly professional, responsible, solid citizens, the Las Vegas Rugby Club at that time was a collection of rogues, miscreants and maniacs, with a few normal people mixed in. I’d found a home. One of the guys played for the Raiders for a time, and was a scary man. But he was simply too crazy and is in jail, probably for life. Others had addictions and manias of varying types and degrees. In Vegas the party generally started before the game. Like my first club, we weren’t very good, but we never lost a party.

 One of the normal guys on the club was Mark Harrington, who was a professional pilot. In addition to flying some of the zanies to the away matches (who was going to drive?), he flew tourist flights to the Grand Canyon. He kept inviting me to take a flight with him, but at that time all I wanted to do was work (I was a craps dealer at the El Cortez), play rugby and play poker. I finally decided to take a day off and go with him. We took off early in the morning. I was riding shotgun and there were six Korean tourists in the back. The flight to the Grand Canyon airport was mostly through canyons. It was thrilling, but I couldn’t help thinking that this was a single prop plane and if something happened there was no place to land. We got to the airport and the tourists took a tour while we hung out. The flight back was over a plateau for a short time until getting back in the canyons. Suddenly I felt a jolt, but Mark never moved a muscle and the prop was still spinning so I figured it was nothing. Then Mark said to me very calmly and quietly, “We just blew the engine. See if you can find a place down there to land.” I looked down and saw a dirt road and told him as much. He expertly got the plane down on a road that was slightly wider than the plane and ended abruptly about 20 yards from where we finally stopped. Mark was so cool that I never had one iota of fear that we weren’t going to be ok. It was the most profound example of composure under pressure I’ve ever seen. When we opened the hood we saw that the engine had thrown a rod and there was oil everywhere. The hard part was that they sent a helicopter to pick us up and bring us back to the Grand Canyon airport. Then we had to board another single prop plane to get back to Vegas.

Benny Binion said that the only bad luck is bad health, and anything else is a temporary inconvenience. I’ve got my health, as well as a wonderful wife and great friends. As I look back at that Grand Canyon flight, I figure that during about 70% of the time there would have been nowhere to land and my health would have been in real jeopardy. So, ever since I sucked out on the Grand Canyon, I figure I’ve been on a freeroll, so I really can’t complain.

No Runners Allowed

I started writing reports on the WSOP in 2004. That year I managed to write one nearly every day. In the ensuing years my reports became less frequent, primarily due to the increasingly demanding playing schedule. (For anyone interested, my reports on the WSOP and many other tournaments are archived at:

http://www.killphilpoker.com/articleindex.cfm?by=Blair

This year I took a lot of notes but never put them together, so I’ll go through them and post some of them here. First, an incident that cracked me up.

In 2004 I went to a tournament in Dublin, Ireland with my wife Roxxie. Ireland is an awesome country and I’d definitely like to spend some more time there. (Can you say “golf trip?”) Anyway, on the way home we stopped in London for a few days, also a very cool place. I’d heard about the Vic, the main London poker club, for years from the British players and I wanted to check it out. My wife, a female friend who lives in London and I went by the Vic after a long day of sightseeing. I was dressed neatly, but since we had done a lot of walking I was wearing tennis shoes (“runners” in British-speak). In Britain you can’t just walk into a poker club, but rather have to register and go through a bunch of rigmarole. I was approached by this stuffy twit of a security guard and was snottily informed that people wearing runners weren’t allowed to enter the club and sully its’ atmosphere. No amount of begging, pleading or bribing was going to do any good. The girls decided to go up and check the place out, with my wife promising me that she’d get me some shoes. She’s very resourceful, but I was skeptical. Sure enough, about 10 minutes later she came down, motioned me outside and presented me with a pair of brown loafers. I asked her where she got them, but she told me to not worry about it and come inside. I put them on and she put my runners in her purse. As I was registering the security guard came over and demanded to know where I got the shoes. I told him I got them from my car. He didn’t believe me, but to his dismay he couldn’t keep me out of the club. As we were walking up the stairs he said  “I’m going up there and if I find any player without shoes I’m going to throw you all out.” I was worried that my wife had talked some poor guy who was playing a tournament out of his shoes and he was going to get 86’ed in the middle of it. We had a drink and hung out for a while and I talked to a bunch of players I knew, but I didn’t get in a game. The security guard was still prowling around and I wanted to get the guy his shoes back before it was too late. My wife returned the shoes, I put my runners back on and we walked downstairs. As we were walking out the guard saw my runners and threw a fit, but we just laughed at him and left. I never did know whose shoes I’d worn and figured I never would.

