A COUPLE of months late for the World Poker Series, I arrived in Las Vegas on a hot afternoon a while back, confident that previous lucrative trips here would be repeated. This was my third time to Sin City and its famed three-mile Strip of mega-resort casinos, the 24/7, 365 days a year, open-door, neon-lit playground for adults. The rollercoaster ride that never stops.
I bought my first ticket five years ago after graduation and have been hooked on America’s favourite desert oasis ever since.
Poker games on the Strip are male-dominated affairs. Over the course of three nights in three different casinos, averaging five hours a night, I meet just one other female player. Originally from Boston, she moved to Vegas two years ago to live the dream. With a coffee in one hand and an energy drink in another, she almost scared me sober as I ordered another free beer at the MGM Grand’s 22-table poker room on my first night in town.
“Boston” switches tables after a few hands and conversation centres on the 50-year-old beside me, who has taken it upon himself to explain everything that’s going on in case I’m not quite following. Like a self-important teacher doing basic addition with a Leaving Cert honours maths class, I contemplate leaving until the croupier steps in and tells him to shut it. Las Vegas croupiers hold court better than an irate judge at a murder trial. Often weary, sometimes grumpy, for the most part they are robot card machines who deal at the speed of light and let nothing distract them from the job at hand. The odd time you’ll get a charismatic one who joins in the banter, but usually it’s a flick of the wrist, a call at the table and a mechanical “thank you” when tipped.
Being a woman in this almost totally male arena has its advantages. Whether other players try to chat to you or glare at you as an unwanted distraction, most of them underestimate your ability. You might not even be a good player – you don’t have to be – you’re probably still better than the table consensus. Or so I thought, until five hours later I left the MGM down money, downbeat and ready for bed.
Even at four in the morning the heat hits you like a wet gag in the mouth when you come outside. A taxi is quick to come and brings me back to the Bellagio where I sleep until late afternoon. Nobody’s an early riser in Vegas: it’s always going to be another late night. The cab driver tells me that when the MGM was first built it had a giant lion’s mouth as its entrance, which had to be taken down shortly after it realised few Asian people would gamble there as they considered it a bad omen. The Luxor, an Egyptian-themed mega-resort nearby, had more luck with its architecture. To enter it you must walk through the crotch of a sphinx, which apparently is fine in Asian culture.
Night two at the opulent Venetian Resort does not go any smoother and I realise I’m probably going home with less money than I came with.
Moments of self-realisation are best avoided and it strikes me as particularly unfair that I should have one in Vegas. So I decide to ignore it and play on. It turns out to be a good call because the live show of “Crazy Mike” I witness a few hours into play is like nothing I’ve ever seen at a poker game before.
An in-your-face, attention grabbing, all-American kind of guy in his mid-twenties, Crazy Mike is reportedly a trust-fund baby who lives up to the stereotype by throwing hundreds down on the table at random. He joins the no-limit Texas hold ’em $1-$2 tables and challenges people to go all-in against him without looking at his cards.
Usually he’s in the higher stakes games in the back rooms of the Venetian, but comes out to play among us plebs from time to time. He plays most games standing up, daring his opponents to take him on with a few thousand dollars crumpled carelessly in a hand behind his back ready to be flung on the table at any moment.
Staff flock around him excitedly and cater to his every whim, which as it turns out is 24 bottles of luxury brand water he likes to hand out to those who play him or the entourage that follows him.
Eccentric or egocentric, it’s hard to say, but initial disgust at his blatant disregard for money is quelled by the spectacle he creates. This is Las Vegas after all, and Crazy Mike brings a whole new meaning to the term “party poker”.
My final night at the Bellagio fares better than the others but overall I’m leaving “Loss Vegas” this time with less than I came in with. More like losing a woolly overcoat than the shirt off my back. I’m not complaining; it’s too hot in this mad desert anyway.
Vegas is known as a place where the poor feel rich and the rich lose thousands, so I leave safe in the knowledge that I must be loaded. No doubt I’ll be back to chase my losses at some stage. Until then, I’ll leave it to Crazy Mike to live the dream.