WPT Boot Camp - Day Seven - Final

WPT Boot Camp Battle for the Season Pass III



David’s Journal



December 6th – Day 7.



Bavaro Princess Resort: Suite 3124 - 11.50pm


My relaxation consultant and I are enjoying our final night. We have just returned from the resort’s Piano Bar where, according to the extremely flexible dance troupe, ‘Everything’s good in America’. As Brits we are not the ideal punters to verify those lyrics but, right now, we both feel well disposed to everything, particularly as the Yanks have elected Barack Obama and we have had such a fantastic trip.

Earlier in the evening most of Team Eurolinx, including online qualifier Jeff Lamont, witnessed the WPT Boot Camp’s gong show and applauded those recruits that had earned honours over the seven days. The players deserved the plaudits. I must confess that I was particularly pleased to see that three occupants from my Day One table made the top fifteen of the main event. Not only did confirm my suspicion that it was a tough table, I had felt the strongest bond with those players, particularly after flopping quad nines.

It was also gratifying to see that the player who won the main event, netting himself ten entrance tickets for WPT events, each worth $10k, was also the guy who knocked me out by beating my threes with AQ. You may recall that we were both close to the wire and so his triumph provided me with some ‘What if....’ scenarios with which I can bore members of the English speaking population.

After the successful recruits were awarded their medals, the poker community swaggered into the casino’s main hall where there was a palpable sense of camaraderie and it felt like we had arrived at our own Fiddler’s Green. People, who been awkward strangers a week earlier, were now swapping bad beat stories of questionable veracity and ordering each other free drinks.

It was good to see. Often, successful poker players are not the most clubbable of people – respect for an established hierarchy is not a profitable attitude at the table – and they can be quite independently minded. It is a mental attitude not without its cost. As novelist Mark Twain put it, ‘the price of independent thinking is loneliness’.

When most people gather to form a group, they usually benefit from a sense of team belonging but lose some degree of independent thought. When people gather at the poker table, the primary task is to annihilate the other members of the group and that is best achieved by a focused, independent mind. However, the desire to bond does not disappear and it is partly that conflict - social need versus personal gain - that provokes the intense physiological reaction that players experience at live poker tournaments.

I took a moment to look around the Bavaro Princess Tower Casino. I saw a feast of faces that had gained so much more from the experience than the pleasure of poker tournaments and a seven day supply of free food. Now, liberated from the competition, they were able to wholeheartedly enjoy the social side of the boot camp. Given that most had been exposed to the same stress, there was shared respect everywhere: competitive, independently minded people were now enjoying some healthy back-slapping.

For me, that was the biggest benefit of the boot camp. I met so many friendly faces and the event fostered a sense of group belonging, but one without any of the deceits of the boardroom. The poker table’s naked ferocity is inescapable and intimidating, but at the same time it is refreshing. Apart from in the tournament itself, its hierarchy is meaningless so when you meet people away from the table, there are hardly any hidden grievances. Poker players are out to get you –but it is nothing personal and it is only during the game: tournaments can mix business with pleasure.

With that thought, I joined bottles with my relaxation consultant and we toasted the boot camp. It had been tough, it had been emotionally hazardous and we had witnessed the collapse of many a recruit along the way but, somehow, we had survived our stay in the Caribbean. I had emerged stronger, wiser and with two sun-burned shins. I felt like I had revitalised my poker game: I was now ready to meet and beat anybody. My future would now be defined by opportunity, aggression and after-sun.

WPT Boot Camp - Day Six

WPT Boot Camp Battle for the Season Pass III

David’s Journal

December 5th – Day 6.

Bavaro Princess Resort: Chow Hall – 2.25pm.

Team Eurolinx has just finished the first session of the Second Chance Tournament. It has played like an online turbo event: the blinds are going up every half an hour and the starting chip allocation was 10,000. There were 170 starters but only six players win prizes; consequently a lot of people have tried to quickly double up, rather than waste a day’s sunshine.

I am our only survivor. The first casualty was online qualifier Ole Brodin who experienced a particularly cruel bad beat during level two. He had pocket 8s and was delighted when the flop landed T-8-3. He quickly pushed his chips in and was called by a player timidly defending K-T. Ole had an advantage of nearly 99%-1%. Even when the turn was a king, he still had 91%. Inevitably, another ten landed.

The other online players, Jeff Lamont and Orjan Knutson, accepted their cab to the beach just before the lunch break, while Sportsbook Manager Magnus Wennlof was one of the few poker players flaunting sunglasses outside at 11.35am. Lydia Melton, Operations Manager, managed to remain in the combat theatre for a little longer but, when she fell thirty minutes before chow time, she said her heart had not been in the battle.

