The Story of Chris Moneymaker
Poker Champion Tells Story of Dead Money
By Michael Luo
Humberto Brenes had just deposited four neat stacks of blue $1,000
chips in the middle of the green felt. Raise, $70,000. Moneymaker
studied him again through his sunglasses. Brenes was one of the
best no-limit Texas Hold 'em players in the world. Moneymaker was
a rank amateur who'd never played in a live tournament. Truthfully,
he was scared to death. But after qualifying on the Internet for
the World Series of Poker's championship event, the 27-year-old
Tennessee accountant had somehow made it to Day Four, just one day
from the final table, outlasting 794 of the world's best poker players.
Now he sensed Brenes was bluffing. He took a breath. "I raise
you all your chips" -- about $120,000. Breaking into a grin
and wagging his finger at Moneymaker, Brenes said, "I call."
Moneymaker felt sick.
Professional poker players have a name for the hundreds of wannabes
who plunk down the $10,000 buy-in at the Big One every year. "Dead
money," they call them. Some 50 million Americans play poker,
whether in penny antes at family reunions or $10-$20 limit games
at the local union hall. Many fancy themselves to be pretty good.
But the leap to poker's biggest stage - the World Series at Binion's
Horseshoe Casino in Las Vegas each May - is like sandlot to the
major leagues.
Moneymaker's unlikely journey began three months earlier at his
modest home in Spring Hill, Tenn. With $40 from his online gaming
account, he sat down in front of his computer to play in a tournament
on Pokerstars.com. Despite questions of its legality, online gaming
is booming in this country, a $4 billion a year industry. More than
a million Americans place bets daily on the Internet. Moneymaker
was a Pokerstars regular, using the handle "Money800."
As he struggled to learn the intricacies of no-limit Texas Hold
'em, he'd lost more than $15,000 in the past year.
In college, he'd been a sports gambling addict, winning and losing
more than $50,000. His then-girlfriend, now wife, Kelly, finally
delivered an ultimatum: sports betting or me. Poker seemed safer
than wagering on sports scores - and even other casino games of
chance like blackjack and baccarat. Poker is primarily a game of
skill. The house has no built-in advantage; players match up against
each other. True, luck is involved, but the game is much more like
chess, another game Moneymaker used to play. He assured Kelly he'd
get it eventually.
Most poker novices start out in "limit" games - $3-$6
or $10-$20 - which can be mechanical. It's when betting goes "no
limit" that Hold 'em moves into the realm of art - and becomes
expensive. Knowing what cards to play is just the beginning. There's
also understanding when to mix things up, reading other players
and bluffing.
For a good no-limit player, it often doesn't even matter what cards
he has. Could Moneymaker ever be one of the best? With his short
brown hair, babyface and medium build, Moneymaker looks the part
of the regular Joe. He works in a cramped office above a Nashville
restaurant and learned to play mostly by watching others.
He labored to improve. His daily routine: Come home from work, change,
hole up in the study to play. If he caught a good run of cards,
he might play all night.
Soon Kelly was demanding that he cut back - and not just online.
In one particularly tough beat last spring, he lost $4,000 at a
casino. With a baby on the way, $12,000 in credit card debt and
mortgage payments, it was money they didn't have. Kelly was livid.
She took over control of their finances. He slept on the couch for
a week.
But Moneymaker had what most good poker players have, a short memory.
The Pokerstars
tournament he sat down to play in February dangled a tantalizing
prize: The winner out of 18 players got a free pass to enter a bigger
$615 buy-in tournament for a seat in the Big One. To his mild surprise,
he won. The next weekend, it was the $615 buy-in. When he finally
put out his last competitor at 10 p.m., Kelly was there to celebrate
with him. It wasn't until the next morning that Moneymaker realized
what he'd done. Scraping together the airfare and hotel costs would
be hard; his chances of winning anything almost nil.
