I’ve long nurtured this suspicion that every writer secretly wants to be the subject: every police reporter yearns to be a cop or a wisecracking detective, and every sportswriter dreams of being a champion athlete. We fantasize about it, but — and because — now and then it really happens. One of my colleagues on the police beat before martial law couldn’t stand being on the sidelines and joined the force — getting a kick, I’m sure, from stepping into our press room in full uniform.
In sports, my hero is the prizewinning journalist and novelist Jim McManus, who turned a Harper’s assignment to write about the 2000 World Series of Poker into an excuse to join the tournament, and ended up finishing in 5th place and winning almost $250,000. (The blurb for his now-classic book about that incredible run, Positively Fifth Street, was written by no less than American poet laureate Billy Collins: “Sex, drugs, Sylvia Plath, Amarillo Slim, the history of cards, the psychology of gambling, and most insistently the edgy drama of no-limit Texas hold’em — it’s all here in language that nearly burns a hole in the page.”)
Now, remember these things as you read the following paragraphs.
Some friends of mine — all fellow board members of the Philippine Fulbright Scholars Association (PFSA), which I serve as vice president — woke up last week to find this message from me in their inbox:
“Hi, friends — First of all, this isn’t one of those scam letters asking you for money because I got mugged in Madrid. This is Butch Dalisay, the guy who called for a meeting of our PFSA group at UCC in Podium today at 6:30 pm. The meeting will push through, most of our members having graciously confirmed their availability.
“BUT (and this is where the shameful part begins — I feel like a ten-year-old boy making up an excuse before his teachers) I might be late, or I might not even be able to catch up with you, and I’ll explain why. This is going to be the strangest if not the stupidest letter you’re ever going to get from me, so I suggest you save it as some form of collateral for a favor I’m going to have to repay you in the future.
“I’m not even going to be late or absent for some forgivably noble cause. The reason is (gulp) against all odds, I made it to the finals of a major poker tournament, and that final event takes place at 3 p.m. this afternoon, well into the evening, if I don’t get eliminated early.
“As some of you may know, I’ve been playing poker (meaning, I play for money, and play in tournaments) for many years now. I don’t see it as gambling, and it’s all legal, but I won’t mind if you see it as something utterly contemptible (some days, I think so, too, especially when I lose).
“Well, I entered this big million-peso tournament this weekend, thinking that I’d fall by the wayside early in the elimination rounds as I usually do. But thanks to Lady Luck (and, OK, I’ll brag, a little skill), I made it to the final day! Out of 350 players who started out, there are only 22 players left standing, and one of them is me.
“I was delirious until I realized that, alas, our meeting also takes place today! Now, a person of greater probity and moral rectitude would have no hesitation choosing to go to the PFSA meeting and giving up a chance to win the P600,000 first prize.... But I’m a craven creature, offering further and ineluctable proof of my unfitness to rule and to govern, which is why you should never make me PFSA president. (Seriously — not to lay a guilt trip on anyone — Beng and I could use some cash, after racking up some major, major bills for her recently and dearly departed Papa; in fact, I’m going to be praying to Papa this afternoon to guide my game from the great CCTV in the sky — Papa, can you hear me?).
“So: if I’m there on the dot at 6:30, it’ll be good for Fulbright but bad for me, because it can only mean that I got snuffed out early, which I probably deserve. I’ll be disappointed, but will seek solace in your company and that of San Mig Light. (The tournament will take place at the Metrocard Club in Metrowalk, just a few blocks away from Podium, so I won’t be too far.) If I’m late, or if I never turn up, it can only mean that the gods were smiling on me, and have forgiven this trespass. In that event, could Ani Almario, being our secretary and next in line, kindly preside over the meeting and help us sort out where we are as far as our vacant presidency and our projects are concerned?
“Again, my most sincere and most sheepish apologies. I owe you all big time. It’s almost 6 a.m. and I’ve been playing all night and still haven’t slept and I have to be up at noon, so I’m going to sign off for now, hoping and praying for your kind indulgence (and if you can find it in your hearts to do so, wish me luck!).
“PS / And here’s a pic from the elimination round as my certificate of appearance — the University of Michigan would be so proud.”
How did this all begin? I‘d been deep at work on a couple of book projects, and felt I deserved a poker break, just to clear out and recharge my addled brain. The first leg of the Philippine Poker Tour seemed like a good opportunity, despite the sizeable entrance fee, for which I sold one of my vintage pens, just to be able to say that I didn’t dip into our grocery budget to indulge a vice. On the first two days of eliminations, I played well and got a lucky break here and there: my 20,000 chips became 156,000, and then nearly 200,000. All of a sudden, I was in the finals, ready to become the Pinoy Jim McManus.
So what happened? The way I now retell the story to myself, my conscience pushed me to play more recklessly than I would have, otherwise.
I got busted out by someone who called my bet when I went all-in (that is, put my whole stack and my tournament life on the line) with a pair of 4’s. He (or “the villain,” in poker parlance — anyone who bets against heroic you) showed a Jack and a Queen. I thought: nobody in his right mind calls an all-in bet with a JQ, even if they were “suited,” or of the same suit — unless they thought you were holding something weaker. I think he looked at me and told himself: “This guy should be going to a meeting.”
But I had the advantage: as low as my 4’s were, they were a sure pair, and might as well have been Aces. He had to draw a Jack or a Queen to win. At least that’s what I thought. The video camera started rolling. The “flop,” or the first three shared cards on the table, came out Ace-8-10. As far as I was concerned, I was okay — no Jack, no Queen, right? But the people behind us were screaming, rightly, that any face card — even a King — would now give the villain a winning hand, via a pair or a straight. Then the fourth card, the “turn,” was something mutually useless, like a 3. I could smell the money.
I remember the last card, the “river,” as a slow white blur — hooray, no colors, no J, Q, K! But then it turned out to be a 9. My opponent—the dastardly villain — had made a lower straight: 8, 9, 10, J, Q. My run for the roses was ignominiously over. I ended up in the 20th of 20 paid places — “in the money,” as they say, but nowhere near P600,000.
I was at the appointed meeting place at 6:15, ready to greet my fellow board members, or rather to be greeted with profound expressions of dismay as they came in: “You’re here!” Indeed I was, suitably chastened and ready to reassume the burdens of a responsible citizen.
When I got home, Beng gave me a victory kiss (like most poker wives and widows, she knows me only as a winner and never hears about my losses), and I gave her half of my winnings; my half will probably go to another fountain pen. I’m still sorry I didn’t finish any higher, but I think Beng’s Papa, wherever he was, just wanted to see me get home early.
Email me at penmanila@yahoo.com and check out my blog at www.penmanila.ph.