I managed to double up just before reporting for my rations. At the table, I had been chatting to a pleasant American guy who worked for Citibank and he had reached the correct conclusion I was playing a tight-aggressive game. It went against him. I was in the small blind with JJ. The play had been folded to a woman in mid position who had about six big blinds. She promptly went all-in. The Citibank player was on the button and thought for a while before calling. He had a pretty big stack and was a solid player.

It was fairly obvious the all-in was ace rag and my friend was not the type who would flat-call with QQ or KK. I went over the top, all-in. I put him on A8-T. He tried to work out the odds and, to be fair, he said that I had JJ or QQ. After deliberating, he mucked and showed me A-T.
The American lady and I flipped our cards – A7 vs JJ.

The flop was Q 2 7. The turn was another jack. The hand was dead but the dealer showed the river card: a king. The Citibank player would have made the nut straight and ended my campaign. He said he would have called had I been playing loosely. Ironically, all three players acted correctly. We consulted the tournament’s director’s assistant, Samual Quinto, and asked him to punch in the odds in the computer. Citibank man made the right decision – but it was close. Had I had a stack that was 2k smaller, he would have had the odds to call.

El Gaucho Argentinean Steak House: - 9.30pm

My relaxation consultant and I are toasting a successful day. The beer is ‘El Presidente’ and the steak is pan-fried. I am, of course, out of the tournament, but that doesn’t matter right now: I’m pleased with my play.

I spent the afternoon making reads, stealing pots and I even had the good fortune to take down A-J when my queens actually held. I built up quite a stack and reached the final three tables. My swansong was a battle of the blinds.

I had thirteen big blinds and the action had been folded to me, in the small blind. I looked at my cards and saw two nice, chubby snowmen. It was a no-brainer – ‘all-in’

The Scandinavian big blind guy, who was wearing a Santa hat on top of his baseball cap and just about had my stack covered, instantly called. He winced when he saw my 8s. He had A-4. In my opinion, it was a terrible call. I won’t bore you with the flop. I shook his hand and left the casino, confident that I had played well. I finished 22nd. Had the hand held up, I’m fairly sure I’d have made the final table - but it was not to be.

However, I’m feeling very Zen. I’m with ‘The Mad Genius of Poker’, Mike Caro, who states that the game is simply about making correct decisions. Were all my decisions correct? No, not by a long way; but I had made more correct decisions than yesterday and that, at the time, felt worthy of a toast.

WPT Boot Camp - Day Five

WPT Boot Camp Battle for the Season Pass III

David’s Journal

December 4th – Day 5.

Bavaro Princess Resort: Chow Hall – 9.35am.

After a splendid day for the team, spirits were high as we shared communal rations. We were feeling a little sorry for Eurolinx VIP Consultant and fellow booter Jackie Gatt as she does not play poker. She has been forced to endure beach detail and was displaying symptoms of screen-saver face as she was LOBO, or Left Out of Battle Order, while the rest of us were out there stopping bullets. It didn’t feel right to leave her on her own but she said she would cope.

In other news, Eurolinx qualifier Ole Brodin arrived with a combat roll and hosted a de-briefing. He had had an exciting night at the $2-$5 cash games and was particularly pleased with one juicy hand. He was up against Mike Vela, winner of the Foxwoods World Poker Final 2007, an event that banked him $1,704,986. The board displayed K-2-3-3-8. It had been checked on the turn. Ole checked the river. Mike went all-in.

Ole thought long and hard before calling with AJ (fast becoming the hand of the week). He only had ace-high but he put Mike on a bluff. He was right. Mike had A9 so Ole had him outkicked. It was a great call and he deservedly hoovered up the chips.

A justifiably ecstatic Ole promptly wished the five remaining Team Euolinx players good luck as we stole aboard the transportation unit and made the two minute trundle to the casino.

WPT – Battle for the Season Pass III Tournament – Main Event – 2.15pm – Lunch Break

We have now played a total of nine levels and the blinds are finally starting to hurt. At the beginning of the session, everyone was reassigned seats. I was on a fantastic table. Free of pros, full of small stacks and boasting plenty of inexperienced tourists. I started to enjoy myself. When I re-raised an American lady for the second consecutive hand she became a little upset. After she folded she begged me to show. I did – one card, the king of clubs. She became a little more upset.

