That summer I got very nitty,
opening only 5.6% of hands
from all positions. ATs-AKs,
88+, AKo, and KQs. I spent long
afternoons in windowless rooms,
flicking cards at dealers, perfecting
my aim. When the OMCs requested
table changes and the regs started
to straddle, I held the game
in the muck. That summer I blasted
my equity, released aces with ease,
folded out all the draws.
But for the uninitiated, my 3-bets
were transparent, those poor souls
that stumbled on a rock. That summer,
I listened to the table—the
lull of 9 lives converging.
The old man takes his time.
His eyes trace a path,
from the hand revelead before him,
to my queens, to the Q99 flop.
He traces it again.
Reluctantly, he flicks out a 9
And then the other.
Who hasn't needed to cause
some thing to suffer, to watch
some thing writhe in pain.
That summer, I didn't feel a thing.