Colson Whitehead - The Noble Hustle - Poker, Beef Jerky, and Death

Then came Black Friday. The Feds put the kibosh on all online operations but saved their choice indictments for Full Tilt. According to the government, the company — fronted by some of the biggest names in poker, the dudes who had inspired most of these online players to take up the game in the first place — had defrauded its users out of $300 million. “Sorry, your account has been frozen.” Matt knew people who’d had 70 or 80 percent of their bankroll tied up in the electronic ether — gone. Hundreds of thousands of dollars. Paper millionaires, teenagers who’d never had a bank account in their life, reset to zero. Middle-aged guys grinding sixty hours a week, supporting their families on the fifty grand they eked out each year, were suddenly without jobs. That’s how they paid their mortgages, with a full house here and river bluff there.

The national recession had caught up to organized poker. There was dark talk about suicides. Rumors. No one really wanted to talk about it. Eighteen months after Black Friday, a lot of that money was still in the hands of the government, who wanted to get paid first before they tackled the matter of reimbursements.

Adapt or die. Just as the cowboys had to readjust to the young gunslingers and their new loose-aggressive poker or hang up their holsters, the Robos needed to learn to handle brick-and-mortar casinos. As we drove to AC, Matt’s disquisition on the State of Poker Today darkened the already overcast sky.

This Harrah’s circuit event was eleven days long, with twelve big-ticket games and assorted remora Mega Satellites and Turbo Mega Satellites. The biggie this weekend was the $1,600 buy-in Main Event. Some six hundred regional players hopping on buses, driving down, getting a ride with Mom. The prize pool just shy of a million dollars.

Helen and Lex were there, too. Friday night they were playing a $200 Mega Satellite to chute into Saturday’s biggie. As usual, the top 10 percent of the satelliters got a ticket to next day’s event. Months earlier, Coach and her hubby had failed to make it into the WSOP Main Event. Now, in winter, the carousel had started up again. Like the thousands of poker legions across the world, they hoped to be in Vegas when the music stopped.

Okay — I’d been spoiled by the show-biz accoutrements of the Main Event. The TV cameras, the B-list celebs, the Poker Kitchen. Harrah’s Atlantic City WSOP stage was your typical meeting space in a mid-price hotel, windowless and dingy. Today it’s poker. Next week it’ll be a Chia Pet regional sales conference, a franchise meeting for Bespoke Snuggies, or an all-day Just Be Yourself self-actualization seminar, for which the doors will probably be chained shut until you sign up for the pricey Steps 1-12 workbooks. Bonus if you bring a friend, like Full Tilt.

The Final Table of Event 7, No Limit Hold’em, unfolded on a tiny area cordoned by scuffed brass rails. For Just Be Yourself, that’s where participants will beat each other with foam bats while screaming “Can you hear me now, Mommy!” but the action now was droopy-lidded. The long slog. I plopped down in the modest audience seats while the satty players queued up to register. They were young and scruffy, day bags slung over their shoulders. They might be crashing overnight and playing tomorrow — or heading home in an hour. It had been a long time since I’d been in the presence of non-Vegas players. These guys, I recognized them by their groans.

After a crappy meal downstairs, Helen and Lex grabbed their table draws. Slim food picking on this side of Harrah’s, but they had enough fuel to get them to midnight. If they didn’t bust.

As usual, they classed up the joint. Lex joined his table in a smart charcoal jacket and blue oxford. Coach opted for posh-ninja mode, black sweater and black pants. Only the moonlight glinting off her red fingernails would give her away, as she garroted mofos amid the mounting levels. Like the fanny-packed, beer-gutted others filling the tables, Coach and her husband wanted to place at the top of the satellite and keep the 1,600 bucks for Event 10 in their pockets. Would they fork it over if they didn’t make it tonight? The eternal calculus of the Noble Hustle, where bankroll meets the reality of how the cards are running. I watched one hopeful pad around in a daze after being flushed out of the 5:00 p.m. Mega. He walked to the doors, walked back. Still time to enter the 7:00 p.m. satellite. “Do I want to do this again?” he said aloud.

He hiked his bag on his shoulder and reenlisted.

I caught up with Matt in a Bobby Flay joint over in the Borgata, where we dined with Action Bob and Lana O’Brien. Bob was the star of the three-act tweet-play I related earlier. He lived in nearby Barnegat, New Jersey, with his wife and kids. Typical modern dad. When his family sleeps, he’ll come to the plush Borgata Poker Room and play $40/$80 Limit, rising early every weekend to fleece the “tired, drunk, angry” who have been playing all night and are trying to get even. “It’s worth getting up at five,” he said with a grin. Play in the morning, he can hang out with the fam in the afternoon.

Lana was a young colleague of Matt’s from CardRunners.com, the poker academy. Currently Matt’s apprentice and trying to step up her game, although time was running out. She was pregnant with her second kid and starting to show. Maternity leave from Hold’em loomed. If the online sites were up, she could telecommute, but …

Lobster and Crispy Squid Salad. Amid the Flaying, Matt, Lana, and Action Bob partook of the Replay. Dug into the archives, recalling a multitude of crime-scene variables — position, stack size, the opponent’s preferred range of hands. Crucial points of personal history — was that before said supervillain stopped drinking, or where they were still an ogre at the table? The action sequences of their poker movie, on slow-mo to admire the F/X work. The supporting cast had taken their marks last month at the Fall Open, and would return to deliver their lines next month at the Winter Open. Character actors too colorful to be out of work long.

How did they keep track of it all? Those old battles.

Action Bob shrugged. “You get used to it.” He checked his watch. He had to leave the table for a few minutes, to call home but also for face time at his $40/$80. Dinner break, yeah, but he had to pop in for two hands so he didn’t lose his seat. His kids gotta eat, too.

Wild Mushroom Mashed Potatoes with Truffle Oil, Spice-Rubbed Rib Eye. A nice steak before they played tomorrow at Harrah’s. No satellites for them. The numbers didn’t work out. Why spend ten hours grinding when the 1,600-buck entry fee is just the price of doing business? A satellite for a $10K tourney was doable, in a time-money calculation. Not that they’d do it, but at $10K the numbers started to make sense. Sometimes you force down a Southwestern Chicken Wrap, next time it’s steak. Bankroll is all.

Plus, satties are boring, they all agreed. You’re angling to get into the top ten, not money. You play differently, the way you adjust for Six Handed versus a ten-seat game. “Fold, fold, fold, fold,” Lana said, and wait for a good shot.

Better to eat a nice meal, rest up, and hope for a good table. “Last year, my opening table was the best I ever had,” Action Bob said. Wistful.

“They were good players?” Must be exciting, entering into combat with your peers. A worthy challenge.

“He means, great meaning bad ,” Matt said. Like when Run-D.M.C. says, “Not bad meaning bad, but bad meaning good.” May the Poker Gods gift us some terrible players, some real bozos, so we can make some money.

Lana wasn’t entering Event 10 on Saturday, but the Ladies Event that ran at the same time. She was down to play some cards. Eager and full of cheer. Since training with Matt, she’d achieved a new level in her play. “Whenever you can get up and play poker, it’s a great day.”