The final table of my bracelet event this year was played in the sequester tent. There were a lot of commercial breaks. On one of the early ones we were all talking and Roland de Wolfe, who is very funny but has a British sense of humor that I don’t always get, said something that lead me to ask him if he knew who I was. “Of course I know who you are,” he said, “you’ve worn my shoes.”  Mystery solved.

The Northeast is a wonderful part of the US. It’s funny how you don’t appreciate what you have when you have it. When I was growing up in the Northeast I couldn’t wait to head west. I thought where I grew up was unremarkable, dirty and cold. Now, when I go back for vacations I’m amazed at the beauty, history and culture that I overlooked as a kid. (It’s still cold, which is why I never go back in the winter.) I spent almost two weeks in a place with a lovely lake, dirt roads, and a close-knit, small community. I gambled sparingly, (I did finally book a win in the card game) and didn’t miss it at all. The thought of coming back to the rat race of Las Vegas gave me pause. However, it’s football season and I’ll soon be back in the swing of things.

One gambling phenomenon in the Upstate New York region is the Saratoga flat track. (The term flat track distinguishes it from the Saratoga harness track, which is across the street and runs year-round, whereas the flat track is open for only 6 weeks in July and August.) Opened in the 1860’s, it has long been a traditional summer meeting place for everyone from the wealthiest socialite to the most ordinary Joe. When I was growing up it seemed everyone I knew saved up his hard-earned money all year just to blow it at the track. While the horse racing industry in general has fallen on hard times (which is understandable, given the plethora of gambling options in the modern era that give the player a better chance of winning) Saratoga is as popular as ever. I never really understood the attraction. It was always too slow for my tastes, and winning in the long run seemed impossible. The day before we came home, one of my buddies invited my wife and me to join him and his wife to sit at a very exclusive table on the finish line. It was a nice experience, but I still wouldn’t want to do it very often.

When we were flying home my wife got in a conversation with an older couple. They had just spent three weeks at Saratoga, going to the track every day. This had been a yearly ritual for them for some 40 years, and was always the highlight of their year. They told us they sat near a certain tree with a large group of like-minded friends they had met there over the years. They both had been fighting serious medical ailments, but you couldn’t tell by the way they lit up when talking about their time at the track. Saratoga is a very special place.

Blair Rodman at Saratoga

Blair Rodman, Saratoga

As I write this I’m en route from Vegas for a vacation back to where I grew up, the city of Troy in upstate New York. While my parents were educators and were pretty far removed from what was going on in the streets of the city, Troy had, and still has, a well-deserved reputation as a gambling town. (I was at the Gaming Expo at the WSOP this year when a guy introduced himself to me as Gary Stycyznski. He was from Troy also, having gone to my high school. He congratulated my on winning a bracelet, then went on to shock me by saying he had won one also, in Event #6. How about that? Two Troy High boys winning a WSOP bracelet in the same year!)

I think I played in my first street game when I was about 12. I remember those games as consisting of a lot of acey-deucey and the like. I also remember the first time I was cheated. One of the older guys had very crudely marked the backs of the cards with a ball-point pen. No one noticed until he bragged about it later, and then the marks became obvious. However, it always stuck with me how little people notice when they have the gambling fever.

My real education came at a place that is still my favorite spot in the world. Babcock Lake is a small lake about 20 miles outside of Troy. It was a popular retreat for NY city people in the early 1900’s, with a lodge and tavern that featured some big name bands of the era. The Olympic swimming team trained there, and Johnny Weismuller practiced his Tarzan dives on the diving tower at the beach. Poker was also a popular pastime for the locals. My Dad bought a camp there in 1960 and that’s where I spent many summers. Naturally I gravitated to the poker games, which popped up in private camps, on picnic tables and on the beach. There was a group of guys who ranged in age from 18 to about 24 who were the mainstays of the games. They played real poker, like 7-stud and draw, and I was enthralled by the game. By age 13 or 14 I was sticking my toe in the water. My mentor was Rock Murphy, who had learned to play in the service and was the best player. Not only did he tutor me the basics of poker, but he whetted my appetite for Las Vegas with his tales of adventures on his many junkets to the city. (Needless to say, my parents had other plans for me and didn’t care much for Rock.)

