Tournament Time
The next few hours determine the worth of my sweat equity
The WSOP (World Series of Poker) starts tomorrow. I dedicate this piece to the tournament dealers; the one’s who (recently) graduated poker class to learn how to deal the game(s); and are courageously jumping into the challenge of dealing live this week. Good luck everybody.
Sweat Equity on Sunday, is it worth it?
It’s the first Sunday of the month, and I have a standing date, if you’d call dealing a final table in a nine-hour poker tournament a real date. It feels more like preparation for a colonoscopy. The truth is I’ll sit in an uncomfortable chair for three-hour rounds dealing cards, knowing it doesn’t (really) matter how I do my job when it comes to guessing how much I’ll make for the night. It won’t matter how entertaining I am, or how fast I read winning and losing hands, or how I make change correctly, or calculate and efficiently split pots.
My earnings for tonight will come down to the final seven players who cash at my game. Luck. Pure and simple luck dictates what I go home with this week.
I work in charity poker room, often referred to as a social club in other areas of the country. The room is located inside a bowling alley in a small town in Western Michigan 70 miles from the closest casino. The smell of musty, stale air fills the room—old fried chicken; dirty feet; and the pungent, skunk-like odor of cannabis and acrid cigarette smoke cling to the walls and the old carpet that line the room.
Forty to fifty assorted characters file in to play cash or tournament poker Thursday through Sunday 50-weeks a year. The first Sunday of each month we hold a special tournament meant to entice bigger play. First place pays in the neighborhood of $4,000, second place a little over $2,000, and so forth on down, to seventh, the last place to cash (paying $450) for an opportunity to cover the buy-in entry fee which is around $250.
Most of the players are regulars. There are a few strays that find the place through the Internet or by word-of-mouth, but this is fairly uncommon due to location and population size of the area.
I look around the room as I sit and prepare the decks of cards and stacks of chips for play. I see mostly familiar and friendly faces. We fist bump a hello, share a hug or most times exchange pleasantries. There are a few who are unfriendly or responsive to a greeting, but we find that in every crowd, right?
Who will be assigned seats 1-10 on my game? Will the game run smoothly or will it get out-of-control quickly? The latter is a rhetorical question I (silently) ask myself each time I take a seat at the table to prepare the cards and hand chip stacks out to the randomly seated players, moments before the buzzer goes off to start the session.
I size up those I don’t recognize and try to guess where they're from. Are they seasoned players or new to the game? George or a stiff? (Gambling parlance for a generous soul or a cheap fuck.)
I’m a new dealer (18-months) to be precise. Breaking into poker is not for the faint of heart. Or the weak. Or the weary. It is a challenging job both physically and mentally, despite what many (mostly the players and managers) say.
The many I refer to are those who play the game regularly; the home games; the many who used to deal at home or in a charity room; the few who think they know how to deal the game; or the micromanagers (which are mostly all) who will chime in at any given moment shout out how to do the job. In other words, everyone knows my job better than I do, or at the very least think they do.
I’ve been told this does happen (occasionally) in casino poker rooms. I have no professional experience dealing poker in a legitimate casino.
But what I can tell you is working in a casino is much different than working in charity rooms, private home games, or back room games. I have 35 years in the gaming industry. I’m qualified to share many years of professional experience, but not inside the poker arena.
Back to the charity room.
It’s a rare gift to find the few players who allow the dealer to do their work without interfering or opining how it should be done differently. Better, easier, more accurately, and most importantly as quickly and efficiently as possible. Which is, of course, the ultimate goal for a dealer and the player.
There can be a disconnect (in) between that can result into a disastrous session for all. One mistake by the dealer, large or small can result in the player losing a hand, or his place in the competition, and my night turning to shit in a hurry.
I don’t get paid a wage or a stipend.
In the beginning I was compensated $10 an hour plus my tips. At some point the base pay was taken away. But that’s another story for another day.
In poker it is up to the winners to tip the dealer. Most times players tip, but sadly, many times they do not. For a dealer it the player’s generosity and a lot of luck that makes or breaks the hours of hard work.
“Poker is a game of skill and luck. Making money as poker dealer is based mostly on luck, and it all works out in the end….” says the owner of the room who took away the dealer pay.
The players are milling around chatting, or sitting in dark corners of the room, noses buried in their phones, or bellied up to the bar for drinks and food impatiently waiting for seat assignments. The frenetic energy circulates the room until the floor supervisor starts passing out the table cards and the players scramble for their respective seats.
I welcome each player and wish them luck as I hand out the chip stacks and collect the seat cards. Wishing the player good luck is the right thing to do. I confess. I don’t always do it.
It is a custom in my poker room for the player to give the dealer a $5 sit down tip at the beginning of the game. I know the regulars who will tip and the (few) who adamantly refuse to do so. Every. Single. Time. I spend as much time in the poker room as many do in their relationships at home. After months the players have unmasked and the real personalities surface. I know the good, the bad, and the forgettable.