I paid for my slyness with a break-up of the table ten minutes later. It felt like a death in the family. It worsened with my next allocation: seat one, by far the worst position - you are in the dealer’s way and can see only two-thirds of the table. Moreover, seasoned WPT pros Bernard Lee and Nick Brancato were at the table. The former had recently won a title at the World Poker Final for the third year in succession and the latter is an analytical genius disguised as a Beastie Boy.

After only ten minutes it was apparent that the pros had the skills to pay the bills: both had realised that the table was too tight and had started an intense program of asset stripping. They were raising almost every hand. The only way to play against that style is to loosen up and re-raise on marginal hands. Unfortunately, I didn’t see two court cards together.

The final hand before the lunch break needed the services of people functioning as judge and jury. The guy in seat three had raised pre-flop. The player on the button called, as did the big blind. The flop was all rags. The big blind checked, seat three bet, the button folded and then things went into The Twilight Zone: the guy in seat three discarded his hand. He had forgotten that the big blind was still making a decision.

The big blind guy (sorry) had not played a hand for over seventy minutes. As he put it, ‘I’m so f***ing agitated you did that, man’. The guy who made the pre-flop raise gathered his cards and it became a bit heated: although he had made a genuine mistake, the players at the table could see the other’s guy point.

He said, ‘I’m so tempted to go f***ing all-in on you, man’.

In hindsight, he may wish he had: in my opinion, the raiser had missed the flop. After five minutes of drama, the big blind did a standard re-raise and was called. The turn card opened up the potential for a flush and the pre-flop raiser bet the pot. Ouch.

Disgusted, the agitated guy tossed his cards. One of them flipped – the six of clubs. The flop had contained the six of hearts so it is possible he had made a set but folded to the flush. The whole hand was a classic example of a ‘Brain Fart’ – the stress of the situation had made normal decision-making impossible.

WPT – Battle for the Season Pass III Tournament – Main Event – 3.30pm.

At lunch, I learned that Team Eurolinx had not suffered any further casualties. I was in the worst condition, with only twenty big blinds. The gong for play of the morning was bestowed on online qualifier, Canadian Jeff Lamont, who had the presence of mind to lay down pocket aces as he ‘just knew buddy had a set of kings’.

I had returned to my seat and realised my stack was third lowest at the table. It was going to be a difficult session. It was also apparent that the agitated guy had not calmed down.

Bavaro Princess Resort - Pool One – 5.32pm.

I am drinking margaritas under a palm tree with my fast-tanning relaxation consultant and I am contemplating work as a cane cutter. Certain parts of that sentence may give you a clue as to the fate of my tournament as well as my liver.

Throughout the afternoon session Bernard Lee and Nick Brancato continued to dominate. I played three hands. The first was AQ in late position: no callers. Next, Lee did the usual raise of four times the big-blind. I peeked at my hole cards and discovered I had K-K. I was down to about fourteen big blinds so I had to choose to either flat call and hope an ace doesn’t fall; or re-raise all-in. I did the latter.

It was folded to Lee. He thought about it for a while and then said, ‘You haven’t played a hand for about seventy minutes.....’ then flicked his cards into the muck. It was good play. Do I regret the re-raise? No. He had the stack to call with AQ, AK, QQ or JJ. It was the right move.

My final moment came when I was on the button and everyone had folded to me. I had 33 and nine big blinds. ‘All in’. The guy in the small blind looked at his cards and lowered his shades, a sign that he was on a decision. He had about ten big blinds and I could be on a steal. ‘You got anything, man?’ I just stared into the felt and started ‘Relax’ by Frankie Goes to Hollywood in my head. I’m positive he didn’t get a read. He did, however, call with AQ. The big blind folded and we had a race.

Pre flop, it was in my favour by about 3%. Normally, when the drawing hand misses the flop, the percentages become roughly 75-25 in favour of the pair. Unfortunately, although he missed, the cards were K-J-4 and so it was 59%-41%, with four extra outs due to the straight draw.

The turn card was an ace. I was down to 4.5%. It was time to stand up. The river was a six. It was time to shake hands. I was disappointed but both players did the right thing. Sometimes in tournaments, you need the coin flips to hold. Mine didn’t, time for a buggy ride.

I had finished in the low seventies in a field numbering 225. Not great, but not that bad. Far better was the news that Lydia and Magnus were still fighting.

Suite 3124 – 1.55am.

