Maybe Next Time

There is nothing more frustrating to a poker player than being busted on the bubble.

For you non-tournament poker players, let me explain that being on the bubble means you are the last person remaining before the others will make the final table and be in the money.

No, being on the bubble and failing to make the cut is nerve-racking. When it happens again, it is maddening. And if you get busted on the bubble a third time holding pocket kings that lost to an ace, it gets positively idiotic.

I remember when I first got serious about tournament poker. It was in the late 1970s and I caught tournament fever while living in Hollywood and working for the Los Angeles Herald-Examiner.

Gardena, home of legalized poker, was less than 15 minutes from my apartment in North Hollywood if you took the freeway. I began spending all my after-hours in Gardena, prowling from card room to card room and stopping at dark neon bars for a drink between card games.

The card rooms competed with each for customers by holding tournaments with entry fees ranging from $15 to $30. One might start at 7 a.m., another at 10 a.m., while still a third at another nearby card room might begin at noon.

I thought tournaments were great and plunged into the action with both feet. I played wild and hard, and became known for my maniacal raises. Unfortunately, some of the smarter players caught onto my style and began callng me on hands they should have mucked.

I would make it almost to the final table and then, on the bubble, would lose the fifnal hand. Not once. Not twice. Not three times. But four tournaments in a row. I was beginning to get paranoid.

A cute cocktail waitress named Peggy with whom I had unsuccessfully been trying to get a date suggested a solution to me.

Chewing gum, this beauty from Akron, Ohio said, 'You been playing the good cards, right, and they been calling and beating your ass off. Am I correct?'

'You are 100 percent, undoubtedly and absolutely correct,' I said, signaling for a drink.

'Okay. Here's what you do next time Instead of waiting a for a good hand when there's only one or two between you and the bubble, look at your cards and see pocket aces regardless of what you hold. Go all in -- and pray. If you win...' She winked and blew me a kiss. 'I get 10 percent. And you better be honest and pay me if you do win. If you stiff me, as soon as my lawyer gets out of jail, we'll sue.'

I listened to Peggy. Two nights later in a tournament just down the street from the card room where she worked, I played well and made it to the lip of the bubble.

Pretending to look at my hand, I whispered, 'Aces. I have pocket aces.' And I pushed in all my chips. All the other players passed except for the big button. He instantly called.

And turned over pocket aces.

I looked at my cards, saw a miserable seven-deuce off-suit. The flop came 9-7-2. They tell me my scream could be heard two blocks away. Yes, I made the final table. Yes, I won the tournament and won $3,800. And, yes, I gave beautiful Peggy her $380 commission. We also went on a date, but that's another story.

Author: Geno Lawrenzi Jr.

(Geno Lawrenzi Jr. is an international journalist, magazine author and ghostwriter and poker player who lives in Phoenx, AZ. He has published 2,000 articles in 50 magazines and 125 newspapers. If you want to share a gambling story or book idea with him, send an email to glawrenzi@gmail.com ).