I welcome the stiffs to my table as any good hostess should do, but rarely wish them the customary good luck. I’m already rooting against them. Yeah, this is what dealers do. We can’t show favoritism, or expression, good or bad. But we can (secretly) root for our favorites to win and hope to God the stiffs lose. We work for tips, not for our good health.
Into the night…
Cards swish through the air as they ultimately determine winners and losers. Chips are tossed into the middle of the table and gathered into piles known as pots which are rewarded to the the best hands shown, completing each round. Piles of chips are shoved back and forth, won and lost, across the black felt layout as the cast of characters change tables throughout the night, and players are eliminated until the last ten remaining head to the final table and sit in seats 1-10 after six or more hours of grueling play.
The next few hours determine the winner of the tournament and the worth my sweat equity.
The final table…
These are the final ten players who are vying for first place. Seven players will be in the money. The rest will go home with nothing to show but a long, grueling playing session, with few potty breaks, little time to eat, and I’m hopeful a fewlaughs and a bit of fun along the way.
Seat 1: The Terminator. A woman. Rare in our poker room. She’s stealth, never shows her hand, polite, quiet, and an accomplished player. Men are wary of her and women typically find out the hard way, she is deadly. She is an excellent tipper. I’m silently rooting for her to win. The Terminator makes her first bet on the turn, since landing in her seat.
“Uh oh, I’m getting out of this hand, you aren’t trolling for me this time…” Seat 2 says as he quickly folds his hand.
Cards are folded in succession. The Terminator picks up a nice pot and she’s off to a good start.
Seat 2: Detroit Guy. A middle-aged black man who knows poker. He’s a true tournament player and knows the rule book by heart. He comes in well-dressed (out of character for our poker room) and always sports an Ivy (Flat) Cap and Cartier eyeglasses. I silently appoint him “table captain.” If there are discrepancies I can count on his eagle eye to recap the error. He doesn’t yell or micromanage. He tips well most of the time but on occasion he forgets, but always compensates more the next time around. A true gentleman. I hope he places in the money.
“This isn’t showtime it’s pay-for-view,” he quips. He eliminates the calling stations and those who try and get something for nothing.
Seat 3: The Calling Station. He’s a faithful regular who never causes trouble. He oftentimes bets marginal hands. If he has stacks of chips in front of him he will fight to the bitter end of a round. He can get lucky. Really lucky. He can make it to the final table, though rarely does. He has trouble controlling his propensity for being in every hand. If he gets in the money he tips nicely. He’s my pick for fifth place.
“What did you have that hand?” he asks, after finally winning a pot and scooping in the pile of chips. The other guy tossed his hand in, not worth the battle. He will wait until the next opportunity to get the Calling Station to fold.
Seat 4: Greasy (Fucking) Fingers. If he gets lucky and goes on a heater I’m dead. If GFF stays in too long I have to change out the decks of cards because he eats greasy chicken wings while he plays. He’s a known stiff, and never tips. He and I butt heads every time he hits my table. I attribute this to his “old white woman” syndrome. He lives in the ‘hood and loves talking on the phone to his sex workers while the game is in progress. He also causes trouble and as pretends to act as an innocent onlooker. I make mistakes with him all the time. Inevitable. I see him sit down and he triggers anger and anxiety. He comes in every night. Luck of the draw if he misses my table.
I had to call my therapist to figure out how to work past this guy. Management condones his bullshit for reasons unknown.
“Isss a’right, jus’ do yo’ job” GFF repeats over and over, like a broken record.
I make yet another mistake (they come in threes for me) and am forced to signal Detroit to ask him what I did wrong. He glances up from his phone and verbalizes the replay. I fix the mess and move on.
Only I can’t move on because GFF won’t let it go. He squawks like a parrot on crack cocaine.
(Do you know why a parrot talks too much?) Peer pressure, and wanting to fit in. — Irene P., Harvard Lecture, 2015
The floor supervisor comes and asks what happened. I’m so angry I can’t recap so the players all chime in. I’m reprimanded and GFF is asked to drop it. He mumbles under his breath and doesn’t let it go… until he jams all in and busts out.
“Player down,” I shout with glee. I did not win the war. He will be back again next week.
Seat 5: Frankie. My newest and favorite player. She’s a well-known on the poker scene for years. I only met her recently because I’m new to the area. She’s cashed twice on my watch in the smaller tournaments. She’s working on a Master’s Degree in profiling people. She’s loud, aggressive, and does not back down. Frankie is young, vivacious, and has an infectious laugh. She draws attention to herself with a boisterous personality, pissing many of the players off.
She shares her hand inadvertently, screaming exactly what card she needs to better her position as the plastic peels off the deck. Nobody believes her. She’s sharp and sidles up oftentimes to the player next to her, and makes table talk easily. She is my best tipper and lightens the night up considerably. Why can’t all players be like Frankie?
