Ship It Holla Ballas!

by Jonathan Grotenstein

  They used to idolize the pros, cheering for guys like Sammy Farha, Daniel Negreanu, and Phil Hellmuth whenever they saw them on TV. But now that they’re in Las Vegas, observing them in their element, the hero worship is starting to fade. Whether it’s envy or fact, they feel like most of the pros are overrated blowhards.

  As for what the pros think of the Ballas: Who?

  So far, online poker’s only noticeable contribution to the live tournament world has come from amateurs—salarymen pursuing the dream that has the entire country and half the world enthralled. Allowing Chris Moneymaker to take $2.5 million out of the poker economy didn’t sit well with all of the pros, but it has paid enormous dividends both in terms of prize money and sponsorship opportunities, thanks to all the dead money that keeps flowing in.

  The live pros, when they’ve bothered to acknowledge them at all, have mocked online players. But at this year’s World Series, they are being introduced to an entirely new breed of online player, as the first wave of kids—the eighteen-year-olds who discovered poker watching Moneymaker’s victory on TV and who have been playing on the Internet every day since—have finally turned 21.

  At first, their presence is confusing to the veterans. These tournaments carry four- and five-digit entry fees. Where the hell are these kids getting the money? Watching them play only deepens the mystery. Tournament newbies generally trend toward caution and respect. Not these kids—they come out firing, playing with hyperaggression, almost as if they’re in a hurry to lose all their chips. And, oh boy, are they cocky.

  The Ballas who are old enough to play in World Series events feel like they’re going to win every tournament they enter, but halfway through the Series, they don’t have anything to show for their efforts. Finally, in the eighteenth event, a pot-limit Hold’em tournament with a first prize of more than $300,000, a breakthrough: Not only have Apathy and Jman survived “the bubble” (they’re both guaranteed to win prize money) but with fifty-four players left, Apathy is the chip leader.

  Jman, who sits only four spots behind him on the leader board, begins the tournament’s second day at the featured table, where he butts heads with one of the best known pros in the world, Men “the Master” Nguyen. A clash of cultures—online versus live, young versus old—is inevitable. A former boat person from Vietnam, Nguyen compensates for his lack of height with big-heeled shoes and an oversized personality. He doesn’t have any idea who Jman is. Why should he? He’s Men the Master, winner of six WSOP bracelets as well as millions of dollars. Jman is a twenty-one-year-old kid who looks like the boy in American Pie who assaults a warm pastry on the kitchen table.

  But the kid has something Nguyen doesn’t: a cheering section. After fortifying themselves at the house with several rounds of Crown and Cokes, the rest of the Ballas have crowded the bleachers that surround the table. They scream “Ship it!” every time Jman wins a hand—even the tiny pot he takes by default when everyone folds to him before the flop, the poker equivalent of cheering wildly for a baseball player who draws an intentional walk. Their behavior is starting to drive Nguyen a little crazy, which becomes apparent when he sarcastically mimics their war cry.

  Good2cu smiles—being obnoxious is certainly one way to get attention. He leads his friends in a raucous cheer when Nguyen gets eliminated from the tournament. The room nears pandemonium when a seating redraw lands Jman and Apathy at the same table. The older players don’t look happy. A security guard threatens to toss the Ballas out of the casino if they don’t quiet down.

  Ultimately it’s bad luck that mutes their enthusiasm. Jman gets knocked out in thirty-first place. Apathy manages to hold on for another hour before a bad beat decimates his chip stack. Moments later, the reigning World Series of Poker champion Joe Hachem eliminates him in twenty-fourth place.

  None of the Ballas will be getting famous today, but Apathy does leave the Rio with a little more than $5,000 in prize money and an unanticipated consolation prize. He has spent much of the day flirting with a player at his table, an attractive brunette who has done a little modeling for Ralph Lauren. When she informs him that she’s breaking up with her live-in boyfriend and needs a place to stay, Apathy tells her she’s welcome to crash at the Balla Mansion until she finds a place of her own.

  He’s surprised but not at all displeased when she accepts. He brings her home to meet the guys. Leave it to Apathy to not only bring a beautiful woman back to the house (finally!), but a beautiful woman who’s actually psyched to hang out with them.

