Swabby's Poker Room

By Ed Barrett

The sign on the door to Swabby's Poker Room in Poke Hollow, Pennsylvania, which was in the backroom of his delicatessen, clearly stated that the minimum age to enter the room was sixteen. It was in the early 50s and the age requirement had nothing to do with the law. Swabby made his own rules and sixteen seemed to be the right age for a pubescent youth to learn the game of five-card draw, provided he had the $25 buy-in.

Nevertheless, I was allowed in as a spectator and gopher since I was fourteen. I used the time wisely and had picked up some of the finer points of the game, which I'd started playing with my brothers when I was seven years old.

Now the time was nearing. In three days I'd turn sixteen and be allowed in the game. I'd been saving my nickels and dimes from the part time job I had delivering the Valley Times on Sunday mornings for the past four months and had accumulated a little over the minimum buy in.

I'd done my homework during the two years I'd been allowed in the room and had a tell on most of the players. The older players, all of whom were at least 55 years old, were the regulars. Doc was the senior citizen of the group and managed to keep a steady hand until he drew his cards or was dealt a pat hand. If he liked what he saw his left hand would start to tremble; if he missed, he would sigh and wait his turn, then fold to any bet.

Marty, who had lost the hair battle many years ago, always had a somber smile on his face. The word was that it was impossible to get a read on Marty. I never could figure out why no one had noticed that when the deal or the draw hit him, Marty would bring all five cards neatly together and lay the them face down on the table, awaiting his turn to act.

Carl was the local police chief and was a splash bettor when he was bluffing. When he laid his chips carefully in front of him and silently pushed them forward, you knew it was time to get out of his way.

Mike was the local pool shark and always had an unlit nickel cigar in his mouth. Until he got some cards he liked. Then the cigar would be placed into an ashtray which he always kept handy.

Then there was Zack, who was younger than the other regulars, and had inherited his grandfather's dairy business which he had promptly sold for a huge profit. Except that he was a major contributor to the game, Zack would not be invited to play. He paid little attention to the game, instead watching the small, snowy-screened black-and-white TV screen which Swabby had installed near the one-table pool room, adjacent to the poker room. Zack didn't have any huge tells once he committed to a hand, but you would know when he was going to play a hand as it was the only time he'd take his eyes off the TV. I would try to get to Zack's right when I started playing. Every small advantage helps.

The big night finally came. All of the regulars were there to introduce me to the game of poker and to take away my hard earned money. Marty took it upon himself to explain to me that 'It's guts to open.' I tried not to laugh when he told me that I was getting in over my head and would have to pay the price for the lessons while I was learning the game.

"It's the toughest game east of the Susquehanna River," he told me.

The stakes were five cent ante, twenty-five cents to open, and fifty cents after the draw. Small stakes by today's standards, but one misplayed hand could cause serious damage to my meager bankroll.

I played cautiously throughout the evening. When I did spot some obviously good opportunities to steal, my cards went dead. I folded all small pairs except when Zack or the police chief opened. If Zack opened and missed on his draw, his attention would be diverted back to the TV, and the chief would do his smooth bet or splash the pot, depending on how well he liked what he drew. Against them it was worth drawing to small pairs with an ace or king kicker. Or if there were no other callers, I'd play most any five cards.

Marty and Doc rarely bluffed, and with their obvious tells, I was able to stay out of their way unless I had a one-card draw for an open-ended straight or flush, or a high pair or better. Even when they missed on the draw, I could get them to fold if my tells were correct and I knew their hands hadn't improved. Mike's cigar gave him away; an easy read. He wouldn't get any of my money.

In spite of all my reads on the other players, midnight was rapidly approaching. There was time for one more hand before Swabby turned out the lights. I was down $4.85 and Marty was admonishing me for being so tight. Finally, my first real opportunity came.

Carl, the police chief was dealing and I was first to act. I fanned my cards out and looked at 77A25. I glanced around the table and picking up as many tells as I could, I decided to open the betting. It was the first time I'd brought it in all night and I was called all the way around to the chief, who splashed the pot with a raise. They weren't going to let the kid steal a pot. Everybody called bringing the pot to $6.30. It was shaping up as the biggest pot of the night.

I held my 77 and kept the Ace as a kicker, discarding the deuce and 5. I watched the other players before looking at the two cards I'd drawn. Doc was looking passively at his cards; he'd missed. Marty was holding his five cards in his hand looking to see if he could invent a winning hand. Zack was zeroed in on the TV. Mike, the pool shark, was searching in his pocket for his Zippo, getting ready to light his cigar as soon as the game ended. None of them had squat. The chief's tell was still to come. I took a chance and calmly pushed two quarters into the center of the table without looking at my cards. I was surprised when Doc called. Marty had been playing with Doc for at least thirty years and knew he didn't have anything so he raised. Zack was admonished to pay attention to the game by the chief, and seeing the size of the pot, he pushed fifty cents forward.

Mike was still trying to find his lighter, but when Marty half-jokingly said, "You owe the pot a dollar, Mike," he obligingly pushed four quarters forward from his stack. The chief fired six quarters into the pot, one of them rolling into Doc's stack on the other side of the table. "Raise it up," He said with a huge smile on his face. He was bluffing.

It didn't really matter what I had. I wanted to win this pot and the only way I could do it was to cap the betting and hope to get anyone with medium pairs out of the hand in case I had missed. Without looking at my cards I moved six additional quarters into the pot and said, "call your raise and raise fifty cents more." Doc and Marty figured I was playing with scared money and wouldn't cap the pot without a monster hand. Each of them quickly folded. Zack shrugged his shoulders and pushed in an additional dollar-fifty forward. Mike followed with a reluctant fold, and the chief quickly pushed his two quarters forward and said, "Show and tell," son.'

I turned my cards over. No help. I'd replaced the deuce and 5 with a 3 and 4. Doc stared at my cards and chuckled, knowing that I'd lost the hand. He'd folded two 8s. Marty turned red. He'd folded 99J55. Zack turned over a pair of deuces and the chief's one card draw to an inside straight had missed.

While I was stacking the quarters and dimes and fifty cent pieces, and they'd gotten over the shock that I'd won the hand, they all had a good laugh at my bad play and how lucky I was to have won the hand.

"You make sure you tell me when you're going to play again, son," Marty chuckled.

"And be sure to save your allowance." Doc added.

"I got a part time job for you, son. The chief said. "It'll get you a little extra cash to bring to the game."

They all laughed in unison.

"I guess I misread my cards," I said. "And I'll try to make it back next Friday for some more lessons."

The following morning I called the Valley Times and gave them my two week termination notice. I'd found another job that paid better.