The Place

Every tournament has its own differentia, its own taste and aroma if you will. And the taste and aroma of the World Series of Poker is that of filet mignon, garnished, of course, with gold bracelets, cash and Binion's hospitality. Certainly, for the players, this most prestigious event doesn't offer the attractions that, for example, the Rose Bowl offers in college football each year. Meaning there is little or no pomp or pageantry such as colorful parades with flowery floats. No bulbous-nosed clowns in polka dots, people on stilts, high-stepping baton twirlers, or high school marching bands playing, "You gotta know when to hold 'em...." And none of the most famous poker players are pictured and immortalized on trading cards or on the side of a box of Wheaties. But who cares? Truth is, they really don't give a tinker's damn about all that flag-waving and high-stepping stuff. The only parade that draws a poker-player's interest in Las Vegas is the one that sees them paraded all the way to the final table. They came to play folks! And though very few show up in ties and collars, they all arrive wearing a poker-face and an itch to get the cards in the air-and that spells competition.

So, a few days earlier when Skip Vogleman stood at the entrance to the tournament area in the Horseshoe casino and gazed out over the crowd, little did he know that his name might soon be etched next to the names of those famous world-class players that his eyes sought out. Like the European Champion Ian Royal from England talking amiably over near the final table area with the consummate gentleman Luxford Luzzo from Chicago and the always-smiling Tokuyoshi Hashimoto from Japan. And there in the far-left corner of the vast room in the 10-gallon Stetson was the current World Champion E.J. Hawk from Las Vegas who stood talking to the stone-faced Montgomery Palermo from Detroit and the back-to-back Woman's World Champion Bonnie Monteverde from Illinois. And seated at a small table off to the side, thumbing through a magazine, was former World Champion Till Vogelweide from Germany.

It was now a few days later and April had faded into May. Skip had entered the $3,500 buy-in no-limit hold'em event the day before with 211 other participants, and to his supreme disbelief, he made the final table. It was a long time in coming. As was the custom, the final table was not reconvened and contested until the following afternoon. That night, Skip tossed and turned like a log trapped in the high tide, and when the dawn broke he had hardly slept a wink. But it did not seem to matter when the final table was seated and play began, because his adrenaline took over, charged his blood, and he felt sharp. Scared, but sharp.

Every person at the final table, except Skip, was considered a world-class player or was a former world champion: notably Luxford Luzzo, Bonnie Monteverde, and Hollis Worsley. Despite the formidable lineup, after two hours and twenty minutes of intense play, Skip's dream still lived on. The cards were coming, he was playing mistake free, and the poker gods were apparently smiling. Suddenly he was one man away from fulfilling one of his wildest dreams...he was down to being heads up for all the marbles, $274,540, a gold bracelet, and an invitation to the elite "World Champions Only" club. He felt numb. And well he should, because his opponent was none other than Hollis Melville Worsley one of the best, but also the most obnoxious and disliked players in the world. Hollis was derisively known to the poker world as a dyed-in-the-wool sonofabitch, but commonly known to everyone as "Hog."

The Players

Hog

Hog was an only child, and like his father and his father's father, he had been a hog farmer who once owned the largest hog farm in the state of South Dakota. Hog obtained his sobriquet as a portly child while slaving for his mean and abusive father on that same hog farm that he would later inherit. The father would beat the boy regularly and would often tell him that he needed a good beating once in a while since he looked more like a hog than the hogs did. It made no sense to Hog or humankind, but nothing made sense within the confines of his father's twisted and cruel mentality. Hog's father had picked up on the handle of "The Hog Boy" bestowed upon Hollis (before he dropped out of school) by his schoolmates and decided it fit his son perfectly. And as time went by, almost everyone (except his mother) referred to Hollis as "The Hog Boy," then "Hog Boy," and eventually just plain "Hog." Amazingly, the only girl that ever took a liking to Hog, a girl from his grade school days, sincerely liked the name Hog. And nobody knew it, but that was the reason he kept the name when he got older. It was all because the only girl that was ever kind to him liked the name.

