Michael didn't have to tell me that he was from Orange County. I was familiar with the Southern California Chicano presence he exuded at the table. He was talkative, loud, funny and a damn skillful poker player.
He watched me closely and understood my betting strategy after a few minutes. He seemed to know the strength of my hands while the cards were in play. When he spoke, I replied to his comments in the standard Mexican ghetto style humor that I had learned while living in and around the barrios for forty years. I made him laugh.
Poker is a brutal game. It's a dogfight, with money being the blood and "broke" being the kill. But something strange happened that day. With two kings on the board, Michael announced, "I know you have trip kings, and the best hand checks to you as a courtesy." I would have called a bet and maybe raised it if he hadn't said anything, but I accepted his offer of a free showdown. He had the other king with paired aces. The pot was his.
I've liked a few people I've met at the gaming tables. I've even felt sorry for a few. But I've never given anyone a break and I've never left a table feeling as though I owed anybody anything until now. I made a point of shaking Michael's hand as I gathered what was left of my chips and headed for the cashier.
I spent the next few days pondering the seeds of torment that Michael planted in my head. There are few people who influence me now and few behaviors that surprise me, but I need to re-evaluate my thought process as a result of meeting Michael.