All of Team Eurolinx were knocked out before dinner and will be playing in the ‘Second Chance’ Tournament. After my head had dropped, I discovered Jeff Lamont had fallen earlier when his pocket queens had been taken down by the ubiquitous A-J. A little later, Lydia was forced to make a move with 88: it was snowballed by J-J. The longest-lasting gong deservedly went to Magnus Wennlof, Sportsbook Manager, who was taken out in the low-fifties just before dinner.

After eating, my relaxation consultant and I discussed the possibility of playing the cash games. He declined but suggested we could go halves on my stake so, at about 11pm, I moseyed up to the casino.

The games were a doddle. Towards the end of my session, a well built American guy sat down and tried to intimidate the table. It was fairly clear from his perspiration level that he would eventually damage his bankroll as well as his septum. I wasn’t around for the intervention and didn’t witness the moment when his stack shattered into a million tiny pieces.

I did, however, have a moment controversial enough for any memoir. As I left the casino I was approached by an exotically dressed young woman who grabbed my crotch. Her body language seemed to imply I should look away and cough up.

As I realised the significance of her fingernails I tried, in fractured Spanish, to explain that I would need to return to my BlackBerry in order to consult my festive season social availability spreadsheet. I could tell she understood, as she issued a form of internationally recognised communication and, on the lonely walk back to my room, I contemplated its succinctness as I wiped it from my lenses.

WPT Boot Camp - Day Four

WPT Boot Camp Battle for the Season Pass III

David’s Journal

December 3rd – Day 4.

Suite 3124 – The following takes place between 6.15am and 8.15am.

I can’t sleep but not because my relaxation consultant is snoring like a slumbering dragon. (Just in case, I had boned up on snoring busting techniques before departure and was very tempted to try the following: forget all the nice methods about moving the person onto his side, simply open your cakehole and bellow ‘FIRE!!!!!!’, then hastily pretend to be fast asleep. The person abruptly wakes up, unsure of his position on the temporal plane and, as he slowly re-establishes a sense of being, you catch a few Zzzzzs.) Nor is it because of tension about the start of the tournament later today. No, it is because of the agony caused by a pair of severely sun-burned shinbones. I had stupidly neglected to cover them whilst enjoying a few pool-side beers yesterday and now they are inflamed.

At 8.05am, I make my first attempt to stand as I need to use the bathroom. I freeze. Now, to add to the physical pain, I have the indignity of enforced immobility and a sagging bladder. I experience a terrifying vision: I am in one of those cages the prison authorities use to transport Hannibal Lecter, it is wheeled to the tournament’s final table and I am wearing nappies.

My relaxation consultant generously agrees to operate outside his job title and goes to fetch some emergency supplies.

Suite 3124 - 9.25am.

I can now walk, albeit in a fashion akin to C-3PO during a three week castor oil strike. My legs are plastered with after-sun and I have downed some pills that are probably used to tranquilise undersexed bulls.

WPT Learning Labs – 12.25pm.

I sit down at a table hosted by ‘First Lady of Poker’, WPT TV commentator and ex-postal worker Linda Johnson. She has taken the dealer seat and all of the ‘players’ are allocated some fake chips. She deals everyone two cards and asks them to ‘play’ their hand – i.e. decide to call, raise or fold. After everyone makes their decisions, we flip the cards and Linda analyses our choices. It is all fairly basic stuff but I am intrigued by the looseness of some of the players. I start to think that the boot camp is a kind of rehab centre from which the fish emerge as sharks.

WPT – Battle for the Season Pass III Tournament – Main Event – 2.25pm

The queue for seat allocation weaved its way around the casino but, after standing nut to butt with some other male recruits, I have now placed certain parts of my anatomy on seat 4, table 17. We have been allocated our chips and, as we await the call of ‘Shuffle Up and Deal’, I try to assess my opponents. I quickly stereotype them. It saves time. Some look like they could be reasonably charitable while others do not appear to need any assistance from the Red Cross food program.

On every table, a WPT pro has been granted the best speck (seat 6) and it has been rigged so they are kept apart in the early stages. Our table has been graced by veteran TJ Cloutier - tall, imposing and talkative. I resent that he will have position on me and it increases my gastric unease. To quell my nerves, I had decided that I would mentally recite songs. So, as I go through Jump Around by House of Pain, the MC clears his throat and orders us into combat.

WPT – Battle for the Season Pass III Tournament – Main Event – 4.30pm – First break.

I am gathered with the other members of Team Eurolinx and discover I have the small stack. Lydia Melton has amassed an impressive 28,000 but Magnus Wenhof flies the flag with 33,000. Our online qualifiers are not present for the half time team talk but we learn they are hovering around the 22k mark.