  Only Raptor fails to greet the household’s newest addition with enthusiasm. Hard to blame him, given that he actually witnessed the woman’s breakup with her “live-in boyfriend,” who more accurately could be described as her husband, his friend and landlord, DocHolatchya.

  “Hi, Chantel,” Raptor says through gritted teeth.

  30

  My mom to this day doesn’t want me to be in Vegas for the Fourth of July because I always have bad stuff happen to me.

  —Inyaface

  LAS VEGAS, NEVADA (July 2006)

  According to BMW’s marketing department, the M3 can accelerate from zero to sixty in under six seconds. Good2cu is currently putting that assertion to the test on a half-finished stretch of road at the southern end of the Las Vegas Strip. They’re on their way home from the gym—Inyaface riding shotgun, Unarmed in the backseat—enjoying a testosterone- and adrenaline-fueled buzz. None of them can say for sure how fast it took to get the car up to sixty miles per hour, but it was damn quick.

  Encouraged by his passengers’ awed expressions, Good2cu applies the tiniest bit of extra pressure to the gas, and now they’re going eighty. The desert landscape shoots by, its hypnotic uniformity interrupted by the occasional construction vehicle. A billion-dollar investment in this undeveloped portion of the Strip has just been announced, but the work is barely under way. What has been completed is the road: long, straight, flat, and almost completely empty.

  So there really isn’t any question, when they fly past a police car headed in the opposite direction, as to whether or not they’ve been spotted.

  “Shit,” says Good2cu.

  “Shit,” Inyaface agrees.

  Poker is a game of critical decisions. Weigh the factors, plot a course, and commit. Sometimes the decisions get complicated, but most boil down to a simple binary: raise or fold.

  Sometimes life is a lot like poker. For Good2cu, folding here means pulling over for the cop. Coming up with a reasonable excuse as to why he’s driving so fast in a car that doesn’t technically belong to him. Definitely getting a ticket. Possibly losing his license.

  Good2cu decides to raise. A little more pressure on the gas, and the car does what it was designed to do.

  90 … 100 … 110 …

  “What are you doing?” screams Inyaface.

  “Getting away!”

  “I mean about the traffic light!”

  * * *

  The idea had come to Good2cu while riding shotgun in Raptor’s race-ready Subaru: it’s time for an automotive upgrade. Past time, really. He’s still driving a ten-year-old Saturn that looks like it couldn’t even make it to the junkyard. Meanwhile, he’s won more than $70,000 in the past month, and there’s no reason to think the roll he’s on is going to end anytime soon. The purchase makes sense for a young balla—if buying a new laptop and flashy watch are the first two items on the shopping list, a respectable ride is number three.

  Good2cu figures he can budget $50,000—around 25 percent of his net worth—for a new set of wheels, although a nittier recess of his poker mind knows that buying new is for suckers. Cars lose a significant portion of their value the moment you drive them off the lot. So he spends a couple of days scanning the classifieds until he settles on the perfect intersection between style and common sense: a slightly used BMW M3.

  Any asshole can drive a BMW. But the M3 isn’t any old BMW. The factory-issued paneling has been traded out for a more aerodynamic design, the wheel wells expanded to make
room for racing tires. But the most important difference is under the hood, a high-performance engine that can produce 333 horsepower.

  Good2cu spots an ad for a year-old M3 whose price is right. His good feelings about the car grow stronger when he meets its owner, a guy we’ll call Mike Sparks, who he recognizes from the poker tables—a week earlier Sparks made the final table of a World Series event.

  Not only is this BMW a balla car, it also has a pedigree.

  While Good2cu is kicking the tires and gazing under the hood, pretending he has some clue as to how to judge the condition of a car, Sparks casually asks him what he does for a living.

  “I’m a poker player,” Good2cu replies.

  “A poker player? No way! Me too. Want to play for the car?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “We’ll play heads-up. You win, I’ll give you the car. I win, I keep the car, plus another $50,000 from you.”

