#834 – 2009 WSOP #92 – Seen & Heard #27 – Phil Ivey’s Valhalla

With the Undisclosed Location shut down and packed away, I wondered where Phil Ivey would go to relax during breaks. Come to think of it, I saw him at the Undisclosed Location only once during the entire Series. Where has he been going to hang out?

During the first break of the day, I fought the crowds and followed him through a back exit out the Amazon Room. Did he have a room at the Rio? Too far away. Was he “resting” during breaks by shooting dice? I was about to find out.

Door, hallway, another door. Outside.

Outside? It’s like a furnace out here. I had to keep my distance from Phil to trail him but now I wonder whether he employed a body double to throw me off track?

We’re next to the valet parking. Is he retrieving something from his car? Or does he hang out in his car during breaks? Neither inquiry was entirely incorrect.

Phil walks briskly past his black Range Rover and disappears inside a Winnebago parked behind a circle of traffic cones, all of which is in a roped-off part of the parking lot. Fifteen minutes later, Phil bounds from the trailer and returns to the Amazon Room to play. As I duck behind a gigantic misting fan next to the valet, Ivey speeds by me, looking refreshed and renewed.

I sneak over to the Winnebago and peek in a window. It’s shuttered and I can see nothing.

“Can I help you?”

I’m startled by a young woman carrying a satellite telephone and wearing a starched, white uniform.

I resort to the oldest trick in the book, which is the only one I know. I pull my wallet out of my pocket and say, “I was trying to return this to Phil.”

“Phil?” she asks, registering no reaction. “There’s nobody here named Phil.”

“I think it fell out of his pocket when he was in the ESPN office for his interview. They’re gonna kill me if I don’t get it back to him.”

“Oh, you must be referring to Mister I. I suppose -”

Before she could ask for the wallet, I said, “I’ve been freaking out over this. I think I’m getting dehydrated. You don’t have a bottle of water in there, do you?”

She turned and walked around and inside the door of the camper. I followed.

A blast of cold air hit me as I walked inside. It was dark inside and it took me a moment to adjust to my surroundings. It looked much larger than from the outside.

Near the entrance was a cooler stocked with about fifty bottles and cans of different beverages and from which Miss Whitedress handed me a bottle of Fiji water. She sat behind a massage table.

“Phil – I mean, Mister I – told me about this place. I think he wanted us to do a feature about it.”

“Really? He seems to like his privacy, but I suppose with the Series coming to an end, it may not matter much.”

“His privacy couldn’t be TOO important,” I said, pointing to three men I noticed at the other end of the long Winnebago.

“This are his ‘friends,’” she replied with a whisper, making little air quotes around “friends.” The first one, she explained, will play Roshambo or other games for whatever stakes Ivey wants. The second is seated before a video monitor and the controls of an XBox 360. The third leaned against a bank of TV screens and a computer monitor.

“What’s that one do? TIVO his favorite eposides of TV shows?”

“Sports,” she said in a hushed tone. He’s one of the biggest sports bettors in Las Vegas. He keeps updated on the sports action and provides Mr. I with status reports and will negotiate bets with him on any sporting event.

“And how about you? What’s your job. It doesn’t sound like he needs a tour guide.”

“Hardly. I’m a licensed masseuse. When I’m not doing that, I keep the food and drinks fresh, the treadmill and stairmaster wiped down, and I’m also responsible for the satellite phone.”

I tried not to ask the obvious question. “Yeah, I know he always needs to keep the satellite phone ready.”

“He sure does during the World Series. He probably gets more of a workout on this than everything else combined, except maybe the stairmaster. It’s for prop bets.”

Well now, I had to know. Not even daring to ask, I just raised on eyebrow. I was starting to get the idea that this woman was dying to tell someone something about this.

“We have a dozen of Mr. I’s favorite proposition bettors on speed dial. I periodically update them on when he’s coming in for a break.”

By this time, I couldn’t do anything but nod and sip my Fiji water. It was all quite unbelievable.

“About the wallet?”

Oh, right. I almost forgot about that, and would have said something stupid if I didn’t have it in my hand. I started to hand it over and then flipped it open so I could see the driver’s license – my driver’s license – behind the cheap laminated plastic.

“Wait. I’m sorry. This isn’t Mr. I’s. The ID says ‘Michael Craig.’ So do the credit cards. I think that’s some goofball cameraman for ESPN. I can’t believe I went on some goose chase – I’m sorry I inconvenienced – thanks for the water.”

Then I quickly backed out of the Winnebago, almost tripping backwards down the three steps to the asphalt.

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