The Secret Poker Game that Changed My Life: A Tale of Love, Luck, and Outsmarting the Odds

POKER

NOTE: The poker hands depicted in this story are unlikely, but possible, and since this is a work of fiction some use of imagination should be expected. My depictions of air travel in the 1960’s are based on factual memories. They bear no resemblance to air travel today. Enjoy the story.

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This is the story of my life--how I paid my way through college and bought my first new car at the expense of a biased snob. It’s also the story of how I found the love of my life.

CHAPTER 1

It was the early ‘60’s when I attended college, the first of my family to do so. My first “collegiate” experiences occurred during Orientation Week which in my humble opinion should have been called Orientation Weak. Other than paying my tuition bill and registering for classes, most of the other activities were lame. There was the all-important Campus Tour which could have saved several hours by just passing out a couple of maps. Then there were the placement exams. I thought I did well, but apparently not quite well enough—I wasn’t exempted from even a single freshman course. I went to the Freshmen Mixer—that was more like a junior high school dance with the boys on one side of the gym and the girls on the other. On the positive side I did meet Prudence, or more accurately, she met me. I was leaning against a wall nursing a Coke when a tall slender girl asked me to dance.

I didn’t have much experience with girls—barely any. I attended a really small high school and I was a really late bloomer—tall, skinny, and basically very shy. I stumbled and mumbled through a few words as she smiled and extended her hand and led me to the dance floor. She was almost as tall and as skinny as I was, although to be polite, I’d describe her as slender, with small breasts. Her light brown hair hung straight to her shoulders and framed her face nicely. What set her apart were her sparkling smile and her shining blue eyes. On a scale of one to ten at the time I figured her to be about a 6.5, which was okay—I doubted any of the girls thought of me as any higher. I held my arms out in the traditional dance pose I had learned in junior high ballroom dance class, but she wrapped her arms around my neck as she laughed and pulled me close. I put my hands around her waist until she moved them to her hips and ass with a giggle. They felt smooth, but firm; I could feel her pubis push into my groin as we moved. I would have become immediately aroused had we not been the only dancers in front of roughly a thousand new classmates. As it was I was sure she could feel my growing erection. I was embarrassed, but she only held me tighter. She held my hand once the dance had ended and we walked to some chairs. I got us a couple of Cokes and we talked for more than an hour. Then I took her back to my room.

We were allowed to have girls in our rooms, but not lock the doors. I jammed a sock between the door latch and the jamb to give us a little privacy. I had somehow obtained a single room—more like a monk’s cell than anything else—with a single window, a bed that sagged badly, but was, fortunately , free of bedbugs or other parasites. I had a single pedestal desk with three drawers, a plain wooden chair, and a wooden combo dresser/closet that was barely big enough to hold my clothes. I had brought a trunk and kept that in the corner opposite my bed, a blanket over it to form a sort of table. Prudence was lounging on the bed by the time I had secured the door. She looked as relaxed as I felt nervous.

I went to sit next to her; she pulled me down, rolled on top of me and kissed me. She had taken me completely by surprise and she was a lot stronger than I believed possible. I was lying on my back, this girl I had just met sprawled over me, a strange tongue in my throat—what could be better? I’ll tell you what—not being interrupted, that’s what. It was just getting interesting when there was a knock on the door, “Room Check, Dorm Security—got a girl in there?”

“Yeah, hold on a sec.” I extricated myself from under Pru and ran the two steps to the door. She was sitting, legs crossed, on the bed with one of my textbooks in her hands. She looked innocently up at the security guard who apologized and excused himself. It was all I could do not to laugh when I re-secured the door. “How’d you do that so fast?”

“Simple, I’m fast at everything, but I think we’re going to need someplace more private before I do what I want with you.” She laughed when I gulped a few times. “You’re a virgin, aren’t you? I knew it when I first saw you at the mixer. It was and still is a big part of your appeal. I like you, Patrick. Do you have a nickname?”

“Yeah, really original—Pat.” She laughed. “How’d you get a name like Prudence? It sounds like you’re a pilgrim or something.”

“That’s exactly where I got it from. My family came over on the Mayflower in 1620.”

“Mine came over in steerage—1846—the potato famine. We’re as Irish as Paddy’s pig.”