  Good2cu has to laugh. I love this fucking town. He wants to say yes so badly. But he also knows that Sparks must be a pretty good player, and Midwestern common sense overrides any urge Good2cu might have to gamble with this guy.

  “Nah, I’m happy just to pay you for it.”

  “All right. You got the cash on you?”

  “I’m going to have to move some money around. Can I give you five grand now and the rest tomorrow?”

  Sparks tosses him the keys.

  For the next twenty-four hours, Good2cu drives the car like he’s trying to avoid spilling his morning cup of coffee. A near stranger has entrusted him with a sports car in exchange for five grand and a handshake. This is how professional poker players do business, Good2cu thinks. How cool is that?

  The next day he gives Sparks the rest of the cash.

  “Don’t we need to transfer the title?” Good2cu asks.

  “The DMV is closed for the Fourth of July weekend,” replies Sparks. “We can do it first thing next week. Until then, treat her right!”

  “Of course,” says Good2cu, emitting his trademark donkey laugh. “What do you think I am, an idiot?”

  * * *

  Good2cu has been paying too much attention to his rearview mirror—Did we really just ditch that cop?—to register the traffic light Inyaface is pointing to. It’s not red, which is good, but it’s not green either. It’s nonoperational, the power being saved for a future time when this section of road is complete. Without working lights providing guidance, the upcoming intersection is supposed to be a four-way stop.

  But the BMW wasn’t designed to go from 110 to 0 in under two seconds, and the Ford Explorer that’s barreling through the intersection straight for them certainly won’t be able to do it either.

  Raise or fold. Hit the gas or slam on the brakes. Good2cu’s survival instinct steers him toward the brakes. But slowing the M3 only seems to bring the Explorer that much closer. Taking his foot off the brake, he stomps on the gas and swerves like a stunt driver would. Only he’s no stunt driver.

  The Explorer slams into the passenger side, propelling them into a third car that’s idling on the far side of the intersection. The BMW comes to rest in a crumpled heap.

  Good2cu tries to orient himself. He’s dimly aware of someone outside the car pointing a finger at him and yelling, “You fucked up my car! You fucked up my car!”

  Inyaface looks shaken but unhurt. Good2cu pivots to look at Unarmed. He has blood all over his face.

  “Oh my god.… I killed Unarmed!”

  “Calm down,” says Inyaface. “He’s going to be fine.”

  Unarmed mumbles something that indicates this might be true.

  Good2cu takes a second look at Inyaface. “Dude, you’re bleeding too.”

  Inyaface looks down at his feet. His shoe is soaked with blood. When the door caved in, it sliced into the back of his leg. Suddenly he doesn’t feel so good.

  An ambulance takes Inyaface and Unarmed to the hospital to get stitched up. Despite appearances, both will be fine.

  The car is a different story. It’s clearly totaled. It’s also still registered—and presumably insured—in Mike Sparks’s name. Good2cu calls him and brings him up to speed.

  “You were drag racing, weren’t you?” Sparks laughs. “Whatever. Just tell the cops you were borrowing my car. It’s still in my name, so my insurance will take care of it. Then when they send me a check to pay for the car, I’ll just ship it to you. Deal?”

  “Totally. Thanks for being so cool about this.”

  “No problem. That’s what friends are for.”

  Man, thinks Good2cu, everyone is so cool here. I love this fucking town.

  31

  We currently have a hot ex-Ralph Lauren model who just moved in with us and is a real sweetheart, futilely trying to clean the house as we speak. If we weren’t all such assholes, we’d be helping right now.

  —Good2cu

  LAS VEGAS, NEVADA (July 2006)

  The maids used to clean the house every other day, but it’s been nearly a week since their last visit. Common sense says they’ve quit and are never coming back. In their absence entropy has been allowed to take over. The living room reeks of rotting steak and molding orange juice. Half-eaten containers of Chinese takeout sit on the kitchen table for a week until Good2cu shifts them to the floor to make room for a poker game. Ants have taken up permanent residency in the kitchen, feasting on fried rice and potato chips.