Not long after his father died of pneumonia, Hog sold the two-hundred acre hog farm for an undisclosed amount rumored to be in the millions. He reasoned he wanted nothing around, except his mother, that reminded him of his hateful father...and he wanted more time for poker. And he wanted the time while he was still a relatively young man in his fifties. So after having a beautiful home built for himself and his loving mother, Hog rolled up his sleeves and took on the poker world.

Poker became Hog's most consuming passion, even taking precedence over food. And he was exceedingly avaricious and had the disposition of a constipated Gila monster, something he had apparently, and unfortunately, inherited from his father. It seemed Hog would always arrive in a foul humor. Five minutes after he would sit down in a game, the rest of the players would become agitated and almost riotous, and would begin whispering among themselves something about a mutiny. He loused up the image of poker. You wished he'd get lost on his way to a tournament, get on the wrong bus, end up in Tijuana, Mexico where he would hopefully be kidnapped and sold overseas as a water buffalo to the Chinese. Many a player would have loved to start their day with the news that Hog had been put in a boat and cast adrift on a stormy sea somewhere. Others might not even be remorseful if Hog were to be found disemboweled and filled with stones along some lonely Dakota road.

It was rumored that after Hog quit school (just after grade school), his father kept him chained and locked in the attic, and that once a week they would hoist him up a pig to eat on. As nasty as Hog turned out, one could not be so sure that the rumor wasn't true. You'd have more respect for him if he would just show up at a tournament with a gun, hold the place up, and return to South Dakota. If he would promise not to come back, no one would turn him in. But instead, he just took your money and laughed all the way to the refrigerator.

Hog was definitely a mess of mean, and his appearance, in combination with his crude and raucous manner, was synonymous with a gut-wagon. He affronted virtually every poker player on the planet. But there was one immutable fact that everyone was aware of: Hollis the Hog could play poker and you could see it in his eyes. They were piercing and fearless, yet fierce. Like a cunning bird of prey, like an eagle. And if you looked closely, they appeared arrogant, almost evil and mocking. They were not the eyes of a loser. They were the eyes of a guy who could play a hand of poker.

Skip

Skip was married with two grown children and owned a successful house-painting business in the small town of Lake Oswego located just outside of Portland, Oregon. Skip had actually met his wife at a private poker game at a friend's house when he was nineteen. A year later they were married. Since they both loved to play poker (and since the kids were gone), they made it a point each year to occasionally slip off together to Reno or Las Vegas for three or four days to relax and visit the poker tables. While at home, they helped satiate their need for an occasional poker fix by frequenting a major Indian casino within an hour's drive.

Tournament poker was also one of Skip's favorite pastimes and resting dust-free and polished on the mantle above the fireplace at home, were four championship trophies. Two from the Peppermill in Reno, one from the Queens Poker Classic in Las Vegas, and one from the Orleans Open, also in Las Vegas. The Voglemans weren't exactly rich, but well enough off to save for a long-time dream of theirs. Over each of the last five years they had managed to set aside enough money from the business and their poker winnings to back Skip and give him a shot at playing in some of the select events at the World Series of Poker. And maybe, just maybe, he would win one! He prided himself in paying his dues, so to speak, and studying and becoming highly skilled at the various games of poker, especially hold'em. Because of this he felt he deserved more than just being Skip Vogleman, good player, working stiff, so he wanted to upgrade and shorten that caption to read: Skip Vogleman, "World Champion!" He knew that the World Series of Poker was not the only yardstick to measure the worth of a player, but he also knew that in the minds of the poker community it was. Every other tournament, with the possible exception of the U.S. Poker Championships and the World Poker Finals, was merely an also-ran. The World Series of Poker was for the big boys, the Eagles of poker. Everything else required training wheels. Now, in his fifth year of trying...it appeared Skip had finally shed his training wheels.

The Game

Skip had played against Hog many times before in both tournaments and side-games. The side-game experiences were the ones that haunted him the most, however. He could still taste the bitterness of Hog beating the tar out of him so many times that he had to be re-paved. He recalled many times shuffling back to his room feeling like he had been thrown out of a second-story window. Hog had ripped so many chunks out of his ass that his hip pockets banged together when he walked. He often wondered if there wasn't something about him that ticked the fates off. It seemed that poker, like life itself just wasn't fair, but he learned. And Skip was quick and intelligent and had a perceptive eye. His pragmatism and intuition had automatically told him that over the years his observances of the way Hog played, with emphasis on his strategy and mannerisms, would possibly become useful one day. But was this the day? Could he avoid the same pratfalls he had encountered many times before when playing against the Hog? He was about to find out, because it was show time, and Skip sighed deeply.

