The beast seems to think he’s found a sympathetic ear. This miserable man seems to think I’m now empathizing with his misfortune by showing frustration. For some reason, ignoring the joker doesn’t dissuade him. Hence this spot I’m in has turned into Purgatory. And there’s not exactly any place to get up and walk away unless I want to go back inside where it’s bright and nosy. Anyone that launches into a bad bat story gets an abrupt walk-away from me.

Sorry, getting your set cracked in a $1-2 game and losing a $200 stack isn’t worth my attention. There’s no longer any story that’s compelling enough to listen to.

I’ve witnessed tens of millions - make that hundred of millions - of dollars changing hands over the years at the WSOP based on the turn of a single card. Maybe I’m just jaded having done this for so long. This all brings to mind the wonderful retort to bad beat stories which goes as follows: The folly of telling bad beat stories is - half the listeners don’t care and the other half are wishing you lost even more. Me: “Oh.” (What I’m really thinking: “How can I make this joker go away?”) The man is sporting cutoffs, a soiled western shirt, a ball cap, speaks with a Southern accent, and from what I can tell appears in need of some serious dental work. The man points back in the direction of the poker room, located clear on the other side of the grandstand. “I just played with the worst poker player in the world. Me: “Hey.” (What I’m really thinking: “Oh, fuck”) Moments later, the shadowy distraction has metastasized into an annoyance looking straight at me puffing away on a cigarette. Trouble is, there’s a shadowy figure looming on the horizon. During a short break in the “action,” I step outside for some much-needed peace and quiet.Ĭamped out in front of the darkened grandstand, I’m alone. A workday that began at 11 am is now crawling past 4 am. The final stretch has turned into an 18-hour deathmatch. It’s the last of twelve working days covering the World Series of Poker Circuit at the Palm Beach Kennel Club. Worse, he’s headed straight towards me.īut at least there was justification for my naivete. There’s a shadowy figure looming on the horizon.

Worst poker bad beat ever story