From: Jerrod Ankenman <jankenman@home.com>
Date: Thu, 18 Oct 2001 20:18:15 -0700
Subject: [socal-poker] FARGO Trip Report {Prologue} (long)

FARGO Trip Report (Prologue, or The Fix Was In)

Monday, October 10, 2001.

It could have been one of those days. One of those days where the sweat
slides off the back of your neck like a troop of young children sliding
down a yellow plastic whirl-a-slide. Where the intensity of the day is
matched only by that of your coffee-induced headache. Where the constant
voices and questions and pressures of the fifty or so people who depend
on you for what seems like everything are like a blur that begins at
8:30 in the morning and doesn't end until you just throw up your hands
and get back into your car and go back to your house to relax for as
much time as you can, before it all begins again the next day.

Luckily, I work for a bank, so I get the alleged holiday "Columbus Day"
off. So it wasn't one of those days. Actually, it was a rather pleasant
day that involved staying up extremely late, sleeping late into the day,
and eating breakfast in the afternoon.

At about 3:30 the call came. Russell C. Fox. The target. Who doesn't
work for a bank (much to his delight, I'm sure). Another day at C.
Services had come to a close, and now it was time. Time to cast our
slightly positively weighted lot and place our fates, if only
temporarily, in the hands of the cruel gods of Eastern Nebraska. So I
got into the car and drove down to Russell's new house. Well, perhaps
not new to him, but despite all the myriad times we had driven to
tournaments, I still had only been to his new place once, and I wasn't
even driving. Still, I managed to find it without getting too lost, and
we were off.

A very nice man named Marc had worked out a deal with his place of
employment, a gambling establishment known as the B. Club. This deal
created a bonus, payable from the Club, to the person who eliminated
Russell from contention in that evening's tournament. The B. Club wasn't
worried about having to pay this bonus out, of course. They had taken
care of that. Yes, good care. 

Forty minutes later, we neatly slipped into a space in the VIP parking
lot, which was relatively empty. Perhaps that was simply because it was
a quarter to five instead of the usual sixish, and some of the fine
upstanding citizens who frequent the B. Club were still working. In any
event, we strode up into the tiled foyer, and surveyed.

It was probably around this time that the very nice man Marc had bought
his entry to the 7:15 start tournament. Or perhaps the B. Club had
bought it for him; those of us on "the outside" will never know. But
just as surely as the last time I held aces back to back they both lost,
Russell's entry was set aside just at that moment. In a special place.

We wandered over toward the high-lo (sic) section of the casino, where a
never-ending parade of dealers who keep their own tips dealt a
never-ending stream of bad beats to players who weren't that far ahead
in the first place. A man in a black vest scribbled our names in black
dry-erase marker on a list that was looking ominously long. There's
nothing quite like standing and waiting for a seat in a Los Angeles
cardroom - it fills you with a sort of longing, watching crazy men
splashing towers of pale green chips on a slightly darker green felt
with virtually no chance of ever retrieving them. 

Twenty minutes later, a third 6-12 Omaha high/low game was opened, a
must-move game, to be sure. And just as surely, it was one of the worst
Omaha games I've ever played in. Tight and slightly aggressive; a game
that you know you can beat, but why would you try? For about thirty
minutes, this went on. Cards, not chips, flew to the dealer's nimble
hands again and again. 'Twas a grim parody of the Omaha games I know and
love. After all, just because we're playing well doesn't mean you have
to. But we waited with the patience of men who were waiting for a
tournament to start an hour and a half hence, and soon the game found
new arrivals who would drive the action. Like a Lotus. Soon the table
was the merry kind of game that I am accustomed to, with chips flying
into the pot like they were magnetized.

At some point, Russell slipped away to buy his entry. The B. Club
entry-seller retrieved the entry from its carefully guarded home, took
his $120, and passed it on to him. And so the wheels of their deception
were set in motion, though the Fox was not yet aware.