  Outside it only gets worse. The pool area is littered with shards of glass, remnants of the bottles TheUsher has been smashing against the wall every time he gets knocked out of a tournament. The hot tub is coated with a foul orange skim—last week, Unarmed dumped a Costco-sized carton of Goldfish crackers into it because, you know, fish need water.

  The crowd that’s gathered around the dining-room table is oblivious to the wreckage. The Ballas, joined by their new houseguest Chantel, are focused on durrrr. He’s playing ten high-stakes no-limit cash games at the same time, each requiring a $10,000 investment. He clicks rapidly among them, making nearly instantaneous decisions determining the outcome of four- and five-figure pots. Durrrr might be immune to the tension, but no one else is. The mood in the room is electric.

  Like Good2cu and Raptor, durrrr is too young to play in any of the WSOP events. So instead of competing on poker’s biggest stage, he’s pushing online poker to its limits.

  For all their bluster, the Ballas have made most of their money in relative safety. They’ve played Sit N Gos by an almost mechanical set of rules, enjoying a steady rate of return. Having made the switch from Sit N Gos to no-limit cash games long ago, durrrr is flying without a net, risking a huge portion of his net worth every time he plays. He’s grown accustomed to winning and losing more in a single session than most of his friends have in their online accounts. His friends are suitably awed. They feel like they’re watching a race car driver stress testing a vehicle at its extremes—one minute headed for disaster; the next redefining what everyone thought was possible. Durrrr has only been playing seriously for a little more than two years, but people are already starting to compare him to Stu Ungar, the poker wunderkind who won his first two world championships before his thirtieth birthday.

  Jman is one of the first to follow durrrr’s lead. Giving online cash games his full attention, he’s begun playing for higher and higher stakes. At the moment he’s considering taking a shot at one of the biggest games available. The final nudge comes from Good2cu and Apathy, who agree to invest in his test flight in exchange for a piece of his winnings.

  They sit behind him, sweating every hand, cheering and wincing. The cheers outnumber the winces: Jman finishes the session up $70,000, and promptly transfers his partners their shares.

  Good2cu and Apathy celebrate the unexpected windfall by taking Chantel out to dinner, remembering to follow Irieguy’s advice that the woman never pays. In return, she serves as an ideal wingwoman: beautiful, outgoing, and flirtatious. After dinner she guides them into Tryst, a popular nightclub. When she peels off for a visi
t to the bathroom, Good2cu gives Apathy a knowing look.

  “You know neither one of us can hook up with her, right?”

  “Because?”

  “Because of TheUsher.” While all the guys are developing crushes on Chantel, TheUsher has fallen the hardest. Earlier that day, he took her to the mall for a $1,500 lingerie-and-swimsuit shopping spree. “If he sees one of us macking on her, it would create way too much drama.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  They roll back to the house at sunrise, and are surprised to find Jman still hunched over his computer. He looks like a guy whose dog just got run over by a bus.

  “What’s going on?” asks Apathy.

  “Running bad,” Jman says.

  “You’re still—”

  “Yeah. Hold on. This clown just check-raised me all in on the turn.”

  Jman doesn’t have a very good hand—a king and a queen, neither of which has paired with the board. He’s exhausted and should have gone to bed hours ago. But his instincts, honed by the many thousands of hands he’s played online and later discussed with his friends, tell him that his opponent is bluffing. With a simple click of his mouse, he calls a bet that could otherwise pay for a new car.

  It’s an amazing call. Not only was his opponent bluffing, but he was bluffing with a king and a jack, a hand that Jman has, in the parlance of poker, dominated—with one card to come, Jman’s odds of winning the hand are roughly 93 percent.

  “You are a poker god!” yells Good2cu.

  Good2cu, Apathy, and Chantel are jumping up and down, hugging and high-fiving, yelling loud enough to wake up the neighbors. Jman never takes his eyes off the screen, so he’s the first to see the unlikely jack fall on the river.

  Of all the bad beats Jman has suffered during this session, this one is the worst. He closes his laptop, leans back in his chair, and releases a sound like a small animal dying. In the course of one brutal night, he’s gone from being a $70,000 winner to losing every cent in his Full Tilt account, 80 percent of his entire bankroll.