I have a little short of 18k. The tournament’s first two hours have seen me play four hands: a blind steal, a pair of 66s (flat called from early position, missed the flop), a raise with AQ (no callers) and an intriguing situation that involved AJ.

It arrived when I was first to act from mid-position and had been folding hands for about forty minutes. The blinds were 50-100 and so I made the standard raise of 300. The action was folded to an American guy in seat 9 who, to my jaded eyes, looked so young that if he was in the Dominican Republic on his own, it was probably because all of his associates were grounded.

He had the temerity to re-raise me.

He had been folding to raises from the other yahoos and blowhards at the table but he decided to re-raise me to 950. It was just unacceptable. I used techniques of metaphysical exploration to try to stare into his soul but my search engine returned with: Error – Character Not Found: Access Denied.

I had to fold. AJ does not play well out of position, particularly to a re-raise from a tight Johnny-come-lately. The hand stayed in my mind, particularly as, two hands later, he was moved to another table and then, after another twenty minutes, I saw him ambling out of the tournament, typing a text message. Ouch. Did I miss an opportunity to double up? I’ll never know; but I do know I didn’t want the uncertainty to play on my mind so I speculated about his text message:

i hv AK, sm gy hs AT + sez cll. T on the flp. Im out :( btw pls cloe i stl h8 hr + snd mre Rtln. Gtg dad clng :(

WPT – Battle for the Season Pass III Tournament – Main Event – 7.45pm – Close of the first day.

It has been an eventful three hours for team Eurolinx.

Unfortunately, we have just had our first casualty as the online qualifier Ole Brodin busted out on the very last hand of the day. Although it is arguably better than departing early on the second day because he can now enjoy time off, Ole was understandably disappointed. Rick Fuller had earlier told Ole that his comments in the learning labs were ‘excellent’ and the latter had played a solid tournament. He’ll have to console himself with the cash games and the second chance tournament.

Jeff Lamont, a Canadian online qualifier, lives to fight on, as does fellow Eurolinx stealth master Orjan Knutsen, whose cloak of invisibility has proved to be an asset at the tables.

Although I am in an ecstatic mood, I am still behind Eurolinx trailblazers Lydia Melton and Magnus Wennlof by some margin as they have amassed 57, 000 and 72,000 respectively, but it is not the time for me to feel jealous. I have just had the hand of the day at my table.

Soon after the lunch break, I was moved to table four, seat three. It was the usual medley of poker characters: the guy to my left had found God, the man on my right had found aces. The WPT pro was Las Vegas legend Jan Fisher. It was a tough table and no one gave anything away.

I had been folding trash hands all afternoon and was down to 15k when I was dealt 99 under the gun. It is my favourite hand. I didn’t want to face a re-raise out of position, so I limped in. A player to my left followed suit and then Jan Fisher made it 1k to play. Everyone knows the rule about flat calling a raise with pockets, right? If the bet is 5-10% of your stack, call; higher than 15%, fold. I called and so did the player to my left.

The flop landed J-9-9.

Baby.

Normally, my resting heartbeat is about 70. It had now reached about 125.

‘Check.’

‘Check.’

Jan Fisher put in 1,000. It was just under a third of the pot and it meant that she had hit but was scared of the nines.

I needed to maintain my composure so I started the song ‘Fluorescent Adolescent by British indie band The Arctic Monkeys in my head.

‘Call’.

The player to my left looked at his cards. It is always a sign of weakness. He gave it some thought. I knew he had hit the jack but it looked like he didn’t fancy his chances against the nines, probably because he had a weak kicker. He folded.

The turn card was another J.

‘Check’.

‘Check’.

Jan was trying to trap me and I put her on AJ – a decent enough hand to raise on, worthy of 1k bet on the flop and now the higher full house.

The final card was sent from heaven: an ace.

‘I Bet 3,000’.

Jan stared at me for about a minute in an attempt to persuade me that her imminent re-raise would be because she thought I was bluffing and not because she had the nut full house.

Sweet music or, as The Arctic Monkeys put it, ‘the best you ever had is just a memory......’

‘I’ll take it to 9’, she said.

I nearly said ‘that Bloody Mary lacking in Tabasco.....’. Eventually I managed ‘all-in’.

She swiftly called.

The moment when I said ‘Four nines’ is now a flashbulb memory. Jan shoved her cards into the muck. I still do not know for certain what they were but it had to be AJ. The symmetry was perfect as it probably was the very hand I had folded to the high school dropout, but it doesn’t really matter. The hand impressed the table and had people on their feet. It was time for back-slapping.