By age 15 I rarely lost in the games at the lake or in the city. I wasn’t an accomplished player by any means, but I had figured out the key to beating that type of loose game: I simply played patiently and nearly always had the best hand when I entered a pot. It’s a basic strategy that every player should understand before moving on to move advanced ways of beating games. I prove the efficacy of that strategy now when I go back and play in the games, but I do it from the opposite side of the fence—I play strictly for fun, so I play nearly every hand and rarely come out winner. I don’t care who you are, if you play too many hands, especially in limit poker, you have little chance in the long run. I remember in the early ‘80s Eric Drache started a 100-200 mixed game at the Golden Nugget. It was a bit steep for me at that time, but I’ve never been very good at playing within my bankroll, so I took a shot. Stuey Unger was in the game, and he played nearly every hand, no matter whether it was hold’em, eight-or-better, or razz. He needed action and couldn’t stand to sit out a hand. As talented as Stuey was, he had no shot of winning.

Things have changed at Babcock Lake over the years. Rock passed away far too young, there is usually only one card game each summer–at the property owners annual party, which is this weekend–and hold’em, which I tried unsuccessfully for years to introduce into the mix of games, has now taken over. Regardless, it’s still my favorite spot on earth and I can’t wait to get back there.

As I reflect on the 2007 WSOP I have very mixed feelings. The highlight, of course, was finally getting my bracelet after all these years. The support and congratulatory sentiments I got from family and friends, some of whom I hadn’t heard from for years, was overwhelming. (I wrote a report on my bracelet event for All In magazine that will be published in two segments, starting in the next issue.) The flip side is my disappointment at how drastically the WSOP has changed for the worse from when I first came on the scene.

In the old days, when Jack and Benny Binion ran the show, the anticipation as the WSOP approached was almost unbearable, the 2½ weeks of action was the unquestioned highlight of every gambler’s year, and the letdown when it was over was palpable. The cast of characters (and most of them were real characters, not the made-for-TV boors of today) came from the underground gambling world of the U.S., many of them grizzled road gamblers from the South. Most of the players, as well as dealers, floor people and cocktail waitresses, knew each other and there was a real sense of being part of an elite group. In keeping with that theme, the Binion’s made sure players were treated with dignity and respect. I don’t think pampered is too strong a word. The player’s buffet was legendary and comps flowed freely throughout the day and night. Alas, nothing great lasts forever.

The modern WSOP bears little resemblance to its predecessor. The intimate feel is long gone, the host is a faceless conglomerate, and players are treated with a pronounced lack of dignity and respect. While attendance figures might lead observers to conclude that the WSOP is alive and well, myriad problems are eating at the foundations of what made it great and if steps aren’t taken the WSOP is in danger of a major crash.

My feelings about the WSOP run deep, and I have more to say than I can cover in one entry. In future posts I’ll run down what I see as the specific problems and what our hope is as players for possible solutions. For now, I’ll just address what I see as the major threat to the health of the WSOP–the fact that it has become more of a test of endurance than a test of poker skill.

Players are routinely asked to put in 14 and 16-hour days at crowded, 10-handed tables, and are subjected to all manner of temperature extremes. To go all the way in a bracelet event is a mini-marathon. To do this on a regular basis for 6 weeks is a major-marathon. The quality of play among players who play multiple events is definitely sub-par toward the end of the tournament. I know I struggled to stay focused in the event I won, which was my 20th of the tournament. I think one of the reasons more pros don’t perform well in the Main Event is that they are burned out by the time it comes along and play far below their best game. Why is it that the that the standard work day in this country is 8 hours, yet we’re expected to put in 14 or more hours day after day? I don’t think any playing session should exceed 12 hours. If they have to go to 4-day, or even 5-day events in the preliminaries and extend the ME a few more days, so be it.

The result of the present policy is that the WSOP is fast becoming a young man’s game. While many kids think it’s ok because the stamina factor gives them an edge, the fact is that many older players are simply refusing to play. I ran into Steve Z as I was walking into the Rio on the day of my final table. We were talking about how brutal the playing conditions were and he went on to say that next year he was just going to play a few selected events that he really wanted to play. He was reading my mind, as I’d been thinking the same thing. I know a lot of older players who passed on playing the ME when it was announced that there would be 6 two-hour levels of play on Day 1. Combined with the absurd policy of half-hour breaks after each level and an extended dinner break, this meant players wouldn’t be done until 4 am. I used to wonder how anybody with the means to afford the entry fee could pass up the ME, but now I understand.