Seat 6: The Rat who poses as “Grandpa.” He poses as a quiet, polite, and seemingly benign player until he feels or senses he’s right about something he disagrees with….
“Call the floor supervisor… do it over again… it’s not fair, why, why, why?”
In his quest for fairness I’ve caught him several times staying silent when mistakes are made in his favor. He disarmingly acts like an innocent victim and makes it right if called out. But don’t expect him to volunteer information. He likes to pull the floor supervisor aside and “rat out” his opponents for either imagined or suspect behavior. He rarely lets the dealer in on it. This causes minor issues behind the scenes when I break, and am asked about something that happened hours ago. I have no energy left to defend myself or the play.
Seat 6: The Victim. Can be a description for many players but this guy takes it all. His seat is bad, the cards are the wrong color, asks for a table change, a dealer change, and complains loudly often for reasons such as manipulation or pity.
The Victim makes an oversize bet pre-flop. He has a pair of Aces.
“See how I’m betting? Everybody knows what I have. I haven’t won a hand all night… just everybody fold, I’ll take a walk.”
He is indicating what he has to everyone and attempting feeble manipulation to win the highest pair held in a Texas Hold’em hand. It works. Most of the time. He’ll sit out hand after hand until the blinds (the forced bets posted by players to start the hand) start to eat him up. He brags about how sharp he is, has a story to tell, always the losses never the wins. He does not like to tip. He does so, unwillingly, crying poor as he pulls out a twenty-dollar bill on a $2,000 win. I will starve to death if I have to depend on The Victim to make a living.
Seat 7: The Bushwacker. He wears earbuds, a football jersey, and the best sneakers money can buy. He’s a numbers guy, aggressive and sharp, and the player everyone dealers love to have at their table. There is a saying in poker. All you need to stay in is a chip and a chair…. He either busts out quickly or he does the dead cat bounce and rallies on to win the tournament. The Bushwacker has a colorful personality and a wicked sense of humor. He dealt poker in the past and knows his stuff. He never gives off the condescending air (former) poker dealers like to display while sitting on a game. He’s been in the trenches and tips accordingly. I wish he made final table every time.
Seat 8: Triple Up. Triple Up is known for drinking Triple White Russians, a wicked sense of humor, and plays an aggressive game of poker. I know him more as a cash player. He rarely plays tournaments but when he does, he’s in the money more often than not. He has an Arkansas drawl, and when he gets wound up he is a formidable opponent. When he sits down he lights up my table. He’s difficult to read, his hand signals are not always clear, and often accused of angle shooting. He is an excellent tipper and when he hits the room I know I’m not going home broke.
“I don’t hate it,” he says when decisions more often than not go his way.
Seat 9: The Story Teller. The guy can talk about a poker hand or a golf shot that happened back in the 80s. I don’t know how he remembers the vivid details. He comes in more for the social scene, been around for years, and is happy if he makes final table, though doesn’t anger easily if he gets a run for his money. He’s pleasant, detail-oriented, and plays an okay game of poker. As he regales tales of the past, his poker hand is (always) read after the punchline. He is a gracious tipper and a welcome player on almost any game.
Seat 10: The True Poker Player. He comes in often. He is erratic and a dangerous opponent. He knows numbers and Game Theory. He is detail-oriented to a fault, and can point out a mistake two tables away. He knows the rules and from what I know of him, he’s a great teacher. He knows and wants perfection. I fall short every single time. I’ve learned the most about poker from him both on and off the game. I couldn’t stand him for the longest. He was critical and intimidating. But he made me a better dealer and player. He knows the ICM chop (the chop a player agreement to redistribute prize money) when the money is tight or the night is wearing thin. He tips fairly and often generously making up for those who don’t tip.
The last sitting… and in the money.
The night grew late. The players were tired. I’d lost it somewhere in the 7th hour. When it came down to 4 players they chopped.
I made $503 total. The total is split among four dealers. Was the night worth it?
I spent a lot of time in the room breaking-in. It was my side hustle. There were great customers, many were friends, only a few were intolerable. They all taught me something about the game of poker.
Dealing poker was my most recent side hustle. The money was good for a part time job. The money can be great if you are savvy and can find a good home game, or a card room to deal.
If you have intentions on making dealing a full-time job I would suggest you find a professional dealer’s school, get certified, and work in Florida, Texas, California, or Nevada.
On to the next side hustle!
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Disclaimer: The names descriptions have been slightly altered or completely changed to protect the innocent… and the not so innocent.
You blew me away this time Patti! I had to read this over two days. Once again, I was there in that room with you and the characters that you created. I have never played poker and I have no understanding of it but through your words, I am having insights into that world.
I loved reading this. It was like reading a very good book. Well done, Patti!
Awesome article. You write very well. I loved it.