It is probably a statement of questionable morality to say I had a spiritual moment in a casino but I don’t really care. As I hobbled out, I saw a beautiful female American tourist and, at that point I knew in my soul that God did indeed create everything, including the individual that had surgically augmented those blessed breasts.

WPT Boot Camp - Day Three

WPT Boot Camp Battle for the Season Pass III

David’s Journal

Day - 3

December 2nd.

After the rigours of a transatlantic crossing, I actually relished the prospect of a further day of preparation. Live tournaments can be quite a gruelling affair, involving stomach flutters, heart palpitations and spectacular wardrobe malfunctions. Given that we were in the Caribbean, the potential for a sense of style to disappear down a rabbit hole was huge: upon arrival, I had spotted a shirt the colour of a Hawaiian sunset, complete with palm trees and the words ‘No Problem’. So, keen to reside in the right territory of sartorial wonderland, we set off for breakfast, my relaxation consultant in shades and me in my shirt that, if you look closely, hides a camouflaged cockatoo.

The boot camp’s chow hall provided adequate rations which we ate whilst trying to spot our fellow recruits. We had a dinner date for 2200 hours with Eurolinx’s Lydia Melton, a boot camp attendee who was apparently struggling with in-field communication technologies and I was worried that, given she had travelled on a few excursions, she may have gone native. Training for asymmetric combat can involve a severe dismantling of one’s personality and I didn’t feel like providing a supporting role in the Eurolinx remake of Apocalypse Now.

Anyway, right now, I loved the smell of palm trees in the morning. My in-field surveillance was also bringing me joy as I had spotted dozens of other recruits in the chow hall. It was pretty clear that the WPT did not enforce the 5am shaving policy beloved of boot camps for the US Marines, although a few recruits looked like they may have qualified for the ‘Pork Chop Platoon’.

Despite being distracted by a rather tasty omelette, my acute powers of observation had not failed me: I had deduced that the players could be recognised by a combination of the following three things:

a) The WPT dog-tag
b) The WPT baseball cap – Dominican Republic 2008 version
c) The white cotton t-shirts with target size WPT logo (see above)

At this point I still had not picked up my Eurolinx t-shirt so I felt the need for some display of poker belonging, aside from the pale complexion and mistrusting demeanour. It was time to report to boot camp headquarters and be stripped of my civvy status. The WPT had taken over a significant section of the resort’s casino and so off I marched.

I could have taken one of the many buggies to escort me but it seemed both unnecessary and harmful to the environment. Besides, the casino was built in the style of a castle and although it didn’t seem to have any active defences, I wanted to advance cautiously.

The designers had neglected to install a portcullis and had instead gone for a glass portal complete with doorman. The entrance was also flanked by two mediaeval suits of armour, each brandishing a halberd, which immediately gave way to the view of a Harley Davidson mounted on a seven foot pedestal and instead of tapestries, the castle had poster size drapes advertising American beer. Such is the incongruity of modern casino design.

Walking past the mood establishing flimflam, I picked up pace and marched to the poker headquarters. It felt great. The WPT millionaires were dotted around the camp and there was the scent of action (NB: not to be confused with the after-shave from Steven Seagal Enterprises.)

I had always thought there was a gap in the publishing market for a poker magazine modelled on a weekly gossip rag (‘All-In’ featuring personal revelations from the pros, a ‘Best-buy’ section on glacier glasses and a list of flop-friendly tracks from Phil Ivey’s iPod) and here were enough images to fill an annual subscription.

Such was the distraction that it was difficult to remain focussed as I approached the WPT’s Senior Drill Instructor and prepared to be drowned in dribble for being a FNG. It was not to be. I was told in a calm friendly, fashion that they had temporarily ran out of identifying tags so, for a while longer, I had to remain in parrot fashion. As the camp couldn’t enrol me, I was forced to slowly tan myself at the beach.

The heat had only marginally eased by the time we were due to meet Eurolinx’s food taster at the beach-side steakhouse. My relaxation consultant and I were relieved to see she hadn’t gone Brando: her hair was not ‘high ‘n tight’ and she used minimal tribal paint. Despite being subjected to some table-side jing-ping by three local buskers (drums, guitar and cheese-grater) we were able to talk tactics and chow down. By the end of the evening we were good to go and roaring for action. There were only 218 competitors stopping Team Eurolinx from success.

WPT Boot Camp - Day Two

WPT Boot Camp Battle for the Season Pass III

David's Journal

December 1st – Day 2.

Flight at 10.15am: Heathrow to Paris.

