Aussie Millions: So Long, and Thanks for all the Fish
Barry Greenstein, to my left, checks and then calls another bet from the aggressive table chip leader on his left. I’m already all in; the last of my chips in the middle in a big three way pot. I’m tired, strung out on sour coffee, a dozen sleepless nights and cold streak at the Aussie Millions that just won’t quit. Barry is telling a story about the 100k buy-in event and how he busted it last year with QQ v TT. I’m thinking to myself through my mental fugue, “goddamn, even Barry Greenstein tells bad beat stores”.
It is the deuce to seven round of the 8-game event. I glance down at my 8643. I’m not even sure if I catch my deuce whether it will be good or not. But I’m low on chips and desperate, looking to triple up, snap this cold streak, and fuck variance in the arse (or more accurately, stopped being fucked by it). It all comes down to this. If I can win this pot I know I can come back. This will be the moment my Aussie Millions turns around.
The Aussie Millions is the best poker tournament series in the Asia-Pacific region. I don’t know what second would be, but whatever is it doesn’t come close. It is Australia’s Grand Slam poker event, drawing the best players from all over the world. I love playing at the Aussie Millions. No matter how cruel it has been to me, it is the one time of the year Aussie poker strides the world stage, and I’m always pumped to get involved. The crowds, the anticipation, the promise of poker glory: bring it on.
There is the down side of course – getting re-acquainted with degenerate Melbourne friends and the subsequent proposition betting, Fitzroy pubs and that last, unnecessary jug of beer. Then there is the time at the table: trying to concentrate on the bet size your opponent just put out relative to the pot while nursing a vicious hangover, and at the same time trying to ignore the body odour exuding from the rotund sweat box sitting a few short centimeters away. I am sure there are some participants who swear off personal hygiene for the duration of the Aussie Millions. Or maybe it is just the statistically expected outcome given the presence of several thousand mostly male poker players in the one place at the one time. But I digress.
While the Aussie Millions brings out the superstars of poker: this one saw Patrik Antonius, Daniel Negreanu, Tom Dwan, and Jason Mercier (just to name a few); it attracts the rest of us as well: the dreamers, the shot-takers, the enthusiastic amateurs, the home game heroes. In others words, the fish. And I don’t want to get down on my fellow countrymen and women, but having played poker in a few different countries around the world, I gotta say Australia has some serious fish. I think, perhaps, the fact that we are the biggest punters it he world (per capita, we lose more on gambling than any other nation on earth) makes the poker tables here so wild.
And so it was in the series of 550 buy-in tournaments I played. The 550 tournaments at the Aussie Millions may be turbos, but they are turbos with so much value. A cash game professional friend (otherwise known as “Hollywood” from the time he dropped acid and honestly believed he was Orson Welles for an entire evening) was incredulous. He told me the standard of poker reminded him of the glory days of 2006. I demurred. This poker wasn’t that good. Maybe 2004, when the poker boom just hit and a million monkeys banging away at a million mouse buttons were trying to be the next Chris Moneymaker. It was that bad. I saw people raise / folding for 70 per cent of their stack and limp / folding under the gun for 40%.
I saw one hand where an older woman with a giant stack of chips limped in early position, checked the whole way then bet the river on a board of 34568 with three spades. Her young opponent put in a huge raise to her river bet and she insta-snap-fist-pump called. He said ‘whoops’. A couple of people round the table said ‘snap’. The older woman rolled over a pair of extraordinarily slow played red Queens. The young guy said, “I was representing a flush”, to which the woman replied matter-of-factly, “yes – I thought you had the flush”. Ah. We see. In other words, “sonny, you could have opened your hand and shown me the damn flush, but there’s no way I’m folding these Queens”. She was the chip leader at that point. And good luck to her. With a run like that I know she’ll return next year.
In sum, my friends, I saw the promised land of poker tournaments, the holy grail of equity. But I was not to sup from that cup. For when the play is that bad, you do need your hands to hold up. And I had no hands to speak of, no glories on the flop. So I looked on, more as an observer at the table, watching the promise of Benjamins pass me by as I downed another weak coffee and tried to ignore the fat dude to my left scratching his nuts.
And Ivey, Ivey, Ivey. Phil Ivey: the myth, the legend. Did I not mention Phil Ivey? This was the real story of the Aussie Millions – the return to the game of one of the greatest ever to slide his cards across the felt. This man is good for poker and it is good to see him back after a hiatus of nearly a year. I immediately knew which table he was seated at each day as I walked into the poker room at Crown, as a large crowd would always be gathered around that point. Just to watch on as the great enigma of poker played. I wanted him to final table the Aussie Millions and take the whole lot down for a tasty 1.6 million. But he didn’t do that. Instead he decided to take down a cool two million at the Super High Roller the same day he busted from the main event in 12th. Wow.
And for those of you who think he bears some sort of responsibility for the Full Tilt debacle, don’t be stupid. He was not in the management of the company and I don’t believe for a second he knew of the shoddy business practices that brought down the whole enterprise. Phil Ivey doesn’t care about managing companies or devising investment strategies. All he cares about is the gamble. All he cares about is reading souls, crushing dreams and taking down more money at poker than any other human being, living or dead. And sure, maybe he likes a game of baccarat or two.
Welcome back, Phil.
I discard one and the dealer pitches me the next card. Barry Greenstein takes one, the table chipleader (an agro player with large biceps who keeps finding the nuts every other hand) bets again. I look down at the Ace of Spades (ace plays only high in 2-7, and as such is the worst card one can draw) and toss it back to the dealer in disgust. The last betting round comes in, I take another, Barry draws again, Colonel Bicep stands pat and bets, Barry folds. Bicep slams his cards face up on the table, which normally isn’t a good sign. Normally the slam dunk reveal is of a “BEHOLD YE NUTZ” variety. But no, I was a little surprised to see him show down the 87652. A decent hand to be sure and worth betting, but very vulnerable in Deuce to Seven. I squeeze my last card. A seven, five or deuce will win me the hand and triple me up, catapulting me on to the path of poker glory. I can feel it. This time. I peel back the edge of the card and blink. The Ace of Clubs. Another Ace. Another brick. Another year. Another walk of shame.
“Good bye gentlemen” I say, hitching up my back pack, and heading out into another sultry Melbourne night. And so long.
Until next year.
