Lee Davy recants his electrifying experience sitting in the rail of the Thunderdome as Phil Hellmuth Jr. attempted to win his 14th World Series of Poker (WSOP) gold bracelet.
He looks like the king of Peacocks.
He is the only player, of the three that remains, that sits upright. The other two hunch, already succumbing to the power of white magic.
Phil Hellmuth cuts an impressive figure at any poker table but he seems more majestic in the center of the Thunderdome. You have to be pretty special to own any stage and I guess Hellmuth is pretty special.
I haven’t been paying any attention to this competition. I mean, why would I, it’s Razz for peats sake. The game that a few old geezers may choose to play in a game of Dealers Choice (DC).
I am here for one thing, and one thing only. I want to see history being made. Phil Hellmuth has made his 101st WSOP cash, his 50th final table and now I want to see him win his 14th bracelet.
My lack of interest means I don’t even know the names of two opponent’s yet to succumb to his superiority.
From my vantage point in the Thunderdome, I see a balding figure wearing a blue t-shirt, a silver-haired, old guy wearing a bright red t-shirt and dazzling white trainers. The type you want to stamp on in the school yard and just like every episode of Sons of Anarchy, when I am screaming at Jax Teller, I want to shout, “Take them off! They don’t match what you are wearing!”
I hold back my words.
When I speak to professional poker players about Hellmuth I get confused. The overriding opinion is that he isn’t that good and yet here he is, once again. I also thought he was a one-trick pony but he seems to be showing up on mixed game final tables with a Phil Ivey style rate.
What do I know?
“I can’t see shit. Is there any chance you guys can move around a little bit?” shouts Gavin Smith, who has just taken his seat in the Thunderdome rail.
Ahh…the Thunderdome – the epitome of an concrete oxymoron.
If you have never been to Rio and witnessed the marvel of the Thunderdome, then you are missing out on something special. The creators have designed a masterpiece. It looks all silvery, shiny and special and I don’t think there is a better-looking set up for a poker tournament final table in the world.
But it doesn’t work.
When Gavin Smith shouts to the players that he can’t see shit, there is not only an element of jest in his voice but also an element of truth. Everyone around me is complaining that they can’t see what’s going on. The television screens are so tiny that the action can only be followed if you are Clark Kent, an owl or an eagle.
How much is a large flat screen TV?
Come on WSOP…instead of paying out a $10M guarantee, cut it down by a few thousands and buy some television screens so the rail can see what’s truly happening.
The setup reminds me of the old football grounds that contained a racetrack. A dividing line between player and fan that reduced the atmospheric tension that separates the electric events from the dead ones.
Nobody has a clue what’s going on. Nobody cares about the cards. Everyone is just waiting for a chicken dinner.
When you can’t see the action you need to hear the action. Unfortunately, the man on the mic sounds like he is gargling Listerine.
“Put the mic closer to your mouth goddamit,” says Gavin Smith, “I can’t hear what you are saying.”
The tension created by the need to know what’s going to fall out of Smith’s mouth next is more exciting than the actual game.
The silver-haired guy wins a pot and Hellmuth throws his hand in the air in that Hellmuth way. He looks like the Johnny Cash of poker. The man in black. The silver-haired dude gets a generous round of applause. This man has a few fans.
Then Hellmuth wins a hand and the rail erupts. Quite how he won the hand nobody knows but everyone cheers and cries of “Go Phil!” erupt from the barricades.
Hellmuth and the silver-haired dude are going at it and the balding guy in the blue top is like a ghost. For a while, I am wondering if there is a special prize for the player who can get his calling chips into the pot quicker than the betting chips.
Hellmuth and silver-haired dude are just throwing in chips at lightning speed and every single pot seems to be pushed into the direction of the man in black. I don’t know what’s happening. Nobody does. But Phil Hellmuth Jr. is walking away with his 14th title.
A WSOP official dares to walk into the scenery. He is pushing a silver chip cart but he looks like a Pall Bearer. I can’t help thinking that it’s a silver coffin for the silver-haired dude.
His chips are nearly gone.
Blue shirt guy remains ghost-like. He doesn’t put a chip in the pot unless he has to. He doesn’t even move.
The hockey is on the TV screens just beyond the Thunderdome. I can see the hockey. I can see the puck. I am momentarily distracted as the swish of skates seems more appealing than the restlessness of Razz.
Photographers stalk the stage like lions stalking their prey. Huge lenses all focused on just one man. The man in black. The man who emits white magic. He’s eating a salad and it’s going everywhere. There is a piece of lettuce in his beard. A quick flick of the tongue and it’s gone. The lens was not quick enough. Carls Jr. must be distraught.
Another pot goes to Hellmuth.
He is taking over.
There is a guy sitting in the stands wearing a hoodie with a skeletal design. He also has his hood up. It covers his face to give an all over upper body look of a skeleton. It couldn’t be more apt. I wonder if it started out as a full upper body blood and flesh outfit, but the malaise of the action caused it to change?
He gets up and leaves. The security guard stops him and makes him take off his mask before he is allowed to proceed. Strange. I didn’t think it was as offensive as Silver Dude’s white trainers.
I get so bored I start looking around for pretty girls. I guess pretty girls don’t dig Razz. From all the huge photographs, of previous WSOP Main Event winners, that adorn these great walls, only Pius Heinz can be seen. Even he looks bored.
I hear a Star Trek style ringtone and wonder how amazing it would be if Scotty could beam me into the future. The final hand. So I can finish my write up and move on to the next big thing.
Hellmuth bets, Silver Dude raises, Hellmuth puts him all-in, Silver Dude calls, the MC mumbles something into the mic, and the first time we realize we are heads-up is when the Silver Haired dude leaves the stage.
“Greg, qtionnahindnhgiolmshu, cobrarthamndm,m”
I guess the Silver Haired dude is Greg Pappas?
So here we are.
Heads-up.
White magic versus a guy I haven’t seen move for the past three hours.
The MC mumbles into the mic.
“Ted foahahunoodnndhjkd,d nd”
That must be Ted Forrest.
I remember being castigated once for not knowing who he was when recording a hand he was playing in during the European Poker Tour (EPT) in San Remo.
If I didn’t recognize him from his face, how am I going to recognize him from his back. I mean come on…he’s not even moving.
He moves.
He’s alive.
I can see he is wearing shorts, and he has these white socks on. He has pulled them up over his shins like a German tourist. Who dresses these people? I am overcome with a sudden urge to leap over the barrier, dive under the table and pull his socks down around his ankles.
Did I just fall asleep?
“I can tell you that it’s not about the money in this spot. It’s about the WSOP bracelet.”
It’s the first clear thing that I have heard the MC say.
My mind wanders again. I imagine Hellmuth winning and entering his house.
“Hi Honey, I’m home.”
“Oh…hi honey. How did you do?”
“I won again, honey.”
“Oh that’s wonderful. Good for you.”
Suddenly, a man dressed as a gnome stands up and wiggles his hips whilst shouting, “Oh-Yeah-Woo!”
Everyone laughs.
After about three times it starts to get boring.
After ten times I hear the guy behind me say, “If he does it once more I am going to go over there and knock him out.”
Please.
Give us something to watch.
Please.
So was history created?
Did Phil Hellmuth win his 14th bracelet?
Did Ted Forrest win his 6th bracelet?
I haven’t got a clue.
For the sake of my own sanity I decided to leave long before a hand was held aloft.
Not very professional I grant you but this is what Razz will do to a man.
“Oh-Yeah-Woo!”
“Right that’s it!”