Hog had more than double the number of chips that Skip had, $540,000 to $202,000, but Skip knew he couldn't let that bother him. He had to play like there was no tomorrow, as the old adage went. But he was well aware of the fact that if Hog moved much more ahead he would be harder to catch than a cheetah. He had seen Hog catch fire in a tournament event and lead it wire-to-wire as if the IRS were after him. And when the game fell all over Hog like that, he didn't go through the opposition the old-fashioned way by utilizing skill and stealth; he burned and pillaged his way through!

The ante was at $2,000 with the blinds at $10,000-$20,000. Skip had the button and play began. The crowd pushed against the ropes that cordoned off the final table from the spectators. Anticipation pervaded the air. It was obvious right from the beginning that the odds-on sentimental favorite of the onlookers was Skip. And they frequently shouted his name and offered encouragement. When he won a pot they clapped and cheered. When Hog won a pot they groaned and swore. Twice the crowd had to be chastised by the tournament coordinator for toppling the rope railing.

For the next thirty-five minutes each player was able to land a telling jab or two, but not a real staggering punch. Then, Hog pulled one of his old tricks and slow-played pocket aces. The flop was ace of spades, the four of hearts, and the six of clubs. Skip held an A-J offsuit, didn't like his kicker, so he checked. Hog screwed up his eyes, stalled for a few moments, and checked down too. The turn brought the jack of hearts. So Skip, now liking his kicker, bet $50,000. Hog again hesitated a few seconds and just called. The river brought the ten of hearts. One of Hog's pocket aces was a heart, so Hog knew that Skip would not have bet $50,000 on the turn if he was simply on a heart draw, especially if he wasn't drawing for the "nut" hearts. It became obvious to Hog that Skip had to have an ace with a big kicker, or two pair. Hog pushed all his chips in. Skip sensing he was up to his armpits in alligators, mucked his hand while cursing the two running hearts. Hog cackled like an old hen and uncharacteristically showed Skip his hand. Jesus, Skip thought, that cagey old fox had me all the way! Now Skip was glad another heart had hit the board on the river, possible giving Hog a flush. But the wound had been inflicted. Hog had absconded with nearly half of his chips and Skip felt like a gaffed chub, his stomach was beginning to tilt. He wearily knuckled his brow, uttered a long sigh, and slowly shook his head. Hog laughed dryly. The crowd hissed. Skip could only purse his lips and admit to himself that this was a great player who knew just how to wait in covert for his prey.

The next hand Skip looked down and saw two kings staring back at him. He was in the small blind and went all in. Hog never hesitated and called him down with A-Q of spades. A hush came over the spectators as the two men turned up their hands. Skip was screaming in his mind: No ace! No ace! His heart was thundering in his chest. The flop came small with one club and two hearts. The turn was another small club and the river showed a king of diamonds accompanied by applause and whistling from the crowd-and a sigh of relief from Skip. Hog flipped his cards at the dealer and drew a warning from Tournament Coordinator Ken Flores. Again the crowd yelled their approval. Hog's narrow eyes were hostile and he began to mumble through clenched teeth.

Ten more minutes went by without incident, and then Skip caught an A-K of diamonds. Hog was first to act and he opened for $55,000. Skip called and raised another $110,000. Hog took a second look at his hand and set Skip all in - and Skip called. Again the spectators were dead quiet. Both hands were ordered turned up for the crowd. Hog's eyes swiveled to Skip and an amused smile played on his mouth as he showed pocket queens - he had sucked Skip in and got all his beans in the pot. "Feel a little sick do ya, Skipper?" Hog asked, as his huge body shook under his chuckling. The flop showed 7-10 of diamonds and the queen of spades. There was a loud groan and scattered mumbling from the crowd. The turn was the king of hearts and again a mild wave of muffled talk from the gallery. Skip sat motionless and expressionless. Once again his heart was leaping in his throat. Hog rocked slightly with every breath he took. The river was the trey of diamonds-and the place erupted. Skip stood with both arms stretched skyward, fists clenched. "The nuts, baby!" he cried. "The absolute nut flush!"