His father, Mike, agreed to "buy" a part of his seat
for $2,000, in exchange for a portion of his winnings. Another friend
gave him $2,000; another, $500. In May, two weeks after sitting
for his CPA exam, Moneymaker and an old fraternity buddy, Bruce
Peery, flew to Vegas.
When the World Series of Poker began in 1970, it was a handful
of high-stakes gamblers who made a living in smoky back rooms. They
were friends of Vegas pioneer Benny Binion. Over time, poker began
to shed its outlaw image, finding legitimacy in elegant card rooms
and casinos. The World Series grew accordingly. Recently, the Internet
and The Travel Channel's runaway hit, "World Poker Tour,"
have elevated interest. Located in fading downtown Las Vegas, Binion's
is five miles from the opulent Strip where most of the tourists
now go. The casino caters mostly to working class locals.
Moneymaker was surprised by how rundown the place looked and that
his room had no air conditioning. He found Benny's Bullpen, the
old bingo hall that houses the tournament, on the second floor.
His plan was to use the $4,500 he'd brought to play some satellite
tournaments, smaller events that offer players without deep pockets
a shot at winning seats at the Big One or earning cash. For Moneymaker,
they were a chance to practice his shaky live game.
Playing live differs from playing in cyberspace mainly because
of the importance of "tells," the physical tics and twitches
that betray even the best players. Over the next few days, Moneymaker
managed to win a few satellites, but then squandered most of his
cash betting on sports. Over the phone, Kelly warned him not to
pull money from their bank account.
On Monday morning, Moneymaker joined the scrum of players waiting
to register: 839 players from 27 countries, a record number. This
year was the first in which Internet players were represented in
large numbers - several dozen. The turnout meant the top 63 places
would be paid. The runner-up would win $1.3 million. The champion
would get a $2.5 million check.
The object of Hold 'em is to make the best five-card hand out of
seven cards dealt. That sounds simpler than it is. Here's how the
game is played: Each player is dealt two "hole cards"
face down. One player puts up a bet, called the "small blind."
The next player to the right is required to post double that, the
"big blind," setting up an initial pot. Based on his hole
cards, each subsequent player decides whether to "raise,"
"fold," or "call," meaning match the previous
bet. Next, three community cards, "the flop," are shown
face up, followed by another round of betting. Then, a fourth shared
card, called "the turn," is flipped over. Finally, a fifth
shared card, "fifth street" or "the river."
Both the turn and river have their own betting rounds.
In the World Series, players start with $10,000 in chips and play
until they lose them all. By the end of Day 1, just playing patiently,
Moneymaker had accumulated $60,000 in chips, good enough for 11th
place. Elated, he called his wife, who'd been following his progress
online. Maybe with some luck, he said, he could finish in the money.
Day 2 brought more of the same. Without catching great cards, Moneymaker
chugged along, stealing pots with raises, folding respectfully when
he needed to. With two hours left in the day, two players joined
the table. Moneymaker recognized Johnny Chan, the legendary player
featured in the poker movie "Rounders" and the last repeat
champion of the Big One. The other new player was Phil Ivey, winner
of four smaller World Series events at age 27. The pair proceeded
to stage a Hold 'em clinic, shrinking Moneymaker's stack from $187,000
to $109,000.
Staggering from the table, Moneymaker felt like he'd been in a
prize fight. In his hotel room, he took stock. He'd been playing
scared, he realized. He vowed to play aggressively. "I'm not
going to be run over anymore," he said. It didn't help when
he learned the next morning that he was at the ESPN table, rigged
with microphones and cameras for the network's later broadcast.
Still, Moneymaker came out aggressively, taking $75,000 early on
from the table's biggest stack. Just before the dinner break, he
found himself pitted against Chan. This time, Moneymaker was less
nervous.
With a pair of aces and good a chance at a flush - five cards of
the same suit - he coolly made a small bet so Chan would think his
hand was weak. Chan responded by raising him back. Yesterday, he
would have folded, but this time, after waiting a few seconds, Moneymaker
bet all his chips, pushing his stack toward the middle.
