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.