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#270 – Be Careful if Phil Gordon Invites you to a Party .. and Other Adventures When Poker Players Tell You It’s Playtime
Phil Gordon’s birthday is during the summer, so that makes just about everyone who knows him is fair game during the World Series. The pleasure of his company cost me five hundred bucks last summer, but I got away cheap. On the other hand, he and his wife Barbara just moved into a new house and I didn’t get them a housewarming gift so I should probably consider that some sort of offset.
I think the party, held toward the end of the Series, was just an excuse for Phil to hustle for some mortgage money. (He’s told me that he’s not as wealthy as people assume and, based on the way he works these leisure games, I believe him.)
Having never played roshambo in my life – not even one throw – I declined to enter the $500 buy-in roshambo tournament that somehow took over the party. Phil took on the role of a “press gang,” an odious group in Britain in the 17th century that would “impress” men into naval service without notice and by force. (i.e., yanking them off the streets and on to a ship.) Specifically, he called me a pussy. A minute later, I was out of the tournament and $500 poorer.
I noticed when I arrived at the party that, next to the swiming pool, there was an angled board with a hole in it and some beanbags lying around. Gee, how careless. Someone left these children’s toys out. Lucky for Phil and Barb (who, as far as I know, don’t have any children) that Juha Helppi and Thomas Wahlroos picked them up. In fact, they didn’t just pick them up – they devised a game with them. Of course, Mr. Gordon was nowhere near this game so he had no idea this was happening.
Now it could be that there was some mutual hustling going on. I noticed at the beginning of the party, those beanbags were smacking against the door to the kitchen and landing in the swimming pool. Once it was discovered that this game could be wagered on, Messrs. Helppi and Wahlroos magically became expert at it.
But not expert enough. When I saw Phil at the Ante Up for Africa afterparty, he whispered to me that he took the two for $5,400 at the game.
All these poker players are so fucking competitive that any simple diversion becomes a life-and-death struggle.
Steve Zolotow has one of the nicest pieces of property I’ve ever seen. There are several dwellings on the property, in one of which he keeps a legendary backgammon champion. He also hosts an annual pre-Main Event karaoke party for which Suzie Lederer set up a tent for at least 200.
Along one corner of this property, Steve Z has a series of 64 alternate-color tiles. On the tiles are 2-foot-tall chess pieces. When I arrived, Howard Lederer, once a highly-ranked competitive chess player, was playing a team of Paul Magril, the eccentric backgammon champ and poker player, Annie Duke, and Joe Reitman. Annie eventually retired from the game to take up the altogether more rewarding job of heckling her brother.
But she didn’t have the guts to do it herself – or maybe she was just way too devious. She had one of her daughters (Howard’s niece) walk over and tell him, “Uncle Howard, maybe your king would like to lie down.” Eventually, the badgering worked and Lederer resigned the game.
That whole family is nuts that way. Katy, who I’ve fallen in love with at two consecutive Steve Z parties, wrote in POKER FACE about a family game called “spoons” where at a certain point in the game someone who gets a certain card (or something like that) is supposed to grab a spoon that’s placed on the table. Her mom and dad grabbed the spoon at the same time and her dad dragged her mom across the room by the spoon, trying to pry it free.
At The Gordon Affair, Annie found a Srabble board and, against my better judgment – mostly because there was no money on the line – I agreed to play her a game. It wasn’t close. Admittedly, I picked up the better tiles, but I took full advantage from the beginning, using all seven tiles on the second turn, and coasting to victory, 369-262. I still have the scorecard, which Annie was nice enough to sign:
“Fuck you, you luckbox. XO Annie Duke.”
I think that’s an “X” and an “O”. It could be a skull and crossbones.
That party was also memorable because I gave Joe Reitman a pair of my shorts. Joe and Annie were both wearing “distressed” jeans during the World Series. Annie’s, I swear, had a hole that was moving crotchward at a rate of one centimeter per week. Joe seemed in control of his pants for the entire Series until this party. At about 3:30, however, those jeans went loincloth on him.
Coincidentally, this happened while he and Annie were having a discussion about why they didn’t bring swimsuits – I’d be surprised if Annie owns one, since she avoids sunlight like a vampire – since he and the kids were interested in the swimming pool. (Helppi and Walhroos, by this time, had “improved” enough at the beanbag toss game that they were no longer winging the swimmers.)
I came to the rescue and gave Joe a spare pair of shorts I had with me, which kept us all from checking out his equipment and gave him something to wear in the pool.
Why did I have an extra pair of shorts with me? That’s what I do. That’s why I’ve driven to Las Vegas 100 times sine 2004. I just like to keep stuff around.
And Joe paid me back almost immediately. The next night, at Steve Z’s party, he and Phil Gordon were locked in mortal combat for the karaoke prize, which was a very nice watch, plus bragging rights (which was even nicer). Phil Gordon was taking this competition incredibly seriously. Either that or he thinks he really is the spiritual son of Frank Sinatra. Joe Reitman, an accomplished actor, director, and acting coach, took Gordon to school. Ripped him a new karaoke-hole.
Good work, Joe. You did us proud.