"You lucky bastard!" Hog growled, sneered, and reached out and snatched up his cards. He glared at them for a moment and it appeared he was about to mangle them with his hands, but he looked up and saw Ken Flores staring at him. And he didn't. Skip was now chip leader.

The next three hands in a row, Skip had gotten absolute rags and Hog took down the blinds and antes twice, then won a small pot. Each time he had something smart to say, each time the gallery booed him down. Hog loved it! This was his element. The more he could get under your skin the better he liked it. But Skip wasn't having it and paid no attention. He looked down at his chips and then scrutinized Hog's chips, and surmised they were pretty close to even - it was a new ballgame. And then it happened.

The Hand

The flop came down deuce of hearts and the J-7 of spades. Hog immediately bet another $60,000 and reached for his water bottle. A low rumbling emanated from the ranks of the spectators. Skip sensed instantly that something was up. Hog never bet the same amount twice in a row in no-limit hold'em unless he was up to something. He either bet small and re-raised if you raised, or he set you all in right out of the chute. But Skip remembered that in the past if he was having trouble taking a bite out of your chips he would shift gears, it was rare, but he would. That crusty, crafty old devil seldom gave any quarter, but when he did you were flirting with trouble. The man could run a high-level con game, and when he had you sucked in, he would trot out the lions. Hog was setting him up sure as the Pope was Polish. He wasn't really trying to slow-play but he also wasn't betting enough to run a person out. There was some solace for Skip in all this, because he knew that those kinds of tactics sometimes backfired, especially in no-limit. He continued to ponder as he looked down at his chips, his eyes filled with pain. Was he going to receive another blow to the pit of the stomach by the fickle fates of the game of poker - and from his nemeses from the Dakotas? Could he somehow catch lightning in a jar? Why the hell not? "I call." Skip announced aloud.

"Kick his butt, Skip!" someone shouted.

A slight smile ticked the corners of Hog's mouth, he was certain now that Skip didn't have a pair in the hole, especially jacks or he would have bet a minimum of $150,00 or shoved them all in. But maybe he was going for the nut flush. Hog chuckled and adopted a calm expression and wiped the slobber from his chin with his sleeve. "Looks to me like yer starting to get a knot in your pucker string there Skip ol' boy. Could I have somebody run and git you some ice water, maybe a shot of whiskey... or a gun?" he laughed, shook, and sucked on his bottle of water. Skip just smiled.

The turn card was the deuce of spades. Hog leaned forward, blinked, and asked what the card was and the dealer announced it loudly to the room. "Thank you, dealer. Thank ya very much." he said then added, "well hell, Skip, you might have a dozen more of them spades in your hand-of course, I'm just thinkin' out loud you understand, so I'm checkin'."

The jig was up. He was now positive Hog was trapping. Skip gazed at the turn card for a time and as he did a saying kept coming back to him. Something he had read in a book, or was it the lyrics to a song, or come to think of it, did an old Chinook Indian he had befriended years back tell it to him? He couldn't remember from whence it came but he could remember the words clearly: "Fly like the lightning, speed like the light, but don't go too fast in your mind." Again and again it passed through his mind like ticker tape. He capped his cards, rested on his elbows, and steepled his fingers, and bit at his lower lip. After a moment's contemplation, a foxy look settled on his face and he looked at Hog. "You know, you could be right, Hog." Skip said with a faint smile in his eyes and a grin on his face. "I could have a hand full of spades, but they may not be as big as yours...a...just thinking out loud you understand. But I've played you before, Hog, remember? And I wouldn't trust you for as far as I could throw this building and that's a fact, because you're always up to something. So, I'm going to check right along with ya. Sound okay to you, Hog?"

Hog shook his head. "Kinda hurts my feelings that you don't trust me, but whatever you say Skipper my friend. Sounds okay with me. I ain't complaining. Hell, you know me, Skip-I hardly ever complain about anything." The crowd actually broke out laughing at Hog's little poke of fun at himself.

