to the victor...

you can't second guess a winner. well, you can, but they won. the manager that intentionally walks barry bonds with the bases loaded, only to give up a home run to the next batter is an enormous ass. but if his pitcher strikes 'em out on three pitches, he is toasted as a strategic genius. the line between brilliance and infamy is thin, winding and nearly invisible.

this is so true in poker that it approaches overwhelming. there are no teammates, no constants, no flawless strategies. the game requires such a delicately personal approach that extensive study of veteran strategies will most likely leave you confused and inefficient. for three hours on any given night, you perch yourself one runner-runner away from complete, devouring insanity. motherfucker, it's great.

see, the ten dollar bet has more grace than comrade klemis gives it credit for. there is a hyperbolic poetry to that stack of chips, never tossed casually on the felt but always counted, recounted and placed softly, even remorsefully in front of the brazen youth willing to commit so many of his resources to a single endeavor. the act is so excessive that its beauty can only be matched by two or even three callers.

i rarely make it and seldom call it, but i love the ten dollar bet, that phalanx of red chips marching toward their destiny in the center of the table. this is not pillow talk at 90 decibles; the potential rewards are far greater (indeed, they actually exist). this is the suprise press of the finger, thrust of the tounge or nip of the teeth that will either disgust or melt your lover. calculation and passion rarely meet, but poker and sex always provide a secure location for their illegitimate trysts.

that stranger takes as big a risk making the bet as you do calling it. this isn't a cautious, one-dollar probe around your rectum; no, this is a spit-lubed finger straight to the prostate. do you gasp and kiss harder, or do you wriggle free? it's not about love, it's about satisfaction. let's cut the bullshit.