My wife used to say of the silly problems her suburban houswives friends would bear, “Everyone has problems, and everyone’s problems are big.” I always thought that was silly. I mean, there are people who have REAL problems. I grew so slot gacor with the presumption that everyone’s problems have the same import that she
My wife used to say of the silly problems her suburban houswives friends would bear, “Everyone has problems, and everyone’s problems are big.”
I always thought that was silly.
I mean, there are people who have REAL problems. I grew so slot gacor with the presumption that everyone’s problems have the same import that she withdrew the argument. We rarely discuss the little problems anymore.
That said, problems are universal. It’s funny that, as a relatively young man, I’m already concerned with the brevity of life. Like all men, my greatest fantasy is a life free of problems big and small. A life of true freedom.
But it’s the problems that keep us alive.
This summer I had a heater. I ran so hot my good friend BadBlood, one of the most consistent poker winners around, was worried I’d leave him behind. Worried, he said, that my skill and bankroll had progressed to a point at which he’d no longer be able to join me at the table.
That, of course, was a very silly concern.
Still, I won more money in the 4 months that led up to our August vacation in Vegas than I ever dreamed of winning. I took the family to Disney with poker cash. I padded the household roll and remodeled this and that. Life, as they say, was easy.
My poker game, as a result, fell into shit.
Success made me sloppy.
In many ways, it’s the problems our friends suffer that bring us close. That, and the knowledge that they care about problems of our own.
Last Thursday I went out drinking with friends. We met at a local bar, upstairs (which becomes a material fact in just a bit), for a few drinks at 6:30.
BadBlood and theMark were already seated at the bar when I showed up. Otis, confused about his own directions, was seated by himself downstairs with an entire bucket of Bud Light. Uncle Ted and T both came. So did some workplace friends of Uncle Ted.
We drank boze.
By 9:00 Otis stood from his tall barstool and stumbled to the men’s room.
At 9:05 he climbed back upon his stool, slid all the way across, and hit the floor.
It marks the first time some of our party had seen the now legendary, “OTIS FALL.”
At 9:00, slightly embarrassed by the spectacle we’d become, and amazed by a several bill… bill, we stood to hit another bar across town.
Otis led the way. Ass first. Down an entire flight of stairs and into the restaurant below. It was equal parts embarrasing and hilarious. Actually, in hindsight (pun intended), it was mostly hilarious.
My struggles at cards, on the other hand, have not been so funny. I suck right now. I’m misreading opponents… badly. I’m making bad calls. I’m so aware of my own poor play that I’m not trusting my good reads and so conscious of my diminishing roll that I’m playing scared. The antithesis of G-Rob play.
I need a correction.
In truth, my game has always relied on making good reads. My friends will tell you that when I’m playing well I can read an opponent as well as anyone. I put pressure on players with weak hands and have little trouble folding when the villian is strong. But I haven’t been doing it lately.
I have a problem.
The solution is unpleasant. I’m stepping down in limits. To work on focus. I’ll put less money at stake while I work out the hitch. The biggest issue, as in most of my life, is focus.
Good reads require laser focus. I have to ignore what my opponents say and the conversation in the room. I have to toss out the problems I brought with me to the table and care only about the problems at hand. Each hand. Not the one before. Actually, it does sometimes pay to worry about problems yet to come, to plan for future hands. But that points to another problem of mine. I need to be more patient.
All of this, of course, stems from having SO much success that I stopped understanding that I HAD to pay attention to win. When winning isn’t a problem, an even bigger problem looms.
I’m sure my poker playing companions will understand.
8 BALL CORNER POCKET
So, Thursday, we head to the next bar. We get there slowly because Otis can barely walk and theMark is in some sort of drunken Patton mode barking at random passerbys like they’re all buck privates.
Funny, but odd.
When we get to next bar, we find a huge booth for our party. I lost at arm wrestling again, but dammit, I nearly won. At least, I hope, Blood left with a sore left arm.
The fun part, besides a drunk and funny Uncle Ted, was the usually drunk and sometimes funny Otis. The man has problems dontcha know.
It did seem, for some time, that the man had his shit together. I’m fairly sure he still does. But Thursday we got into the old Otis self-loathing and interospection that usually accompanies a few falls. It made me feel good to be there, to listen, to a friend.
It’s his problems that make me the friend I am.
Same is true of Luckbox. He has problems too, but he’s more qualified to discuss them. Still, it makes me happy that he knows he can turn to me for help… or a virtual ear.
Problems are both good and bad.
WHICH BRINGS ME TO THIS
My wife is pregnant.
My oldest will be 8 when this child is born. I’ll be in my 50s when this kid finishes high school. My long term financial plans are scrapped.
I’m in a world of disbelief. So is my wife.
Still, the children I have, problems and all, are the best thing in my life.
I can’t imagine this will be different.
It’s a problem.
But a good one to have.