by Jerry Yang
I gave my buddies my extensive rubber band collection. As it turned out, I’d become the best rubber band player in the camp, at least in our little corner of it.
I also gave them the plastic bag full of bones I’d buried. Every so often, a group of men had come through the camp and collected all the leftover animal bones from the food we’d been given. They’d given us candy in exchange for them. I wasn’t sure why. Word around camp said the men sold the bones to a company that ground them into a powder used in a meat tenderizer. Neither my buddies nor I cared what the men did with them. All we knew was that we could trade them for candy, and we loved candy. Now my friends could enjoy some, my treat.
Finally, morning came. I woke up so excited I could hardly hold still. I ran to the shelf where my parents stored all the important items, but it was pretty bare. My parents had given away everything we weren’t taking to America.
High on the shelf was a box, and in the box was something that belonged to me. After our interview, my uncle in America had sent my father $50. With that money, my father had purchased a large amount of fabric for new clothes for all of us. A tailor in the camp had made me the most spectacular pair of pants I could have imagined. They even had bell-bottoms.
In the camp, I’d worn whatever old clothes the relief agencies had handed out, most of them ragged even before I’d gotten them. Not these pants! They were new, a first for me. In the weeks leading to our departure, I’d pulled them off the shelf and stared at them in wonder.
Today was different. I pulled them off the shelf and put them on. I also put on something I’d never worn before: shoes. A cousin had given me this pair after he’d left for America. One side had been torn out, but my father had given me a little money so I could have them repaired. I also put on my best shirt, the only one I planned to take with me to America.
I can’t describe the feeling that came over me as I stood there, dressed in the finest pants money could buy, my best shirt, and actual shoes, ready to head to America. This must be how the Israelites felt the day they entered the land of milk and honey, I thought. Soon I’ll have a different set of clothes for every day of the week and all the food I could ever want. I won’t be poor or hungry. I will never have to struggle again.
A large crowd arrived at our apartment to escort us to the buses. All across the camp, similar scenes played out. Six months earlier, our family had been part of the crowd escorting my uncle and grandmother to the buses. Now it was our turn to leave.
My buddies Bee and Yer pushed through the crowd to get to me. “You won’t forget us, will you?” one asked.
“How could I ever forget the two of you?”
We walked arm in arm up the hill. At the crest, I looked down to see twenty or twenty-five buses lined up like a long caterpillar on the far side of the camp. People filled the soccer field between me and the buses. Beyond that, I saw people hanging out of the buses, holding the hands of people beside, just like my grandmother had held on to mine until the bus had left.
This is real. This is finally happening to me. I’m going to America for sure this time.
I knew the buses would take us only as far as Bangkok. From there, we had to take an airplane to America. I had no idea how long the trip would take, and I didn’t care.
Once we got to the buses, my father said to my family, “Wait here while I find out which bus is ours.”
Bee and Yer grabbed me even tighter. Tears ran down our faces. None of us could bring ourselves to say anything.
“We’re on bus eight,” my father said after a few moments.
I liked the sound of that. In Asia, eight is the luckiest number.
Bee, Yer, and I walked to the bus. Even after I arrived at the door, we didn’t want to let go.
I couldn’t bring myself to say good-bye.
Finally, my father said, “Boys, it’s time. We need to get on the bus. Xao, say your good-byes, and let’s go. We have no choice.”
I looked at my two buddies. I could imagine the three of us along with the rest of our gang, running around the chicken coop, smashing eggs, or racing to the waterfall near our village on a hot summer day. I couldn’t wrap my mind around the fact that this was it. I was leaving my best friends.
“Xao,” my father said. “It’s time. We need to get on the bus.”
I pulled myself away. “I will see you later.” I hoped against hope it was true.
It felt like a funeral. Because of the hope I had in Jesus, I knew we’d meet in heaven someday, but I hoped we’d see each other before then.
After I got on the bus, my father said, “You and Xay sit here on the front row.”
We jumped into our seat, while my mother and two younger brothers took the one behind us. My father and brother Kham Dy sat behind them in the third row.
From outside the bus came the sound of wailing as loved ones said their good-byes.
I looked at the open door. Every so often, Bee and Yer peeked in for one last look at me. I turned around and looked at my mother and father. Both of them were leaning out the window, talking with my widowed aunts.
Everyone cried. All of us on the bus were so sad to leave our loved ones behind, yet we couldn’t wait to get out of Ban Vinai.
After what seemed like forever, the door closed and the bus started rolling forward. Just as on the day my grandmother had left, people ran alongside the bus, holding on to their loved ones’ hands as long as they could.
From a loudspeaker outside, we heard, “Please stand clear of the buses. We don’t want anyone to get hurt.”
No one listened. I watched as my aunts held on till their legs couldn’t keep up with the buses. Just like that, they disappeared.
As the buses wound their way up a hill toward the camp entrance, I looked out. High in the distance sat apartment number ten, room seven, as if it were waiting for us to come back.
My mind flashed back to the day I’d looked at my village in Laos one last time before we’d headed into the jungle, never to return. For four years, I’d thought Ban Vinai was a place where people went to die. I’d prayed our family would escape, but a part of me had doubted it would ever happen.
