OK I’m out. I finished in about 350th spot.

I nursed my 22,000 chip stack right into the third hour of day two. And still I couldn’t catch ONE DECENT HAND! But a little smoke and mirrors, a steal here, a steal there, and somehow even with the huge blinds and antes (600-1200 when I went out) I maintained my little stack. And then I looked down to see my life-long nemesis, the dreaded cowboys. I swear, if I could just have all the money back that I’ve lost on KK in hold ’em… well it’d be worth a lot of kitchen renovations, I can tell you that for free! I know it doesn’t make any sense but that hand has always been an honest-to-God freakin‘ curse for me. A CURSE, I TELL YOU!

But who cares about that? Speaking of God, can I tell you who was sitting right beside me for the last hour? OREL FUCKING HERSHISER that’s who! When I used to bet baseball (a lot) that’s what we called Orel Hershiser. God. I know, quite blasphemous, but I was young and irascible and had a little gambling problem. We called him that, my bookie at the time, Bo Simpson and I, because he seemed to be able to control the entire game with his immense skill. His sheer ability exalted him beyond the scope of mere humans and right into deity status. For my money the greatest pitcher to ever play the game. Hall-Of-Fame, Cy Young Award winner, and back in the day the ONE GUY that I would want to be counting on to complete a five-team round-robin. And he’s sitting there kibbitzing with me about the cute Asian girl at our table! Orel Hershiser, for fuck’s sake!

And I have to add, probably the nicest guy you could ever want to sit beside at a poker table. I think I mentioned this in an earlier blog but I played at the same table with him in The Bahamas as well and he was every bit as charming and affable then.

He’s an avid poker player and an ambassador for PokerStars so when he sits at your table they have this gimmick that he keeps an autographed ball in a glass case on the table in front of him and if you knock him out of the tourny you get the ball. How fucking cool is that? How much more disastrous is it then that the guy who called my KK with AK spiked an Ace on the turn?

Think of it. If not for that damn Ace, Orel Hershiser and I would be preparing for day 3 tonight over a couple of Bud Lites at the bar while we checked out hot broads, even though we’re both really happily married and would never, ever, EVER even THINK about other women in that way, still we might look and raise an eyebrow or two and share a knowing smile acknowledging the rack on that smokin‘ model/actress/whatever while only thinking about how much we love our respective wives. We woulda bonded. We woulda been buddies. He would visit Toronto and have dinner at our house and meet Ruth and the kids, and see our new kitchen, and show the kids how to throw a hanging curve ball and they would have gone on to star for the Brewers for four years and then be particularly awesome in their option years so that they could sign a huge multi-year deal with The Mets or probably The Yankees because who else would be able to afford these two aces who are brothers and refuse to be separated, but then after a huge bidding war they would decide at the eleventh hour – as a tribute to their mentor – to sign with The Dodgers for less but still gazillions of dollars. Oh and the endorsements, don’t even get me started.

But now none of that’ll happen because that guy hit the ace on the turn.

All right I gotta go see if I can get into the 300 rebuy at The Bellagio.

Once again, thanks for reading. Speak soon.