Entourage

Yeah, yeah. Yeah, yeah. My mind has been enabled. In a memory you overflowed. Want to be your superhero. Even if I tumble fall. Yeah. I’m ok. You know I need you desperately.

There is nothing like being part of a poker entourage when the cards fall right. Nothing at all.

The excitement, the drama, the celebration, the treatment, the substance abuse.

Deep in the bowels of the glittering Crown Casino, away from the horror of the poker machine dens and the hoards at the $10 blackjack tables, our man, Peter “The Rowboat” Rho was fighting for the Aussie Millions Main Event title, a tournament viewed as the French Open of poker by card players across the globe. It is what those in the business call a big deal.

It had been a hectic week full of drama, intensity, good eating and heavy drinking. That is how it is when you roll in a high end poker entourage. We actually had two horses to cheer and rode them both to the very end. Kelly Kim, the ‘Vincent Chase’ of this tale, was the Big Dog entering the tournament, having finished 8th in last year’s World Series of Poker. He was bought out by Crown, bringing along with him cohorts Peter Rho, our ‘Johnny Drama’, and Bobby Dazzler, the ‘E’ of the collective and a fine sports bettor.

The Punting Ace Team, all just in for the ride, were collectively ‘Turtle’, just happy to be deep in such an exciting scene with a champion poker player and millions of potatoes on the line.

Come Saturday, the final day of the tournament, The Rowboat (given the nickname by Punting Ace maths genius Jonno, a modern day tour de force when it comes to monikers) was firmly entrenched in the top half of the chip count. Kelly had been knocked out in 22nd place. It was all up to Johnny Drama.

Play on the final table kicked off at midday but the entourage was a little thin on the ground after a hectic Friday night of celebration that finished sometime around dawn. The Rowboat was on the final table and it seemed absolutely imperative that we ride the wave. At any rate, there was research to be done and the Punting Ace Team was up to the task. A party had to be organised and once we ditched a self-described “crazy mother-of-four who just likes to go out and have fun because her husband is boring” after she started getting a little too personal with thoughts and professions on her sex life, we got right to the heart of the matter by trawling Southbank and the City for the best possible action. We left no stone unturned, a credit to the Punting Ace Research Department who put in some very long hours.

We met the ‘Westgate Widow’ and her friend with the gay husband came into our lives, ever so briefly. Your author was asked if he was Jewish by a senior member of the New South Wales Office of Public Prosecutions, much to the amusement of all. One Punting Ace staffer was rudely attacked and abused by an off-duty stripper at a fashionable nightclub after mentioning that he bet on horses, her argument being that the game was cruel. She then admitted to eating meat. When she left, we all had a good chuckle until she returned, calling the member of Team Punting Ace “an arrogant fuck” and professing to only eat organic meat. “So the animal doesn’t die when it is organic then?” was the gist of the reply. When she continued on in her insulting demeanour, someone intervened by firmly stating in her ear: “you take your clothes off for a living…get the fuck off the high horse sweetheart”. It was the right call, if a little harsh.

When we all arrived at the Japanese bar, ‘Nobu’, for a few heart-starters at around 5pm on Saturday, The Rowboat was down to the final five. He was deep into the money. The party was on. Matt’s dad’s horse had saluted in Brisbane earlier in the day so there was even more reason for celebration. The entourage settled in for some high end vodka to return us all to a state of normalcy. Kelly was up in the room watching the action intently. Bobby Dazzler sat over a scotch. Jess casually did his thing with some girls keen to join the action. Matt and I were up and down with cigarettes on our mind.

Food came and went, stories were told, trips up to the poker room were made, the vodkas and bourbons gave way to martinis and Old Fashioned’s.

At 8 o’clock, The Rowboat was in third place when word came down. A deal had been done. Kelly had organised it. “We don’t flip for hundreds of thousands”. It was settled. The Rowboat would win at least three-quarters of a million and now the only thing to pursue was the glory. The Nobu party erupted when word was passed on. “Mozeltov”. “Cheers”. “Ta”. “Chin Chin”. “Salut”. It was decided that tequila was the only way to celebrate. Triple shots that would make the eyes water in even the most experienced liquor connoisseur.

It was after midnight when The Rowboat went heads-up with Stewart Scott. Scott had a 5-to-1 chip stack advantage but our man from Vegas had fought so gallantly all the way through that we still believed. In the end, that belief wasn’t enough. When The Rowboat pushed all in, the viewing room erupted and everyone in the entourage stood nervously. Scott called straight away. Peter turned over an ace and a jack. Scott flipped two bullets. Peter needed a couple of jacks or three to the straight and flush. He hit none of them.

There was no shame in second, however. The Rowboat was a winner, a champion, an even-tempered poker king who understands both the game and people.

When he entered the viewing room, he received rapturous applause. There were man-hugs all around as the chant of “Rowboat, Rowboat” went up, a chant that forced him to recoil in horror due to his apparent disappointment in his newfound moniker. He soon loosened up once the enormity of his achievement settled in, however, and those in the entourage, in the Swingers tradition, told The Rowboat that he was money. “You are so money and you don’t even know it. That was so fucking money. That was like the Jedi-mind shit”.

From that point on it was a night of high celebration. The answer was yes to everything. Our own personal host took us to a nightclub where we skipped past the long queue, shaking the hands of the bouncers and fellow well-wishers as we were guided to our own VIP area. Once behind our own velvet rope, we drank the most expensive champagne as we partied into the wee hours. We sat above the dancefloor and were the envy of all. We toasted The Rowboat, poker, Australia, Vegas, alcohol and each other. We were part of a magical night and we all knew it. Money hungry girls wanted in. The waiter was constantly on the move. Matt signed autographs for patrons who believed he was an Australian Rules footballer. The only reason to move to the other side of the rope was the half-hour bathroom runs. We were buzzing like a fighter on his way to the ring for the big title fight.

The party finished, at least for your venerable author, just past sunrise in a hotel room on Spencer Street. Bobby Dazzler rested comfortably in his chair sipping a beer. ‘Moonlight’ Kirley and Matt negotiated heavily over the type of music required. The Rowboat was asleep, as were Jonno and Kelly Kim. I rambled incoherently and without sense. My mind raced faster than my mouth could operate. That tends to be the case at sunrise after an evening of heavy consumption.

As the sun rose through the Pelaco sign and the clock ticked past seven digits, the wind rushing through the back of a cab and through my mangled hair at a rate about one-third as fast my heart, I tasted the residue in the back of my throat and thought to myself that I had walked on the moon. I had ridden the highest of waves and even though my nose burned and my heart pumped like a wild piston and my eyes glazed with total tiredness, I realised that I had come as close to Eden as I probably ever would.

Of course, Karmic fate would dictate that the scores would be levelled, sooner rather than later.

And they were, some thirty hours later, when my account with the Great Scorer was slung firmly into credit.

But that is a tale for another time, one of misery and lost hope that will make for neither interesting reading nor great writing.

Karma. You will never beat it.

At least for one night I owned a town, was on the right side of the ledger and learned a thing or two about uninhibited joy.  Life in a poker entourage comes highly recommended.