Now the bus picked up speed. I settled into my seat and smiled even as the last few tears streamed down.
Up ahead I saw a small security station at the camp entrance. I’d never been this close to it before. A long bar stretched across the road, blocking the gate. As soon as the first bus came to the bar, it swung up and let them pass.
My heart beat faster as we drove closer and closer. Finally, we passed underneath the bar and out the gate.
A sense of relief washed over me. I felt like a new person.
When we’d first stepped on the Thai shore of the Mekong, I’d thought I was free. Now, four and a half years later, I was. At last.
18
On the Cusp of a Dream
“This is the last time. I promise.” The World Series of Poker official laughed as he handed me the plastic bag for my chips along with the triplicate form where I’d record my total.
“Thank you.” I stared at the bag a moment, a wave of fatigue hitting me. For the first time, I felt every one of the sixteen hours of continuous poker I’d just played. I sat to count my chips.
Throughout the tournament, the dealers trade out the smaller denominations for ever larger ones. This meant that even though my stack had a much higher total value than the one I’d had after the first day, my total number of plastic chips was not that different.
“Wow. Unbelievable.” I wrote the total on the form with two carbon copies, dropped one slip in with the chips, sealed the bag, and handed it to the tournament official. Then I handed one slip to the dealer and kept one for myself.
“Thanks, Jerry, and congratulations. You’ve played a great tournament. Best of luck to you tomorrow.”
“Thank you, my friend.” I sighed. “Final table. Who would have ever believed this, right?”
He laughed. “Don’t sell yourself short.
No one gets this far by luck alone. Now go get some rest. You look like you need it.”
“Yes, I am very tired.” It was a huge understatement. I’d played sixteen hours of poker after a night of little sleep. I felt as if I could lie down right there on the poker table and fall asleep. At the same time, I had so much adrenaline pumping that I felt as if I could start play at the final table right then.
I looked at my chip count once again: 8.45 million. And I couldn’t believe it when I had 99,700 the first day. This is incredible. Before I got too carried away with patting myself on the back, another thought occurred to me: Of course, you are 14 million behind Philip Hilm.
Having taken care of my poker business, I wanted to get to my car as quickly as possible to drive to my hotel.
I hadn’t even left the area surrounding the feature table when a stranger stopped me. “Mr. Yang, Jerry, congratulations on making the final table. You played a whale of a tourney so far. You may not realize it yet, but your life is going to change from this point forward. That’s where I can help. I’m an agent, and I would love to represent you—”
“Thank you”—I cut him off—“but I don’t have time to speak with you now. If you’ll give me your card, I’ll be happy to get back with you later.”
He tried to keep talking, but I politely excused myself and kept walking.
No sooner had I brushed off the first agent than another stepped up and went into the same speech.
Then another.
And another.
I don’t fault them. They were just doing their jobs, but it was too late, or too early, depending on how you look at the clock, for that kind of business.
Agents weren’t the only ones trailing me out of the Amazon Room. All of the final table players were scheduled to appear at a press conference Monday at noon, which was now about seven hours away. In the meantime, a few reporters wanted a comment from me as they finished their stories on day six.
“Jerry,” one of them asked, a tape recorder in his hand and a cameraman trailing behind, “how do you feel as you reach the top of an improbable climb?”
I slowed a little but didn’t stop. “I am very pleased and excited.” To be honest, my mind was so fatigued that I was surprised I could squeeze out a coherent sentence.
A couple other reporters asked variations of the same question, and I gave them basically the same answers.
I could see the door ahead, and I just wanted to get through it. Unlike all the other eight remaining players, I couldn’t just duck into the nearest elevator. I had to go all the way across the casino to the parking garage, then drive another twenty minutes to my hotel.
Finally, the last reporter asked his question, and the last agent thrust his card into my hand. They could have kept following, but all of them were polite enough to stop once I reached the door.
At long last, I made it to my car, unlocked the door, and sat in the silence.
That’s when it hit me. Jerry Yang, in a little more than twenty-four hours, you are going to sit at the final table of the biggest, most important poker tournament in the world. You made it.
I let out a little cheer, then pulled out my cell phone. I’d wanted to make this call since Steven Garfinkle had busted out a little more than half an hour earlier.
Even though it was the middle of the night, she picked up the phone on the first ring.
“Daddy?”
“Mommy, I did it. I made the final table.”
Sue let out a scream. “I can’t believe it. I mean, I can believe it, but I can’t believe it!”
“Neither can I. I want you and the kids to come to Las Vegas to share this moment with me.”
“Can we afford that, Daddy?”
I laughed. “Yes, Mommy, we can afford it.” Ninth place was guaranteed over half a million dollars. “I booked a suite for everyone at the Rio, the same hotel where I’m playing. My parents are already staying in one of the bedrooms. You and I will stay in the other, and the kids will sleep in the living room. Make sure you bring their sleeping bags.”
“I can’t wait to come, but I hate the thought of driving that far by myself.”
