Poker, a family tradition (fairly long)
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JoeUser Forums
When we are young, our fathers present many mysteries. They do things that don't make sense in the mind of a young son, a mind where the world is television, fast food and playing G.I. Joe in the yard.
One of the most mysterious things my father did took place on Wednesday nights every month or so, in the dining room of our suburban Long Island home. Seven or eight men - some younger, some clearly older than Dad - drifted in and sat down around the large wooden table. I might answer the door that night to find a face that was only vaguely familiar... a grown-up face to which I was perfunctorily introduced as it strode by and entered the sanctum. One of them usually brought an old, brown attaché case, that held brand new, celophane wrapped boxes of Hoyle and Ace playing cards. As the men settled in, seals were broken on a couple of boxes and thus began one of the few male rituals I witnessed in my youth. The weekly poker game.
It was unspoken that wives and kids found somewhere else to be during the game. When I was very young I could be packed off to sleep at a civilized hour. And sometimes the wives would come over and the competing clack of Mah Jong tiles could be heard in the kitchen, running counterpoint to the buzz of crisp, glazed cards being shuffled in the dining room.
The dining room, usually left unused in the grand tradition of suburban, plastic-wrapped furniture and painfully tacky chandeliers, became a world where lived the smell of cigars, the clink of glasses and skitter of coins across the covered table. There were highball glasses a few fingers deep in Scotch or Canadian Whiskey - glasses that came from - the liquor cabinet, instead of above the sink where I found a glass for soda or juice. The men laughing, taunting, groaning with the losses or smirking with glee at pulling something called 'an inside straight' from the hand full of the blue or red cards.
The center of the table was clear - a free-fire zone where they tossed nickels and dimes - the low-risk, low-reward bets of the game. Each hand began with a nickel ante, the basic price of play, with the maximum bet being a dime and the limit being three raises per hand. Each man had come with a hand, pocket or bottle full of coins. Dad kept he 'poker money' in a jar in his bedroom, off limits to the known world. Those coins never saw sunlight, only light from those chandeliers in the homes of the select group of men - the poker buddies.
The game was seven card stud. No options, no wild cards, no 'dealer's choice' to sully the intention or skill of the participants. Each man would deal a hand in turn. The object was to create the best five-card hand with the seven cards you received. Each player was dealt two cards face down, then a first one face up. The betting began with the high card. That first player might, for example, either place a bet by tossing in a coin (remember - there's a dime maximum) or he might 'check' a poker term meaning not bet. The bet then moved to the left around the table, until each man had either bet, checked or folded, quitting the hand. Since everyone was dealt a bunch of useless cards now and again, folding was a chance to relax, refill the highball glass, or get up and stretch.
Three more 'up' cards would be dealt, in serial rounds, with betting taking place with the addition of each card. Fortunes, such as they were, could change with the arrival of pairs, tripps (three of a kind), and other exotic options like 'A full house', a 'flush' or the long sought 'four-of-a-kind' that had been know in olden days to relieve the loser of house, horse, gold mine or the occasional concubine. In this case it might make a couple of dollars for a skilled or lucky suburban desperado.
Then the final card, dealt face down, would round out the had and those still surviving would place their last bets, based on the competitors cards they could see, the seven cards they had, and the knowledge, experience and guile that comes from years of reading poker faces and successful all-out bluffs.
To the uninitiated bluffing is a mystery. Why would you risk losing actual cash money if your hand didn't have a reasonable chance of winning? It was many years and a few hands of my own before I understood. Simply, if everyone else goes out before you show your cards, YOU DON'T HAVE TO SHOW THEM! That's right - if all your competitors fold, after you, with your best cavalier-style 'I am so the winner' flourish, raised for a third time, you can scrape that pot off the table, possessing nothing more than "Ace-high garbage" and a smile. That's is where the term 'calling one's bluff' comes from. The risk in bluffing is that one of these guys is willing to risk some coin to actually SEE the cards you're holding. He calls and thus you row up the proverbial creek, with neither paddle nor pot. That's why they call it gambling!
This was my father's little men's club. Men who would smile and tousle our hair when my brothers or I came wandering in to ask a question or tell dad the phone was for him, but we clearly understood: This was a "grown-up" thing.
These many years later, having done at least some growing up, a group of us decided to start a monthly poker game. The core group being ex-bandmates, each of us drawing on our pool of friends, and our memories of fathers who left us the desire for this ritual of major male bonding and minor financial risk.
It isn't my father's poker game. We are many miles and years from there. We play dealer's choice - whomsoever deals the cards calls the game. This means good old fashioned seven-card stud is an occasional game, while we can plumb the depths of poker potential from traditional Five-Card Draw (sometimes called Texas Hold'em) to Midnight Baseball, Follow The Queen and Iron Cross - games where wild card abound - and which the old fellas would find barely comprehensible. They'd scoff at all the variety, calling poker a skill game that turns to mere luck when you introduce all those wild and bizarre variations. But it's the fun that we play for - It's never the money.
Sometimes, I called Dad to catch up and we talked a bit about my game and his. He seemed happy that I have found something like the place his buddies came back to, week after week. I asked him if I could play with them if I happened to be in town. I feel a catch in my throat when he says yes.
