Chapter 1: The Chop

I inhaled the fresh taste of cigarette smoke, recycled oxygen, and irresponsible financial decisions. No, I wasn’t in the underground slot machine operation at my grandparents’ assisted living facility. I was home. Well, home enough. I was at my local card room: GMG Federal Port. Well, local enough. I only had to drive 45 minutes to get here after my day job (it’s 30 minutes without traffic).

At the outset of every hand, I occupy an arbitrary point in the infinite distribution of cards. But everything that leads up to that first crisp flick off the top of the deck is far from arbitrary. Countless hours of diligent self-study had brought me to that moment in time: watching poker vlogs, reading Two Plus Two pokerotica megathreads that blur the line between hand analysis and fan fiction, and opening my solver software before closing it realizing I’d rather watch another poker vlog. I was prepared to step into the arena with the best of them.

Enough talk of grandeur (for now). Let’s return to the action. I took my seat in the 1/3 No Limit Texas Holdem (NLHE) game in the Federal Port poker room. As soon as I sat down, we were off. That sweet slide of cards off the pitch streaking across the felt made me feel giddy. I folded a few hands. No big deal; pre-flop self-control was just part of the grind. I had recently gotten into the practice of starting each morning with a session of meditation and screaming into my pillow to be able to handle boring runs like this. If I started playing any two cards now, my aforementioned edge in this game would slowly dissipate. No, I would be strong this time.

Time continued to pass with no sign of a playable hand. Hands turned into orbits, orbits into dealer changes, dealer changes into the high hand promotion ending at midnight. Being occasionally card dead is a dreadful element of the game, but it wont’t faze a true grinder (which I am). In fact, I wore my pre-flop fold discipline like a badge of honor.

But this was no ordinary streak of barren cards. I was a lost wanderer in the midst of the desert. Each passing deal of 8♠️3♥️ hit like the sun beating down on my exposed back, while sand whipped by at my exposed collar. In the distance, an oasis of suited connectors taunted me.

Just as I thought my legs would give out into the Saharan sand beneath me, I found myself in the Big Blind. Peeling back the first card dealt to me, a sense of relief washed over me. At long last: the King of Spades. What a beautiful sight. I didn’t care what the second card was; I would play this hand. But then the second card came. The impeccable masterpiece that lay before me was almost too much to fathom: K♠️K♣️. In the midst of my euphoria, I looked back up at the table. Fold, fold, fold; they fell like dominos. No, this couldn’t happen!

I could see the train rumbling towards me as I lay fastened to the track. Soon, it had folded around to the Small Blind. My hand started to move forward, triggered by a Pavlovian instinct forged in one of low stakes poker’s most honorable traditions: The Chop. All we had to do was cast our cards into the muck and our lives would move on, no more intertwined than two strangers that brushed shoulders in a crowded subway station.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the Small Blind already holding his cards over the betting line. He looked at me expectantly, fully prepared to fulfill his half of the ritual. As I waited to act, I could see the emotion on his face transform from a serene calm, to mild panic, to blazing anger. “Chop, right?” snapped the Small Blind. My prolonged stoic silence was the only answer he needed. Resigned to the fact that this hand wouldn’t go softly into the night, he limped in. Avoiding his piercing gaze, I strung out a perfectly-sized 2.3bb raise.

Up until this moment, the rest of the table’s attention had drifted towards casual conversation and whatever game was playing on the TVs plastered across the card room. But silent focus now erupted across the table, the other opponents’ unwavering stares stuck on this unexpected duel. Their chips may not be in the middle, but they still had a lot at stake. Can you put a price on tradition, on honor?

Without hesitation, the Small Blind shoved his entire stack into the middle. I didn’t know how much it was, but I didn’t care. My chips soon met his in front of the dealer. What a dream, a beautiful dream! My patience had finally paid off. I was a grinder after all.

Until the Small Blind triumphantly flipped over his hand, to the glee of the rest of the table. Pocket Rockets. American Airlines. Alcoholics Anonymous. A♣️A♦️. The Small Blind had become the hero of the people, the triumphant Julius that fended off the treacherous Brutus.

I was an underdog (pretty sure the odds are 40/60), but still with hope. Without hesitation, the dealer banged the table, signaling the impending swift deal of the flop, turn, and river. I closed my eyes as the cards cut through the icy air into their slots on the felt. “Don’t be results-oriented,” I comforted myself. “You played this correctly.”

I opened my eyes, and saw my salvation: a King-high board. Top set. The winning hand. Any guilt from my decisionmaking quickly evaporated into pure bliss and an obligation to share the genius of my strategy with anyone willing to listen. The game broke soon after, I can only assume because it was so late.

And, no, I don’t feel guilty about beating aces with my kings. There’s no loyalty amongst grinders (of which I am one).