FULL TILT POKER BLOG

#465 – WSOP Notebook #38 – “The Devilfish War is Over!”

Posted by Editor | Filed under My family, WSOP 2008

Transplanted New Zealander Des Wilson descends the steps of his plane on an English airstrip, clutching and waving the treaty.

“Peace in our time!”

Appreciative nods to Messrs. Wilson and Anthony Holden for brokering the deal that allowed me to return to Las Vegas, if not to witness the exploits of Jeremiah Smith, Allen Cunningham, Mike Matusow, Gus Hansen, Mark Mos, Jeff Matsen, and Chip Jett, to at least pick up my belongings from the Compound.

But it is, at most, a reluctant thank you. David Ulliott, it seems, left Las Vegas days ago and apparently has more important fish to bedevil than yours truly. Whether it would be advisable for me to travel to London for WSOP-Europe was left open to question and will ultimately depends on whether Uncle Tilty will spring for insurance that includes payment for injuries sustained in a war zone. In any event, I have been assured that Devilfish is not the sort to carry a grudge and, if he was, I would be well down the list.

So why, I wondered, had I been forced to attend a “peace conference” a Buzios, probably my least favorite Las Vegas restaurant. I got all the information I needed when I saw Des Wilson bent over the lobster tank. Those crustaceans were doomed, but if they got a look in those hungry eyes of his, they’d have thanked Poseidon for the glass separating them.

Before I knew it, there were oysters, shrimp cocktails, and gristle-laden steaks piled up on the table. Two bottles of wine appeared and the table was practically groaning under the feast.

Their feast, anyway.

I gnawed at a piece of bread while Wilson and Holden alternatively wondered why the place was empty on a Friday night. Silently hoping vandals hadn’t cleaned out my freezer at the Compound, I posited an answer as I pondered the possibility of a couple of microwaved hot dogs, to be eaten over the sink.

No sooner had the check arrived when Wilson began making noises about having to get to some important bowling engagement. Holden, meanwhile, asked for a doggie bag for the wine. I knew where this was headed and made it clear that my life on the run had drained me practically dry of funds.

They graciously agreed to pay for part of the meal, though they shook me down for my entire supply of $10-off coupons that I had received for each World Series event I played.

I considered checking out the action in the Amazon Room, since my last memory of the place was obscured by the tears in my eyes and the shame of an unsuccessfully-concluded Series.

But Tony Holden prevailed on me and I couldn’t refuse him. Though he may have played me for a sucker, he was a hero of mine and a significant influence on my writing style, as well as my path as a writer and a poker player.

“Could you give me a lift to my hotel?” he plaintively asked, gesturing toward the open bottle of wine as if it was an unwieldy package or an ill-fitting artificial limb.

He had a point, Holden did. In a town where you can guzzle beer from a gas tank and carry a three-foot-long margarita with the aid of a neck-strap, walking around with an open wine bottle conjures of the demons of drink in a fashion far too real for the town fathers. When I saw him walking the hallways of the convention center with the half-empty, garnet-tinted bottle, it was all I could do to avoid seeing if his zipper was down or if there was vomit on his shoes.

I think it’s unfair and even hypocritical to allow someone to endlessly ride the escalators and walkways outside Ballys while consuming the equivalent of a 12-pack just because his oversized tankard has a casino logo stamped on it, but a man wandering Flamingo Road at 11:30 on a Friday night grasping a bottle is labeled a “wino.”

“Get in the car,” I told him.

I drove him back to his hotel in silence. As he got out, he said, “Dinner tomorrow? It’s Wilson’s last night in town and if we play it right, maybe we can get him to pay.”

Sounds like a date to me.

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