At 8.15 am, I experience my first surprise of the day when it transpires that my travelling companion, a life-long friend that I have prised away from his wife to serve as my relaxation consultant, has a higher class ticket than me. It is only for the connection to Paris but I now regret posting the thoughts that Eurolinx is a shadowy organisation with a sideline in international charlie trafficking. I have to be careful.

Flight at 1.50pm: Paris to Punta Cana.

We reunite at the airport and I pretend to have hurt pride. I can’t maintain it for long as my excitement has now turned up to 11. When we board we discover the plane is rather old and does not have TVs mounted on the back of the seats. That’s ok - it gives me a chance to read Anthony Holden’s ‘Bigger Deal’ and marvel at the amount of drunken French people onboard.

The book is a sequel to my favourite poker tome, predictably titled ‘Big Deal’. In the original Holden, biographer, opera critic and poker player, takes a year away from writing to try his hand at the international Hold ‘em circuit. It is insightful, well-written and was published in 1990. The sequel is a worthy attempt to recreate the brilliance of the original and, as so much has changed in the world of poker, it should be a useful companion piece.

Unfortunately Holden, a man whose writing I greatly admire, now comes across as a little jaded. He dislikes the increasing amount of razzamatazz (point taken) and, I think, feels like a man out of place. It is still far better than most poker writing and I gained a lot from it but it is cava to the original’s champagne.

5.45pm Land at Punta Cana

After schlepping along the side of the runway, we are obliged to adopt cheesy poses as two women, who remain beautiful despite being dressed in what appears to be fruit salad, stand next to us at a threshold into the airport. Apparently, it is a pre-customs custom and we will be able to purchase the image at the end of our trip.

We collect our bags and file out to the exit where I spot a cab-driver holding a WPT sign. Superb. We pull out of the airport. We have travelled for about five minutes when the driver receives a mobile phone call and stops the cab. He gets out and gestures we should do the same.

A combination of tiredness and stranger-danger leads me to conclude that we are about to be ambushed. Christ, I think, it ends here - on a dirt track in the Caribbean. This will be my last memory: the brightest moon I have ever seen.... the song of crickets.... and accompanied by a friend whose qualities include loyalty, generosity and flatulence.

‘I think we will be ok’ he says, utilising his secondary way of breaking a silence. The driver goes to the boot and pulls out some kind of iron bar. I try to concentrate on the star Orion as a way to navigate a way through my fear.

‘Look, look’ says the driver, brandishing the bar.

His cab has a flat tyre.

The ‘iron bar’ is a jack and he sets about changing the tyre. My friend releases a hearty laugh and I allow myself to relax to such an extent that I am only moderately concerned by the extremely hairy drive to the resort.

7.45 pm. Check into the Bavaro Princess Resort.

We are blown away by the luxurious lobby and resolve to try the piano bar as soon as we have unpacked. At the check-in desk the two friendly male workers greet us and pull out a large bottle of something labelled ‘Mama Juana’. Two shot glasses appear in front of us and bottle is uncorked. To our untrained eyes, it seems to hold a stash of marijuana leaves soaked in a syrupy liquid.

Again, I think of the drug references. I wonder if I have been set up to recreate Hunter S. Thompson’s gonzo classic ‘Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas’, a seminal text that combines mind melting hallucinogenics and experiences at the felt. ‘Fear and Self-pity in the Piano Bar’ is my working title.

After some persistence, we manage to persuade the staff that we are not ready to experiment with drugs, at least not while our underpants are still in transit. We are allowed to leave. I later learned that Mama Juana is concocted from rum, red wine and honey. The ‘marijuana leaves’ are herbs and tree bark. Locals claim it has similar effects to Viagra.

8.30pm. Suite 3124

We are unpacked, enjoying the complimentary bottles of beer from the mini-bar and perusing the schedule for the boot-camp. It transpires that tomorrow is a free day so I will have to endure the soul-warming sunshine and the lagoon-like pools at the resort. Tricky, I think, as I clink bottles with my relaxation consultant and sip ice cold beer.

WPT Boot Camp - Day One

David’s Journal

November 30th – Day one.

Due to a cock-up during mission briefing, I’m still grounded in London and not due to fly out until tomorrow. I’m feeling anxious as I’m yet to meet the other members of the unit and I’m keen to high-five them as soon as possible. I’m also missing the induction. I try to quell worried thoughts by reading poker manuals and information about the WPT boot camp.

