Confessions of a Poker Writer: A Small But Useful Midfield Player

Confessions of a Poker Writer: A Small But Useful Midfield Player

The first award I ever received was in 1985 when my football team, 7th Reddish, faced the league winners West End in the Under 10 Supplementary Cup Final.

Confessions of a Poker Writer: A Small But Useful Midfield PlayerIn the run up to the final West End had mauled us both home and away and nobody thought we had a chance of winning…nobody except our coach Allen Tait.

Tait knew that form went out of the window in the final of a cup competition. Nerves would play a part. Skill levels would be put on par. He was right as well. We lost by just two goals to one in a very close contest.

I not only still own that trophy, but I also own the match day program where they describe me as ‘a small but useful midfield player.’

You think they would have come up with something a tad more Cristiano Ronaldo-like.

Over the years my awards grew and I was extremely proud of my collection. When I got divorced I couldn’t bear to throw them away, so I placed them in an old battered box, wrote ‘trophies’ on the top and hid them in my old garage.

So why couldn’t I part with them?

Memories.

Great memories that remind you that the right combination of hard work, dedication, skill, perseverance and luck does get rewarded. There is no better way of receiving recognition that to do so from your peers. It’s much more than ego. It’s confirmation.

Since deciding to exchange my football boots for a pack of Marlboro Menthol and a pint of cider, I have only ever won one more award. It was an award for Outstanding Achievement Towards Cost Control, and it was presented to me at the York Railway Museum during the annual EWS Annual Awards ceremony. A night where their peers honor the success stories of the Rail Freight Industry.

This small but useful midfield player has always needed to be big and useful. Not physically; but mentally and emotionally. I have always worked hard to earn my stripes often with a sacrifice I didn’t even know I was making.

Take that Railway award as an example.

The Railway owned my soul for many years.

As an Area Operations Manager your work is never done because the railway never stops running. Even when I came home from work the phone was always attached to my right ear like some sort of abscess.

I never had time to be a father or a husband. The times my wife dared complain about the time I was spending on work matters were thrown back in her face with vicious defensive volleys.

“I am doing all of this for you. I have to work this hard to earn enough money so we can have what we want.”

We never got what we wanted.

That night in the York Railway Museum was one of the proudest moments of my life. My face was branded on a huge screen as they played a video showing work colleagues and customers heralding my achievements.

It was a boost to the ego, of that there is no doubt, but I wasn’t concentrating on that. I had my eyes fixed on my ex wife. It was the first time that she really ‘got it’. Suddenly, this man who would talk to strangers on his phone, had a face, a purpose, an identity.

She realized that away from the home my work was bringing value to someone else. That people thought very highly of me. That my work mattered. That I wasn’t just vanishing for 12 hours a day to polish my girlie nails.

I made her proud and for a short while everything got better.

Then it ended.

I am in a new relationship now, proving that even the things you never think will change can, and often, do. Yet there are also some things that never change.

That small but useful midfield player is still striving to be big and useful, except this time there are no rails, no wagons, no locomotives and the only sleepers I get to see are the likes of Casey Kastle nodding off at the cash tables.

I am in a new environment. Nobody knows what I am capable of. There is a pecking order and I am not even close to being pecked. I have to work for free, get shit upon by Editors of magazines who refuse to pay me the pittance I deserve. I reach into my Mary Poppins style bag of tricks and use every single one of them in order to grow; but most of all I work hard.

My new wife can see the stress and strain. It’s written all over my face. It’s not a question of how much more work can I get in order to get above the red line; it’s how on earth can I fit this all in.

The balance of life always seems to have a fat kid sitting opposite me. My feet never seem to touch the floor. Every now and then the kid gets off to find another doughnut and I hit the ground hard.

These crashes are my life away from poker. The times where I am supposed to living a life but am too stressed out about the next article, paycheck or trip around the world to kick a ball against the wall with my son, or dance around the kitchen to The Bangles with my new wife.

“Close your eyes, give me your hand, darling, do you feel my heart beating?”

On January 29th I will be in the crowd at the Global Poker Index (GPI) European Poker Awards as one of four nominees for the Poker Industry Person of the Year Award where I square up against Marc Convey, Neil Johnson and Edgar Stuchly.

A younger Lee Davy would now take this time to say that I don’t care if I win. That the nomination is worthy enough.

What a load of bollocks.

I am dying to win. Desperate to win. A feel like that small but useful midfield player who was so desperate to kick the ball into the back of the net and then throw a sneaky glance to his Mum to see how proud she was.

This time my new wife will be with me and I know that she is already proud; I hope I can make her prouder. I hope that she can see that it is all worth it. The carpal tunnel syndrome, the constant interviews on Skype, the tap-tap-tapping of my keyboard.

It’s all worth it in the end.

A small but useful midfield player winning the GPI European Poker Award for Poker Industry Person of the Year?

Now that’s what I call a story.