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Jesse May in
Las Vegas |
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Championship Day 1
When the clock finally beeped
zero, zero, zero, signifying the end of the sixth level on the first day of
play at the 2004 World Series of Poker, there wasn’t a one of the 582
players remaining that wasn’t ready to weep for joy. “Here,” you
could hear the collective gasp of withered souls say to the more than 1200
players that had to arise in ten hours and play themselves, “get that down
your neck, why don’t you. Good luck!”
Dave the Devilfish
Ulliot, I’ve rarely seen the man so buoyant. “It’s over boys,
this one’s all over. Wrap up the five million and post it to the
Devilfish!” It’s the first time ever that the Devil has ended the
first day of the WSOP with good chips, and he’s too right. The
Devil’s one of the best chalks in the business, and with 55,000,
he’ll be ready to pound and pound. Ulliot cut a different figure early in
the day, short stacked in the UB shirt and tinted sunglasses, with double
fingered rings saying Devil and Fish. “What time did you get in last
night?” He asks with a sorry glance. “Five a.m. for me.” And now
a good sleep and a day off relaxing at the pool while laughing at the poor
slobs who have to slog their way through six levels and nearly one thousand
people just to get to the Devil himself. Life sure is sweet if you’ve
survived Day 1.
The bloodletting started at one o’clock sharp. The
tournament kicked off with a full field and a line of panting alternates ready
to sit in late with shortened stacks. They just wanted a chance. The one
hundred and twenty tables that started continued full for a good two hours, two
hours in which the only sounds were the crush of the crowds, the shuffling of
chips, and the constant call of seat open, seat open, as another freshened
stack sat down to take the busted one’s place. Somewhere around 4pm the
tables actually started breaking, and then the floodgates opened. A tidal wave
of people were being thrown overboard by the minute, and the look on tournament
director Matt Savage’s face was of the grim exterminator sent to slaughter
a roomful of chickens. “I wish they’d play another level,” he
said, bloody and battered with a swinging hacksaw late into the night,
“They’ll be making ten million dollar bets at the final
table.”
The sickies were the Day 2 players who showed up on the
rail to watch the proceedings. Faces grew ashen white as they watched what was
in store for themselves, and game plans were torn and revised while lines
tightened around eyes. Some professed amazement at the amateur levels of play
that dominated Day 1, but who could really be surprised? Just because the
buy-in was ten thousand dollars, that meant nothing. The size of the field
speaks to the popularity of poker and the sheer money in the game, and not to
the fact that there are suddenly 2500 world class tournament players.
The day was a minefield. Bad beats are no more worth talking about than
the players knocked out, suffice it to say goodbye, so long, and that defense
and body armor are of little comfort when a bunker buster hits you in the small
of the back. Julian Gardner put it into a little perspective when his table got
broken late in the day and he found himself on a downstairs table, over near
the rail, that was sagging from the weight of too many chips. When Julian was
second in 2002, he remembered, he finished Day 2 with 67,000 and was at or near
the top of the board. “Here it is Day 1,” he chuckled, “and
there are two at my table with twice that many!” Two Pokerstars shirts,
one Empire, a UB, and a Paradise. There wouldn’t be one of them that has
ever played the WSOP before, but between the five they have forty players’
chips. And maybe that’s the new definition of Day 1 at the World Series of
Poker. No one’s seen the chip leaders before, just the shirts that they
wear.
Who’s done good? Mike Laing, for one. He tottered round the
room about one am, and giggled when someone asked if he was out. “Yeah,
I’m out,” says Laing. “I lose a hundred and twenty thousand
more, and I’m out!” Johnny Worlds’ got chips, and so does Kenna
James. Both “Choirboy” Gary Jones and Freddy Deeb were back from the
brink. They’d both teetered down to under four thousand towards the middle
of the day before hitting good strides. They’ll sleep the sleep of the
just all day Sunday. The just been given a great chance to win.
I’ll admit it. I laid Doyle Brunson. I’ve seen him go out
early the past two years, and I figured he was done. But they broke the mold
when they made this guy. It’s just turned one am, the game’s been in
progress for twelve hours, and Brunson’s watching everything. You’ve
never seen a man this age this alert after this long at the table. His eyes are
slow lidded and low slitted, and they dart around in piercing glances. Hell, he
is focused, he’s in form, and he looks ready to go eight days like the
maiden voyage of the Lusitania. A bright smile, red jacket, and open necked
shirt. He doesn’t have that many chips, but what he has is quite
comfortable. Twenty minutes to go in the day and his concentration isn’t
wavering. I’m staring at the man who won two WSOP’s and nearly a
couple more. I think he wants it. It’s not the body, the clothes, nor the
face or the words, but those eyes those eyes, all over the table. Those eyes
those eyes. Guys one fourth his age have their minds in the sky, heads bent and
gazes fixed while seeing cloudy, and Texas Dolly Brunson sits there and
watches, with those eyes those eyes.
It’s nearly time to play Day
2. Second verse, same as the first. See you on the other side.
Further
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