The river card displayed was the five of spades. Hog's eyes glittered shrewdly. He had set the trap perfectly and had Skip right where he wanted him. Now for the kill! He wiped his forehead, dug some wax out of his ear with his little finger, wiped his finger clean on his trousers, and pointed at the board. "Well, now, look what we got here, Skippums. Another by-God spade. If you ain't got spades by now buddy-rough I'll kiss a fat baby's ass," Hog kidded, then paused as his mood suddenly turned dead serious. "But now I reckon we better separate the wheat from the chaff and get this thing over with. I'm declaring all in dealer."

"Did you say, all in, sir?" the dealer asked.

"I didn't stutter. All in!" Hog snorted.

All eyes shifted and focused on Skip. The gallery did not move or even breathe, just waited with bated breath. Skip coughed behind his hand and examined his neatly stacked chips. He estimated that he had maybe $12,000 more in chips than Hog, and he carefully shoved them all towards the center of the table. "And I'm all in," he said confidently.

"You'll never learn will you Skip?" Hog said appearing almost jovial again. He proudly turned his hand up and shoved it out on the table as far as he could so that Skip would have a closer look. He had pocket sevens. He had made a full house on the turn. The spectators uttered a disappointed groan and there was a smattering of boos. Hog cackled and peered out from beneath his heavy brow and grinned slyly. "How do you like them thar apples, young blood?"

Skip reached down and unclipped something from a small chain attached to his belt. It was a miniature adjustable wrench that actually worked. It was silver and slightly over an inch long. Skip looked at Hog and gave him a knowing look and smiled. "I've been carrying this around for the last two years, Hog, just waiting for the day and time to personally give it to you. And today is the day, and now is the time." Skip said and tossed the wrench towards Hog. "A present just for you big man."

Hog picked it up and examined the wrench looking totally stumped, as were the spectators. "What the hell is this? This some kinda lucky charm, or maybe some sorta evil Voodoo thing to cast a spell over me? What the hell is it?"

Skip shook his head and grinned. "It's exactly what it appears to be, a wrench. Something to help fix that hand of yours since it's in badly need of repair."

Hog blinked, momentarily confused, and gave Skip a lightning glance. "What in tarnation are you talking about? I gotta full house!"

Skip calmly turned his hand up. First the deuce of diamonds--and then the deuce of clubs. They seemed to sparkle there before him. By anybody's count, Skip had quads! And if you placed all four duces side-by-side, they would be about as wide as the grin on Skip's face. In unison there was an intake of breath from the gallery, as if they all had been goosed with a hot poker. Then came the burst of cheers and the flurry of high-fives as the crowd went crazy. Skip slew the leviathan. And you could straighten nails on Hog's face.

For a split second Hog lost all power of speech. His mouth opened and closed stupidly in his extreme shock. He was aghast, contempt curving his mouth. He looked at Skip icily, his deep brown eyes narrowing and resting with virulent loathing upon him. Finally, he managed to say, "You called $60,000 before the flop with that...."

"I had to Hog," Skip interrupted politely, and quickly went on, "it was my time. Sometimes you have to take a stand against a man of your ability - even if it's with a pair of lousy deuces. You're one of the best Hog. You're a cantankerous s.o.b., but nobody will argue your ability to play. You're definitely one of the best, hell that's a given, Hog. But as you know, nobody can win them all, no matter how good you are."

Hog stared for a long moment at Skip, then to the astonishment of everyone, his eyes, once feverish with hatred, began to soften. His despondency drained away and a look of resolve moved in. Hog rose to his feet and started around the table. The coordinator watched the hulking man closely. Hog's face was almost devoid of expression except for a tinge of sadness as he approached Skip and said, "You know something Skip. I think you just saved my life."

Skip looked puzzled. "Saved your life? I don't understand, Hog."

"Well, the way I've got it figured, if I'da won this damn thing, I swear this crazy lynch mob that's got us surrounded...woulda hanged my big ass from the nearest palm tree!"

© Copyright 2000 Reg Coalwell. All rights reserved.

Published with the permission of the author.
Reproduction without the author's permission prohibited.