FULL TILT POKER BLOG

Then Gavin Smith Hit Me

Posted by jgreenspan | Filed under Uncategorized

I started my Saturday in terrible shape. Hung over and jetlagged, I emerged from my hotel and stumbled into the Dublin streets at about 1pm. My mind was capable of a single thought: get coffee and get it now. I’m nasty in moments such as this. I threw a clock at a college roommate under similar circumstances, and I once threatened a camping buddy with a spork.

Downtown Dublin was crowded with Christmas shoppers – and cold. I didn’t know what direction to head in and my annoyance level was getting extremely high. I needed coffee. In a moment, Gavin Smith and a few Full Tilt Poker employees appeared in front of me.

Gavin then punched me in the shoulder. Hard.

“Owww.”

“That’s how we say ‘Good Morning in Canada,” Gavin said with a grin.

I then thought about my current state of misery and Gavin’s role in causing it.

The previous day, I had flown into Dublin to do some work with Full Tilt Poker. I do some contract writing for the site, and had come to town to interview some of the pros, as many of them were there for the Dublin All-Star Challenge. Erik Seidel was in town, as were Chris Ferguson, Mike Matusow, Howard Lederer and others. The day went well. Mike shared some intriguing Omaha Hi-Lo concepts and Chris gave me a crash course in game theory that I pretended to understand.

I then napped and prepared for dinner with some of my friends in the company. Gavin accompanied us, and without really trying to, became the focus of all conversation. He told stories, then instructed one of the native Irishmen that he needed to track someone down. The Irish equivalent of 411 was called.

“His name is Kasey,” Gavin instructed. “John.”

“You’re looking for a John Kasey… in Dublin,” said the Irishman.

“Yeah.”

“There are going to be a few. Do you have an address?” The Irishman asked.

“No. But he lives on the same street as a guy who’s a roadie for U2.”

We got the number of one J. Kasey. Gavin called, and started the conversation with a bright, “Who’s this?” It wasn’t the Kasey he was looking for.

The night rolled on and we moved from bar to bar in search of a place to sit, talk and drink. Finally, after entering and leaving a group of jam-packed pubs, we ended up in the lobby of our rather posh hotel. We settled into couches and high-backed chairs and ordered rounds. (Gavin advised me to go for two at a time, rather than one, as the service seemed unpredictable.)

Before the first round arrived Gavin had his mind set on a pastime. “We’re going to play charades,” he told all assembled. And though there was resistance at first, within 10 minutes there were a dozen half-drunk adults wildly pantomiming to each other. All participants were enthusiastic, competitive, and appreciative of the other team’s accomplishments. I was ready to kill Gavin when he gave me “Apocalypse Now!” but I managed it, and he was suitably impressed.

The drinks continued to come, two at a clip. Allen Cunningham and Melissa Hayden appeared, but by then we were past charades. We were on to competitive weight guessing, and Gavin was the master, usually coming within five pounds.

At this point my recollections of the evening get a little cloudy. I remember a palpable sense of regret upon seeing yet another double-shot of Pimms. I remember Allen weighing way less than seemed possible. I remember encountering some difficult locating the proper button in the elevator.

Then there was the morning (make that early afternoon) misery which reached it’s nadir with Gavin’s shot to my arm. I was furious. He was the cause of the pain in my head and my arm. I wanted to lash out.

“Let’s get some food,” he chimed with a smile.

I nodded, then giggled. Gavin was ready for some fun and if I didn’t get my head together I was going to miss out.

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