Good times and rough times in Dublin

Poker brought a slight difference this weekend,  as I travelled to Dublin along with my brother Tom and two mates. We successfully tricked Micky McCool into believing that Chris was the number two poker player from Finland, but truth was that my two best friends, Chris and Omar,  had just come to enjoy Dublin with us.

Well, all the good times were spent enjoying such a fine and friendly city, and unfortunately all the rough times were spent at the felt. It was a real disappointment, as the Irish tournaments are always so attractive,  for poor players as much as they are for a friendly atmosphere.

It feels like a repeating story, but I felt that with a real lack of cards for the first 6 levels, it would take some great play to build a good chip stack. I’m gutted to say that my play was more average than brilliant, and my chip stack never really threatend to shoot much above the 10k starting stack.

The one thing I never lose in a poker tournament is hope, and with 9,500 in the 7th level of the day, I was still raring to get into contention. I raised the 200/400 blinds to 1,100 with KcJc, and Joe Grech came along with me from the small blind. The flop came Kd9d7h, giving me the top pair, and Grech moved all-in for 5,200 more. I sighed, knowing both that Grech would flip the nut flush draw, and of course would win the enusing race.

Once again my play had not been good enough to save me from what seems like the inevitability of losing the first race, and I was gutted. The eventual bust out hand was admittedly only for the last 2,400 chips, but came when I got it in with a flopped set of threes against my opponent’s 6d4d on a 632 board. It came a sickening turn 6 and river 4, a nice little runner-runner house to knock me out.

One of my strong philosohpies in poker is not to worry too much about results, but to really concentrate on trying to learn and improve each time I play. I’m gradually realising though that I am not unable to shrug off that crushing feeling of disappointment when the final blow strikes. Even after this small pot, I walked round the edge of the room feeling gutted that I could not have held to at least stay alive in the tournament.

I have thought about it, and realised that there is nothing wrong with feeling so disappointed whenever I get knocked out. I have a real passion for poker, and feel like so much is on the line every time I sit down at the tables. The greatest thing about poker is hope, and I will cling onto it even on the kind of day where I seem scarcely able to get above the starting stack. I’m pleased that I feel I could be sick when I get knocked out even after the most minor pot; in fact, I would be worried if that feeling ever disappeared!