Mean Gene

Save Up the Luck

Last night was not a good one for me at the tables. I played in Wil's tournament and played about as badly as one can play. First of all I was seated at CJ's table, so I would've been wise to just fold until he sucked out a few players and one of us got moved. Instead I did some weak limping, let others re-steal my steal attempts, and didn't move all-in with AK and let myself get pushed out of a pot with only around T600 left. I went busto when I pushed with a brace of ducks and the board reading 5-4-5. I figured I was good, I was, but I was called by A-6 and an six spiked on the river. I was out and so richly deserved to be out.

Then I played a little shorthanded game to win back my buy-in and got skunked multiple times, mostly by this dude whose avatar was a nice little cat. He got me but good, filling an inside straight on the river, holding KK when I had AQ and flopped a queen, making a flush with 8-3 to beat my two pair. By this time I was ready to play tethercat (Far Side reference) but Lady Luck took her foot off my throat and let me get paid off when I flopped a straight. I was glad to only book a 10BB loss.

Congrats to BadBlood, especially as lately he has been suffering from laser-guided precision munitions directly targeting his junk. Of course it wasn't easy--he had two hands in a row go against him when he had his victim dominated. But victory came at the end. Odd, this past weekend I sat down to play some poker and thought I'd switched on American Movie Classics to watch whatever Bond movie they were showing that night (I've seen Thunderball sixteen times in the last week). They had some commerical on for a collection of hits from the 70's, but it wasn't a commercial, it was an infomercial with one of the Brady guys and some random chick. It was a good 10 minutes before I realized the bad noise on the tube wasn't going away. God, people in the 70's dressed horribly. Anyway, they were showing clips from shows back then with pop stars on lipsynching their hits (no one could lip synch AT ALL back then) and there's Neil Sedaka singing "Bad Blood". I have no idea if that song is what gave BadBlood the inspiration for his name (well, actually I do have an idea) but watching Neil sing that song, decked out as he was in a black sweater with a tan and magenta stripe running diagnoally from the shoulder to the waist...I'm sorry, I just lost my train of thought. But I need a Tums.

So, last night the breaks didn't go my way, but I didn't mind as I'd like to get them all out of the way now and store up as much good luck as possible for Sunday. Like all sports fans I have a belief that borders on the mystical that I, Mean Gene, can in some way have an outcome on the Steeler game. Whether by wearing the same clothes or standing in a particular part of the room or (this was the key to the Colts game) having an open can of Yuengling by my side.

I'm serious, the Yuengling thing was so spot-on it was spooky. I'm drinking at a steady pace and the Steelers are winning. But then I let my can go dry without snagging a refill and the Colts score. I get another one, the Steelers drive, and then Polamalu makes his pick. Here's where things get eerie--I finished the beer as the flatlined ref peered at the replay, and he comes back with the worst decision in the history of human cognition (I exaggerate, but only just). The Colts score, I open a new beer, Joey Porter does his best to make Manning Scaloppine and the game is won. I exchange high-fives and hoots, quaff my beer...and The Bus fumbles. Colts throw the ball hither and yon, Vanderjagt lines up, the Steelers call time out...and that gives me enough time to get another beer. I did this deliberately, I said to myself, "Go open another can of Yuengling and he'll miss the kick". And, of course, the ball sails wide right. It was me.

From this the casual reader might be shaking his head and thinking that I'm an idiot (and be amazed that I didn't spend the second half in the bathroom). But the sports fanatic is shaking his head for another reason--he's thinking, "Geno, you should've seen the beer angle by halftime and FOCUSED ALL YOUR ATTENTION on keeping an open yellow can at your side. Amateur. Posueur. Bandwagon-jumper." That last one hurts. But don't worry, come game time I will have executed a series of bizarre and complicated manuevers, assembled a wide array of talismans, and carefully examined my recent thoughts and deeds for bad mojo. And I'll have lots and lots of Yuengling at hand.

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