Its grand title is ‘Battle for the Season Pass III’ and will take place at a resort called Punta Cana in the Dominican Republic. Over 150 entrants, including at least fifteen WPT pros, will compete for the first prize package of 10 WPT entrance tickets, each worth $10k. The lucky (and, just for the outgoing Bush administration, skilful) winner will also receive $10k to cover air fare and hotel expenses. In total, seven players will win prizes, all of which are packages to enter WPT events. It is a steep prize structure that will reward aggressive play.

Inevitably, the necessary level of aggression will result in a few early exits so, rather than present the unlucky recruits with unstructured time the camp also has a ‘Second Chance’ tournament beginning on Friday. The prizes are not as rich but it should provide additional experience for the tournament rookie.

Other goodies offered by the camp include sit ‘n gos, ‘learning labs’ and after hours cash games. I will miss the sit ‘n gos as I land too late but I am intrigued by the labs. I find it faintly amusing that the pros teach the tourists some moves and then offer cash games knowing exactly how they will play. I’ve obviously missed a trick.

However, it has been a while since I have played a live event so maybe the labs will be useful. For now, I have turned to David Sklansky’s Tournament Poker For Advanced Players for a refresher course. It proves of limited help. It was published in April 2002 and already feels like a relic. The online game was still in its relative infancy and had not yet produced the super aggressive style best embodied by Gus Hansen. Sklansky’s approach is far too tight and his writing style irritates me. It is a collection of essays that he disingenuously deems ‘chapters’ and the pictures of the cards are designed to boost the meagre page count.

I toss it aside, feeling irritated that I don’t own Dan Harrington’s books and try to cheer myself up by reading about the Dominican Republic. The following sentence brings a smile: fishes of all sizes gravitate around the coral. Oh, I hope so, I very much hope so.

The guide book continues to describe the clarity of the waters and the quality of the sand at the resort’s Bavaro beach. Just as I am starting to conjure up an idealistic image of paradise, I read that 8% of all cocaine smuggled into the United States passes through the Dominican Republic. Wow.

Rather mischievously I ponder if that is the reason the other members of the Eurolinx cartel have undertaken such a convoluted route. Surely not..... but.... it would explain why they booked Malta – UK, UK – Miami, Miami – San Domingo and then had a three hour hire-car drive to Punta Cana. I have never met these people....... I feel nervous, so I retire to bed, praying that my first question to them won’t be about swallowing condoms.

Lacing Up

In December 2008 a crack unit was selected by Eurolinx.com to experience the shock incarceration of a boot camp on a Caribbean island. Instead of the standard thirteen weeks, the unit had just seven days to acclimatise to the punishing regime of psychological torture bellowed out by full-throated drill instructors. To keep the members of the unit disorientated, some of the team were deliberately pin-balled around the four corners of the world before arriving at their final destination.

At the end of a week of hardship and food deprivation, the members of the unit were expected to read poker opponents, analyse the texture of the flop and narrate a four-tissue bad-beat story.

The following were the seven individuals selected for their psychological toughness, capacity for abstract thought and extreme gullibility:

David Fitzgerald, British. Eurolinx blogger, chanter of jody calls and comfortable in a full metal jacket.

Jackie Gatt, Maltese. Eurolinx VIP consultant, master tactician at blackjack and comfortable with fully straightened hair.

Magnus Wennlof, Swedish. Eurolinx Sportsbook Manager, member of the elite diving squadron and uncomfortable on his recent trip to Arsenal FC.

Lydia Melton, American. Eurolinx Operations Manager, operational food-taster (hamburger and hot-chocolate squadron) and undecided about the comfort of her paragliding exploits.

These four Eurolinx employees were accompanied by three of the site’s players who were duped into tagging along by entering a recent promotional poker tournament which misleadingly described the trip as ‘Once in a life-time’. Unfortunately for them, they won.

Jeff Lamont, Canadian. Salesperson, online expert-player but experiencing live poker for the first time.

Ole Brodin, Norwegian. Electrician, scourge of the online game and has now replaced the one-eyed teddy bear in (Foxwood’s winner) Mike Vela’s nightmares.

Orjan Knutsen, Norwegian. International man of mystery. Has maintained radio silence since his experience at camp. Has probably reverted to stealth mode and resumed his online ‘assassin’ style.

Seven people exposed to a punishing seven day regime of bright light, clear blue sea and the force of the river.

In seven days, God created the world. After experiencing the tortuous hell of the boot camp, some of these players now wish He had never dipped His fingers into the teleological play dough and had flunked His exam on intelligent design.

Stop by tomorrow to read some of the surviving fragments from David’s journal.