"Room service? Send up a new room."
I am in an odd mood today. Today I have learned to love the bad beat.
I don't usually give out beats. Truly. Once a tourny I'll drop a really filthy one, but those are some long tournies. Sometimes I don't even drop a one. I really do try to play well, and when I succeed in that, I usually lose quickly. But never mind that.
Also when I play bad, I usually find my night over in a quickness. Not last night. I played about my worst poker at the Mook and managed to suck out at least three times by my count to send various friends, criminals and other riff-raff to the rail, on my way to the points. Oh my goodness, I played bad. I won't apologize. They were asking for it; they were playing poker. So are we all.
I'll try to remember that the next time my good play results in no chips.
Today I don't want to hear about the joy of a great bluff. I don't want to hear about the beauty of a nice trap. That's good poker, and that's a good feeling, but it's the kind of good feeling you get from eating healthy and running a mile in the morning. The joy of a great suckout is better. It's more like being pulled over and getting off with a warning. It's like your team needing to make a desperation heave at half court . . . and making it. You are utterly dead, and then you're utterly alive. You were going home, and the miracle saved you.
It's not good poker, but baby, it's loverly. You've never shouted out "YESSSSSS!" with fist pump like you have when you hit that one-outer for all the croutons. Just admit it.
And I'll go you one further. The suckout is what makes good play sweet. Imagine that feeling, of your good hand holding up. Without the threat of loss, is it as sweet? If Aces hold up in the forest, and runner-runner wasn't there to catch it, does Mike Matusow still cackle like a wounded hyena? Eh? Eh? Eh?
So raise your glasses to the beauty of a suckout. Without it, we'd just be playing paper-rock-scissors.