While people may look at the numbers of entrants this year and assume that the WSOP as a whole is still in a growth pattern, looking beyond the numbers points to a different story. Many of the older players who helped build the WSOP into the phenomenon it has become still participate because it’s an event they have always loved. Many of these are players who are past their prime, but are financially secure and can afford to play for the entertainment value. However, as conditions cause their enthusiasm to deteriorate they will stop playing and a much needed financial base will be lost. The poker economy is finite, and many of the kids playing today are on shaky financial footing. Add in the effects of the UIGEA and the huge amounts being raked from the prize pools and the overall situation becomes less rosy.

I always envisioned the scene and how I’d feel when I won a bracelet—cheering crowd, all my friends in attendance and an immense feeling of joy. Instead, I was trapped in a little curtained off room (sequestered) and my immediate feeling was one of relief that it was over. I was completely exhausted and had barely enough energy to do the post-game interviews, much less start celebrating. Now that I’ve had some time to reflect, my dominant feeling is still one of relief—I’ve achieved my goal, gotten my bracelet and won’t torture myself further to try to get another.

When Beanie asked me to blog for his site I thought sure, what the hell else do I have to keep me occupied, especially at this time of year? The WSOP is over, as are basketball and hockey, and football is more than a month away. What’s a gambler to do? While some seek out more poker tournaments or cash games, my solution is much more fun. Golf trips!

I just got back from Cape Cod, where my friend Kenny’s family owns two golf courses.  One’s a just completed Reese Jones-designed gem called The Golf Club of Cape Cod. Across the street is Ballymead, a beautiful, mature layout. The Golf Club is so hard that Kenny bet me I couldn’t shoot 87 from the back tees. I’m a pretty good player, but I hadn’t played a full round in almost a month due to the heat wave in Vegas and the WSOP. However, I thought 87 would be easy. I was wrong, as I shot 90 and never even lost a ball! The next day I took the same bet, lost a shitload of balls and missed again.

That night we went to a Red Sox game. I hadn’t been to Fenway since I was about eight, when my Dad took me to see them play the Yankees in a double-header. The place is so tiny compared to modern parks. I remember Mickey Mantle pulling one into the left field stands, sending everyone ducking for cover. I still hear the sound of that ball whizzing over my head. Boston is a really cool city and the scene at Red Sox games is something special. We bet KC and over, both of which came in, so it made it even better.

The next day a friend of Kenny’s had arranged a golf day at a place called Carnagie Abbey, a real old-money club near Newport, RI. We were to go there on his boat. Two of our guys, Greg Mascio and Jeff Freedman, don’t like boats, but they were assured that no one gets sick on this boat. I was expecting a serious yacht when we got there the next morning, but instead we boarded a super-serious racing boat. How long could it take to get there in that thing? It ended up taking over two hours because it was foggy on the ocean and our host forgot to cover his GPS system, couldn’t read it and get lost for a spell. Greg hung in there, but turned a little white after bouncing around on the ocean for a while. Jeff stood up the whole time and seemed to be fine, until we found the harbor. All of a sudden he was on the floor, which was too bad because he missed the best part—we were going over 95 MPH on really smooth water. Great ride!

Carnagie Abbey was a real treat, except they have a dumb policy of making anybody under 60 walk! If I had as much money as these people I wouldn’t walk to the bathroom!

The next day we were back at Kenny’s course. It was supposed to be really windy, so Kenny bet that Richard Dunberg and I couldn’t shoot 179 combined. I had to take that bet. I also index bet him on shooting 89,88,87, and 86. On the first hole, a par 4, I took an 8 and Richard a 6. However, we played better from then on and made it easily. I shot 87 and won a couple more individual bets. That night we caught another Red Sox game, spent a great night in Boston and came home the next day.

Next on the menu is the Mexico swing. We start out at Baja Mar, which is kind of like the Mexican Pebble Beach, then it’s on to Tijuana for the night and the Tijuana Country Club, a great course designed in the ‘20s by Alister McKenzie of Augusta fame, the next day. Also on the schedule are a trip to Myrtle Beach at the end of September, and possibly a quickie to Lake Tahoe to play a few great courses, including one of my all-times favorites, Coyote Moon.

I’m looking forward to blogging here. I was considering writing a book about all the things I’ve learned about the gambling business over the past 25 years, with lots of stories thrown in, but I really don’t want to do the work it takes to write another book, so I’ll do it here piecemeal. Next up, my take on the World Series of Poker.