“You don’t have to. I spoke with Pat Wilmes from the Lake Elsinore Hotel & Casino earlier today. He wants you and the kids to be here with me. His casino has arranged for a limo to pick you up at the house and drive you all the way to Las Vegas.”
“Nooo. Really?”
“And guess what? That’s not all. They’re also going to give you $2,500 spending money.”
“What? Oh my, Daddy. That’s about the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”
“I know, I know. Oh, Mommy, I cannot wait for you to get here. I have missed you and the children so much.”
I fought back tears and could tell Sue did as well. There was plenty of time for that later.
We talked for a little while as I drove back downtown. When I reached my hotel, I told her I loved her and would see her in a few hours. I couldn’t wait.
The sun was coming up by the time I finally made it to my room to sleep. I walked in, tossed my jacket on the bed, then fell facedown on that smelly carpet and thanked my God for all He had done for me thus far. I knew He had a greater purpose in all of this than simply a poker tournament.
Then I tried to sleep, without much success. Though my body kept screaming to shut it down for now, my mind had other ideas. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw cards hitting the felt. I replayed dozens and dozens of hands.
Once I’d replayed all of day six, my thoughts turned to money. Wow, the money. Even if I were the first one to bust out, even if I went all in on the first hand and lost, I was guaranteed no less than $525,000.
Even after I pay out all the taxes, that still leaves more than enough to pay off the house and the car and put some into savings. But first I’ll make good on the vow I made to the Lord a long time ago to use the money for good.
The thought made sleep that much more difficult. Now, not only did I have strategy to ponder and opponents to figure out, but my mind began racing with possible places to give one-tenth of whatever I won. The more my mind and body fought, the more thankful I was that I had to get up soon.
I had hardly slept at all by the time my alarm sounded. Though I had the day off, this would prove to be one of the busiest days of the tournament for me.
Before any of that, I would have to check out of my hotel. With my family coming to Las Vegas, it was time to move to a decent hotel. I looked around my smelly, dingy, poorly lit room as I packed my suitcase. I’m actually going to miss this place.
I could have changed hotels at any time after qualifying for the money on day three, but every time I went back to my room I felt a little like Rocky in Rocky IV, who trained in a run-down barn to keep his focus while his Russian opponent stayed in a fancy resort. This is my old barn, so I guess that makes me Rocky. I laughed.
After packing my bags, I took one last look around my room. “Thank you,” I said to the empty space. “You kept me focused. I don’t think I could have made it this far without you.”
I arrived at the Amazon Room in time for the noon joint press conference with all of the final table contestants. Then each of us rotated through several different media rooms for one-on-one interviews with ESPN, USA TODAY, local Las Vegas television stations, and foreign press.
Even though I was an amateur, the press had lots of questions for me. Usually, the question came down to a variation of this: “Jerry, amateur players have won the past four World Series of Poker main events in a row. Can you be the fifth?”
I always gave the same answer: “I have a great deal of respect for the pros. Tomorrow I will do my best and hope the cards fall my way.”
What else could I say?
After answering the last question, I went upstairs to the two-bedroom suite I’d rented for my parents. The moment I opened the door, my six children rushed at me.
“Daddy,” they yelled, each one grabbing me.
I loved ev
ery second of it. I gave out hugs and kisses and more hugs and kisses. My two youngest children would barely let go.
Sue stood back, letting the children have their time.
“Kids, did Mommy tell you I made the final table?”
“You did?” my oldest daughter asked with that hint of sarcasm only a thirteen-year-old girl can muster.
I laughed so hard. “Of course. Why do you think you’re here?”
I finally waded through the sea of our children and made it to my wife to wrap my arms around her. “Mommy, this is real. This is happening. In less than twenty-four hours, I’ll play the final table.” My emotions spilled out; I couldn’t hold back the tears any longer.
“I know.” Tears streamed down her face.
We stayed like that for a few minutes, holding one another, crying, while our children darted in and out around us.
Finally, Sue stood back. “And how much money does this mean you will win?”
I laughed so hard I could hardly answer.
Even though my family was now with me, I had to be alone for a while to plot my strategy for the next day. Of the eight other players remaining, I regarded three as the most dangerous: Philip Hilm, Lee Watkinson, and Alex Kravchenko.
Philip not only had the chip lead; he also was a fearless player.
I knew how good Lee Watkinson was because I’d watched him on television. Most of the poker experts regarded him as the best contender at the final table.
Even though Alex Kravchenko had the short stack, I knew firsthand how dangerous he could be. He’d been the short stack through most of day six, yet he’d survived. Of my eight opponents, he was perhaps the most disciplined, the most patient, and the hardest to eliminate.
As I prepared for the final table, I believed I had to take out these three to have any chance at winning. I mean no disrespect to the others; in fact, I think most of them would name the same three as their toughest opponents. Certainly, no one would have put Jerry Yang on that list.
In the previous two years, I’d watched and rewatched many professional players, including Lee Watkinson, on television and made careful notes. On days five and six here, I’d started taking notes on the players as well. The night before the final table, I’d pulled out my notes one last time and studied.