Meanwhile, I collected green chips at a slow, but steady pace.  It's
really quite amazing how many $3-$4 mistakes can be made in a relatively
short time at an Omaha table, and how much of that money can find its
way into your hands if you even try to steer clear of those mistakes.
When Russell returned, I wandered to purchase my entry. An hour later, I
presented a partially filled rack of green chips to the cashier, and
received seventy-nine dollars more than I had had previously. Of course,
this money was won, as all money is won, purely with skill. Russell
fared worse, but certainly his loss was due, as all losses are, to bad
luck.

But it was time for the tournament to start - and for the FoxHunt to
begin.

Having played in a number of Omaha tournaments in the past, I settled
myself in for quite the evening of boredom. With all due respect to any
furry-animal-named Omaha tournament specialists (no, not that one, the
other one!) who got knocked out in less than 4.7 minutes, the early
stages of Omaha tournaments are about as interesting as watching the
Italian national soccer team play with ten men in its own half. Little
did I know that this tournament would in fact be quite a roller-coaster
ride, demanding careful play and intensity from start to finish. 

Luckily, I was armed with homegame pal Marc Kolstad on my left, who
never fails to amaze me with his unflinching dry wit and an almost
unmatched talent for checking the best hand (a trait shared by my dear
ladyfriend Kirsty, of whom other things will be said in due time). And
they came and they went - the woman with the bleached blonde hair and
the incredible Jedi-inspired abilty for turning over 4 unrelated cards
and triumpantly declaring, "Straight."  The young man who /could not
believe/ that I called him down with /two pair/, simply because he had
bet so sharply and forcefully that I thought the felt might be
permanently indented.  The man with the carefully drawn breasts on his
mural-laden arms. I smiled in amusement as Marc declared his expectation
of busting out, only to become the table chip leader two hands later.
"Yes, sir, A2 of spades is good." I briefly saddened when I was forced
to leave this table and post a big blind; then heartened to have my new
table break and return back to the same chair I had left one hand
earlier. 

Russell had long since been the victim of the B. Club's conspiracy - the
very nice man named Marc had taken the last of his chips - and the B.
Club would /yet again/ avoid paying out its bonus. Shrewd businessmen,
they.

There were 213 players this day; a prize pool of $21,300. Each player
had received T800 in chips, for a total of T170,400 in play. And from
the time that we were at 11 nine-handed tables left, I never had more
than T6000 in chips. And it was at this point that the tournament got
extremely interesting.

There were three more breaks from that point until I left that evening.
On each of these breaks, I went back out to the casino floor to inform
Russell of my status. Each time, the status was the same. "I'm down to
$X, the blinds are $Y, so I'll be getting some chips or busting out
soon." Every time, Russell smiled good-naturedly, wished me luck, and
returned to his task at hand - separating all the people that had been
eliminated from the tournament from their money. Again. 

And in between those breaks, I hovered around 5 or 6 big blinds, with my
stack dipping to treacherous levels almost every orbit. Raise and take
the blinds. Raise and get called and muck when the flop completely
misses. Fold. Fold. Raise, get called, and scoop a hand. Take the
mediumish stack thus generated up against a small stack and lose. One
hand I start with (A2)(6T) against A23J, flop A2J and catch running
hearts to make a flush with the 6T. Luck? I suppose. But there is always
a little pleasure in winning with the crappy cards in your hand, rather
than the good ones.

Kathy Liebert comes to my table, with a stack of chips the size of Rhode
Island. I've been there now, so I can make a comment like that. She
probably has no idea who I am, but undaunted, I greet her. A bit later
I'm at T2000, blinds 300-500, and I raise with (AT)KQ. Kathy in the big
blind calls. The flop is JJ5, and Kathy bets right out. I'm faced with a
conundrum - I'd expect Kathy to bet any hand she would have called
preflop with here, which is probably any non-trips hand. I'm essentially
calling 1000 to win 3300, but it is my last 1000, and I could be
virtually dead already. I fold. Kathy asks if I had a pair of kings. I
say no, with a pair of kings I wouldn't have thought. I tell her what I
had. She says she had 2356. Poker Probe says it's a coin flip here, and
I was getting 3.3-1. Oh well. 

