Scare tactics
Continuing my hapless pursuit of cash games against the Imperialist Side, I jumped into a .50p/1 pound game on Sun Poker tonight. I left that table 45 minutes later 45 pounds poorer, knowing I could not beat the guy on my right, Mr. Post-Flop Specialist.
There's tricky and there's good. Mr. FPS was both. Sure, he got a couple of sloppy tongue kisses from the Luckbox, but even then he had sound reasons to have been in the hand pre-buss. I tried to stay with him for awhile, vainly attempting to show that not all of us Yanks are mouth-breathing wankers. But common sense finally prevailed, forcing me to collect my drool bucket and head home.
Not ready to stop the bleeding, I dropped down in class to .25p/.50p. (All of this, like 98 percent of my cash-game play, occurred at 6-max tables.) In the first couple of hands there, I bluffed the guy to my left off a decent-sized pot. Irritated, he pushed at the table hard, doing a decent imitation of Mr. FPS. Wonderful. I now have a new Aggro-Brit to tangle with and this time I'm out of position. Predictably, he began whittling away at my stack.
Slighty aggravated but in no mood to surrender, I topped off my stack with what was left in my Sun account, leaving me .25p short of the 50-pound max. Then this hand occurred:
I get As-Qs in the big blind. FPS Jr. min-raises UTG and gets three callers. Wimpishly, I just call the other .50p, thinking I have a well-hidden hand and, more importantly, knowing I'm not running too goot at the moment. The flop confirms the latter: 7d 3c 3s. Every swingin' Richard checks. Okay.
The turn is the [7d 3c 3s] 6s, a decent card for me. I check, waiting to let FPS Jr. do something. He clicks in 2 pounds worth and gets one caller before the action returns to me. I call, putting about 11 pounds in the pot.
The river is the 4s. Bingo! I check, believing that FPS Jr. won't fail me now. He bets 9 pounds and the other player calls. Big Ben is ringing off the hook as I make it 25 total. (I actually coonsidered for a microsecond just calling and avoiding the off-chance that FPS Jr. might be trapping with a boat. I could only put the other player, a rare British Bird, on some kind of straight or very-low flush given her call.)
FPS Jr. ponders my raise for a moment before pushing his last 56 pounds. Ms. B.B. then calls off her last 35 pounds. What the fuck? Who's the Benedict Arnold giving away Fort Nut Flush? Does one of these mouth-breathers have pocket 7s? Who decided it would be a good day to play 3-6 or -- gasp! -- 5s-7s? I've got 21 pounds left. The pot is huge. I waste no time in calling, ready to travel to the bottom of PCB-laden Lake Erie with the U.S.S. A-Q.
The hole cards finally revealed, we discover that FPS Jr. has Ks-9s. Ouch. Ms. B.B. has ... 2c-5h. Alrighty then. I take down a 149-pound pot, which converts into $271, the biggest of my short NL cash-game career. Noice.
There's tricky and there's good. Mr. FPS was both. Sure, he got a couple of sloppy tongue kisses from the Luckbox, but even then he had sound reasons to have been in the hand pre-buss. I tried to stay with him for awhile, vainly attempting to show that not all of us Yanks are mouth-breathing wankers. But common sense finally prevailed, forcing me to collect my drool bucket and head home.
Not ready to stop the bleeding, I dropped down in class to .25p/.50p. (All of this, like 98 percent of my cash-game play, occurred at 6-max tables.) In the first couple of hands there, I bluffed the guy to my left off a decent-sized pot. Irritated, he pushed at the table hard, doing a decent imitation of Mr. FPS. Wonderful. I now have a new Aggro-Brit to tangle with and this time I'm out of position. Predictably, he began whittling away at my stack.
Slighty aggravated but in no mood to surrender, I topped off my stack with what was left in my Sun account, leaving me .25p short of the 50-pound max. Then this hand occurred:
I get As-Qs in the big blind. FPS Jr. min-raises UTG and gets three callers. Wimpishly, I just call the other .50p, thinking I have a well-hidden hand and, more importantly, knowing I'm not running too goot at the moment. The flop confirms the latter: 7d 3c 3s. Every swingin' Richard checks. Okay.
The turn is the [7d 3c 3s] 6s, a decent card for me. I check, waiting to let FPS Jr. do something. He clicks in 2 pounds worth and gets one caller before the action returns to me. I call, putting about 11 pounds in the pot.
The river is the 4s. Bingo! I check, believing that FPS Jr. won't fail me now. He bets 9 pounds and the other player calls. Big Ben is ringing off the hook as I make it 25 total. (I actually coonsidered for a microsecond just calling and avoiding the off-chance that FPS Jr. might be trapping with a boat. I could only put the other player, a rare British Bird, on some kind of straight or very-low flush given her call.)
FPS Jr. ponders my raise for a moment before pushing his last 56 pounds. Ms. B.B. then calls off her last 35 pounds. What the fuck? Who's the Benedict Arnold giving away Fort Nut Flush? Does one of these mouth-breathers have pocket 7s? Who decided it would be a good day to play 3-6 or -- gasp! -- 5s-7s? I've got 21 pounds left. The pot is huge. I waste no time in calling, ready to travel to the bottom of PCB-laden Lake Erie with the U.S.S. A-Q.
The hole cards finally revealed, we discover that FPS Jr. has Ks-9s. Ouch. Ms. B.B. has ... 2c-5h. Alrighty then. I take down a 149-pound pot, which converts into $271, the biggest of my short NL cash-game career. Noice.
posted by Poker Jones at 12:06 AM
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