TPT Archive: Death Makes a Visit to Table 3, Seat 9.

Death Makes a Visit to Table 3, Seat 9.
(previously posted at Texas Poker Trails, October, 2006)

When he first sat down at the table, I barely noticed him. I was playing Table 3 at the Winstar Casino and was not particularly doing well. Grinding it out at the table, playing for hours without making or losing much money; just existing in that netherworld of the poker universe where your senses are dulled by hour after hour of lousy cards. I was staring mostly at my chips and practicing my hand tricks, tossing chips between fingers, shuffling small stacks, paying attention to mostly the dealer and occasionally the players around me.

Table 3, Seat 9 opened up when a young player tossed in his last few chips as a donation. He was disgusted and broke. A middle-aged man sat down and began to play. He was just another guy, another player, someone who enjoys playing cards like the rest of us. I barely saw him.

Then something happened.

I first noticed him leaving his seat to answer his cell phone. Like a thousand times before, a player's phone vibrates (or worse, it rings loudly with some God-awful ring tone) and he or she must leave the table to answer it. I noticed him speaking on his cell phone just a few feet beyond the dealer's position. After a short time, he sat back down and began to fumble with his chips. He looked distracted. He looked up and asked for a rack, "I've got to leave." His voice was broken, shallow, almost a whisper.

We at the table thought nothing of it until a few minutes later, maybe seconds. This was just a guy who got a phone call and had to leave. He only played three hands, maybe four. We found out from the dealer what was happening.

"That guy just found out his son was killed in a car crash," the dealer said. I immediately turned around and looked at the man, standing with poker room personnel at the Cage; they were helping him cash out his chips and offering support for his obvious grief. The news spread quickly about his situation. He was standing at the counter with chips in hand, trying to get a grip on how his life had changed in the last few seconds. He was weeping, struggling to find a way to cash out, make it to his car, then home, or the hospital, or the morgue. "What do I do? Where do I go?" How does a father process the news that his son has just tragically died?

I hated to stare at the man, but I did. On his right was the poker room manager, two security guards were standing just behind him. The Cage is located in the right front corner of the poker room, so to his left was the front wall. He was facing the glass enclosure waiting for his money. His grief was enormous. He placed the rack of chips on the counter and broke down. Placing his head in both hands, he began to cry uncontrollably in the corner of the poker room, leaning into the wall to avoid collapsing.

As I watched the man weep for his son, I noticed above his head the neon message sign: "Splashpot Mondays," "Jackpot is now $14,360!,"Aces Cracked on Tuesdays pays $100." The wall-sized projector screen showing the player waiting list was on the front wall just beyond the message sign, naming scores of other gamers waiting to play $4/$8 Limit and $1/$2 No Limit. The sounds of chips and dozens of voices continued to fill the room like every other day. "Seat open on Table 15," a dealer yelled. "Food service on Table 5," someone else yelled. While a grieving father's heart was being torn apart weeping for his son near the Cage, the heart of the poker room never missed a beat.

At Table 3 we were subdued, quiet, trying to understand what just occured. "I can't believe they told him here," I said. "Why didn't they wait until he was surrounded by family or friends?" Others made similar comments. We could not understand the reasons for giving someone such tragic news over the phone. Why not tell him to hurry home, then tell him? Was he going to be able to drive home? His son was only 16?

"Puts this game in perspective, I guess," the player in seat 8 finally said. "I guess losing or winning a few bucks is not that important." I shook my head in agreement with him, and we all continued to play the game. After a while, though, I decided it was time to go. I left having lost a few dollars, but it didn't matter.