“I doubt the Mayflower was much better. That Mayflower bit goes over really well with the snobby set.”

“Well, Pru, you don’t seem terribly impressed.”

“I’m not. It was nothing more than being in the right place at the right time, but some people dwell on it like their shit doesn’t stink. Let’s face it—everyone’s shit stinks.” I had to laugh. This girl was so funny. I joined her on the bed and dropped the book to the floor. I pulled her into a long lingering kiss as our tongues dueled frantically. That was the beginning of our relationship. We dated every Saturday night and almost every Sunday. Friday nights I worked.

I readily admit that I wasn’t the best student when I started at the university; I hadn’t been there three weeks when I got involved in a Friday night poker game. It was “quarter-half,” minimum bet of a quarter and maximum of a half buck with a dollar bet on the final round. It was a bit steep for my budget so the first week I took $30—what I had budgeted for two week’s expenses, thinking that if I lost I’d probably benefit from cutting down on snacks anyway.

I played conservatively, folding every hand unless I had a pair or better. I was thrilled when I walked away at midnight with $102--$72 more than I had started with. I wasn’t thrilled, however, with how one of my competitors reacted to me. I never learned whether Martin was prejudiced against my being of Irish descent or my being Catholic, or both. All I knew was that he tried to put me down at every opportunity. Even some of the other players complained, not that it did any good. This guy was out to get me. Unfortunately for him, I was a lot tougher than I looked. I’d been in more fights in junior high and high school than anyone else in my class, hell—more than any ten kids in the entire school. I’m sure there would have been more, but word got around that I was crazy. I was also sure my grades would have been much better if I hadn’t been suspended so often.

I did really well the second week, bringing home almost $200, but the biggest score occurred in a hand where I had already folded. I was sitting in my seat watching the other players when I noticed something about Martin—a little twitch in his left eyebrow when he drew cards. Even better, he won the hand. Now I’d recognize it as a “tell,” but back then I was an amateur. I decided to keep an eye on Martin whenever possible. With a little practice that was every hand.
What does everyone do when the cards are dealt? They look at them, of course. Some players are so eager they can’t even wait until the entire hand is dealt. Me? I looked at Martin—out of the corner of my eye so I wouldn’t be noticed. I found this was especially rewarding when he drew cards or on the seventh card of stud. Before the night was over I was using my information to great advantage. I folded when it was in my favor and pressed forward when I actually had a good hand—one I almost always knew was better than his.

It was during our third session in early October that I put my new-found knowledge to best use. I had burned Martin badly four times in the first two hours. He had a straight to the jack—I had one to the king. He had three eights—I had three tens. His spade flush to the queen lost to my diamond flush to the king—I especially loved that one. I even beat him with a higher full house than his. I could see that he was fuming. How an inferior Irish Catholic like me could get the better of him was just impossible. The next hand was the turning point in my life, what I referred to for years as “The Hand.”

We were playing seven-card stud; Martin in his usual place two seats to my right, meaning that he would bet before me. I began with two fours in the hole and a third four showing to his ace. The betting proceeded fairly typically as I played it cool—calling, rather than raising. After six cards I was showing a 4-5-6-7 of different suits while Martin had two pair—aces and kings. I could see by his eyebrow twitch that he got the card he was looking for. Because two others had folded a king and an ace, this was the case card—the final ace or king—giving him a high full house.

I didn’t look at my card until Martin bet a dollar, the highest final round bet allowed. Jeff, immediately to my right, folded. I looked at my card and raised a dollar. “Boy, you are such a sap!”

“Why would you say that,” I responded to Martin’s jibe. “Look at my cards. Everyone knows a straight beats two pair. You’d need the case ace or the case king to make a full house.” He scowled at my reply. When Mike, the player to my left hesitated I looked straight into his eyes and told him, “Fold!” I liked Mike. Right now I had Martin’s money on my mind. I didn’t need Mike’s, not with what I had in mind. Of course, Martin raised again. Now I was ready to spring my trap.

“You seem mighty proud of that hand, Martin. I’m surprised you didn’t ask me for a side bet.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know…a bet just between you and me…something completely outside the pot. You couldn’t do it earlier in the hand, but at

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THE END