I ran into Steve yesterday, a friend of Houston. I don’t know him well, but I’ve always liked him. He has an easy smile and a quiet sense of humor I find disarming. I saw him in the hallway and he said that he was running bad. I offered sympathy but I didn’t think he needed it. He seemed okay, not terribly out of sorts.
A few hours later my name was called for a PLO game and I saw that there was an open seat to Steve’s left. He’s good – excellent, in fact – so I sat to his left, thankful for the favorable position and an amiable tablemate. In short order, Steve was involved in a big hand. He bet the pot on the flop and the turn, clearly representing top set. The river brought a disaster card – any draw would have gotten there – and Steve grimaced as his opponent moved in.
“Think you were a little bit behind?” Steve barked as he slapped his high pocket pair on the table. “Take the friggin pot.” He then gathered his hole cards and flung them at the dealer.
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