One of the most mysterious things my father did took place on Wednesday nights every month or so, in the dining room of our suburban Long Island home. Seven or eight men - some younger, some clearly older than Dad - drifted in and sat down around the large wooden table. I might answer the door that night to find a face that was only vaguely familiar... a grown-up face to which I was perfunctorily introduced as it strode by and entered the sanctum. One of them usually brought an old, brown attaché case, that held brand new, celophane wrapped boxes of Hoyle and Ace playing cards. As the men settled in, seals were broken on a couple of boxes and thus began one of the few male rituals I witnessed in my youth. The weekly poker game.
It was unspoken that wives and kids found somewhere else to be during the game. When I was very young I could be packed off to sleep at a civilized hour. And sometimes the wives would come over and the competing clack of Mah Jong tiles could be heard in the kitchen, running counterpoint to the buzz of crisp, glazed cards being shuffled in the dining room.
The dining room, usually left unused in the grand tradition of suburban, plastic-wrapped furniture and painfully tacky chandeliers, became a world where lived the smell of cigars, the clink of glasses and skitter of coins across the covered table. There were highball glasses a few fingers deep in Scotch or Canadian Whiskey - glasses that came from - the liquor cabinet, instead of above the sink where I found a glass for soda or juice. The men laughing, taunting, groaning with the losses or smirking with glee at pulling something called 'an inside straight' from the hand full of the blue or red cards.
The center of the table was clear - a free-fire zone where they tossed nickels and dimes - the low-risk, low-reward bets of the game. Each hand began with a nickel ante, the basic price of play, with the maximum bet being a dime and the limit being three raises per hand. Each man had come with a hand, pocket or bottle full of coins. Dad kept he 'poker money' in a jar in his bedroom, off limits to the known world. Those coins never saw sunlight, only light from those chandeliers in the homes of the select group of men - the poker buddies.
The game was seven card stud. No options, no wild cards, no 'dealer's choice' to sully the intention or skill of the participants. Each man would deal a hand in turn. The object was to create the best five-card hand with the seven cards you received. Each player was dealt two cards face down, then a first one face up. The betting began with the high card. That first player might, for example, either place a bet by tossing in a coin (remember - there's a dime maximum) or he might 'check' a poker term meaning not bet. The bet then moved to the left around the table, until each man had either bet, checked or folded, quitting the hand. Since everyone was dealt a bunch of useless cards now and again, folding was a chance to relax, refill the highball glass, or get up and stretch.
Three more 'up' cards would be dealt, in serial rounds, with betting taking place with the addition of each card. Fortunes, such as they were, could change with the arrival of pairs, tripps (three of a kind), and other exotic options like 'A full house', a 'flush' or the long sought 'four-of-a-kind' that had been know in olden days to relieve the loser of house, horse, gold mine or the occasional concubine. In this case it might make a couple of dollars for a skilled or lucky suburban desperado.
Then the final card, dealt face down, would round out the had and those still surviving would place their last bets, based on the competitors cards they could see, the seven cards they had, and the knowledge, experience and guile that comes from years of reading poker faces and successful all-out bluffs.
To the uninitiated bluffing is a mystery. Why would you risk losing actual cash money if your hand didn't have a reasonable chance of winning? It was many years and a few hands of my own before I understood. Simply, if everyone else goes out before you show your cards, YOU DON'T HAVE TO SHOW THEM! That's right - if all your competitors fold, after you, with your best cavalier-style 'I am so the winner' flourish, raised for a third time, you can scrape that pot off the table, possessing nothing more than "Ace-high garbage" and a smile. That's is where the term 'calling one's bluff' comes from. The risk in bluffing is that one of these guys is willing to risk some coin to actually SEE the cards you're holding. He calls and thus you row up the proverbial creek, with neither paddle nor pot. That's why they call it gambling!
This was my father's little men's club. Men who would smile and tousle our hair when my brothers or I came wandering in to ask a question or tell dad the phone was for him, but we clearly understood: This was a "grown-up" thing.
These many years later, having done at least some growing up, a group of us decided to start a monthly poker game. The core group being ex-bandmates, each of us drawing on our pool of friends, and our memories of fathers who left us the desire for this ritual of major male bonding and minor financial risk.
It isn't my father's poker game. We are many miles and years from there. We play dealer's choice - whomsoever deals the cards calls the game. This means good old fashioned seven-card stud is an occasional game, while we can plumb the depths of poker potential from traditional Five-Card Draw (sometimes called Texas Hold'em) to Midnight Baseball, Follow The Queen and Iron Cross - games where wild card abound - and which the old fellas would find barely comprehensible. They'd scoff at all the variety, calling poker a skill game that turns to mere luck when you introduce all those wild and bizarre variations. But it's the fun that we play for - It's never the money.
Sometimes, I called Dad to catch up and we talked a bit about my game and his. He seemed happy that I have found something like the place his buddies came back to, week after week. I asked him if I could play with them if I happened to be in town. I feel a catch in my throat when he says yes.