They're paying three tables here. 19-27 get $120 back, thanks for
playing, you earned $0/hr. 16-18 get $150, 13-15 get $205, and 10-12 get
$260. 9th is $310 or so. As the blinds come around and we near 27
players, I still have only T1000. I'm thinking about what my strategy
should be for playing the hands before my blind and my blind hands.
Since the payouts for the third table are so flat, it's got to be to my
advantage to try and force my way into the money in lieu of necessarily
trying to double up. I talk to Kathy about it across the table, that it
might be right to post both blinds (at 300-500) and fold any hand that's
not a monster to make it into the money. Kathy seems to agree. With 28
players left, I pick up trips UTG, so there's luckily no decision there.
And just as I'm ready to post my big blind, the limits go up.

Another thing that occurred to me after the fact was: If I play my big
blind and small blind and fold them both before we go to 500-1000
limits, I'll get 500 back because we race off the 100 chips, and you
can't be raced out of tournaments at the B. Club.

And we lose a player.

Redraw for three tables. That iridescent silver bell goes off in my
mind, canceling out the screaming voice that was berating me for not
being completely aware of exactly how much time was left in the round.

After the redraw, it was time to draw for the button. My luck runs a bit
dry here, and I end up two from under the gun, with T1000 left, and
blinds of 500-1000. Egad. Still, any problems I might have are obviated
by the A349 I pick up the next hand. With four players in, the flop
comes ace high with one other low card; the turn is a nine, and the
river is a nine, giving me a nines-full scooper. Now I'm back in
business with 4000. I fold some terrible hands in my blinds, and this
kicks off a period of about 40 minutes where every hand I look at could
be my last. Because of the structure of the tournament, people have
begun playing rather haphazardly, it seems to me. I see several people
going all in with bare A3. One pot is raised and called by 3 players in
front of me. I hold A3KQ with no suits and muck when calling would have
put me all in. And we drop to two tables. And more players are
eliminated. And we have 11, and I'm still alive, scratching for a
half-pot here, a headsup scooper there. And then it happens. I'm UTG
with 1000 (blinds have gone up to 1000-2000), and just before I look at
my cards, I hear some noise from the other table. Someone shouts "final
table" - Kathy Liebert is stacking chips at the other table, and two
players are standing up. I quickly verify with the TO that, in fact,
we've lost two from the other table, and the other important question,
"What happens to me if I bust this hand?" 

"You're 9th."

Well, then, that widens the range of hands I can play now, doesn't it?
Amusingly enough, I don't have a playable hand under the gun. Equally
amusingly, someone at my table busts on the hand, leaving his endless 
glasses of brandy in 9th.

Final table. I've never had more than 6,000 chips, the average stack is
now around 21,000. Now I have 1000, half a big blind. I'm absolutely
convinced that I'm going to win the tournament. We high-card for the
button, and I win it. More evidence that I'm going to win the
tournament. I fold my first two hands. The next hand, I pick up (A2)69
(Max Shapiro's report to the contrary). I'm going to win the tournament.
I throw in my last chips. It's folded around to the small blind, who
folds. I'm heads up with Kathy Liebert. I'm going to win the tournament.
The flop comes 954. I have top pair and a nut low draw with a straight
draw. I'm going to win the tournament. Kathy has zippo. The turn is a 5.
I have two pair and a nut low draw. I'm going to win the tournament. The
river is a queen. Kathy wins with Q's and 5s. Did I mention that Omaha
is a stupid game? I win $415, tip something around 3%, and saunter back
down to the 6-12 game to pick up Russell. 

After that, it's time for us to head back to Irvine, the home of the
mental slaves and the land of transplanted green grass and really,
really, wide streets (a fact that will factor into later chapters of
this trip report.) We arrive back at home at some ungodly hour in the
morning. Russell has to work the next day. I, conveniently enough, do
not. Not because I work for a bank, this time. Because FARGO beckons.

<end Prologue>

Jerrod Ankenman
jankenman@home.com

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