When Chan flipped up king of hearts-five of hearts, Moneymaker knew
his chancers were good. With his pocket ace of hearts, any of the
remaining seven hearts would give him the "nuts," the
highest possible hand on the board. The dealer turned over a nine
of hearts. As Peery cheered from the rail, Moneymaker shook his
hero's hand. He'd put out the legendary Chan.
Back home, Kelly Moneymaker knew what that meant to Chris. "You
gotta be kidding me," she whooped over the phone. Mike Moneymaker's
reaction? He booked the next flight to Las Vegas.
Early the next day, Chris Moneymaker was up against the daunting
Humberto Brenes. Before the flop, Brenes had made a medium-sized
raise. After the community cards came king, nine, two, Brenes made
his $70,000 raise.
Holding just a pair of eights, Moneymaker assessed the possibilities.
Brenes wouldn't have made that raise if he didn't have a decent
hand, he reasoned, but it probably wasn't great. When Brenes flipped
over a pair of aces, he felt like he'd been punched. Now only two
cards could save Moneymaker - either of the two remaining eights.
Incredibly, the dealer flipped over an eight of clubs.
Moneymaker swung his fist through the air. When fifth street proved
harmless, Brenes was out.
By mid-afternoon, with his father now in the gallery, Moneymaker
had taken the chip lead with $1.5 million. By 4 a.m., 10 players
remained, of whom only nine would move on to the final day. Moneymaker
caught an ace on fifth street, eliminating yet another heavyweight
- Ivey. "Do you believe in destiny?" his tired father
exulted.
For the first time, Moneymaker thought, "This is real."
He could win it all.
With his $2,344,000 in chips, Moneymaker was the chip leader at
the final table. Play began around 2:45 p.m. Moneymaker played conservatively
at first. Ihsan "Houston Sammy" Farha, a high-stakes Omaha
specialist, began gaining momentum, and just before dinner, Farha
took over the chip lead. Moneymaker looked vulnerable.
Still, he held on and by 12:30 a.m., he was back in command with
just three players left. Finally, he put out Dan Harrington, the
1995 champion. Now just two remained: Moneymaker and Farha.
Three security guards armed with shotguns delivered the prize money
to the table in a cardboard box. Tournament officials laid out the
$5,000 bundles in a three-foot pyramid on the table's edge. Moneymaker
called Kelly. "Are you watching?" There was a live Web
broadcast. "Yeah, I'm watching!" she said. It was past
5 a.m. in Tennessee.
The two players fenced for a few minutes. Finally, Moneymaker poured
$800,000 into a pot, chasing a flush or a straight, five consecutive
cards. When a three of hearts came on the river, however, he missed.
Moneymaker struggled to control himself.
Farha checked. Moneymaker thought for a moment. His only chance
was to bully Farha into folding. "I'm all in," he bluffed.
Slouched in his seat with his shirt collar open, Farha fidgeted
with his chips. Moneymaker, his hand over his mouth, stared straight
ahead. "Fold," he prayed. "You missed your flush,
huh?" said Farha, smirking.
But after more than three minutes, both his hands now fidgeting
urgently with his chips, Farha tossed his cards into the muck. The
gallery exploded. It was not the end - but Moneymaker had Farha
on the ropes. The chip count now stood: $6.6 million to $1.8 million.
Two hands later, the dealer flicked out the hole cards, and Moneymaker
peeked: four, five offsuit. He bet $100,000. Farha quickly called.
The flop came jack, five, four.
Moneymaker's heart leaped. He'd flopped a monster: two pair. He
decided to play it off, checking to Farha. Farha, who had flopped
a pair of jacks himself, bet $175,000.
Rubbing his chin, Moneymaker said quietly, "I'm going to raise
$100,000." His relatively small bet was bait, in hopes that
Farha would come back over the top big. Sure enough, Farha pushed
his stack into the middle. Moneymaker stood, hand over mouth, as
the tournament director announced the next card. "It's a five,"
he said.
Shouts went up. Moneymaker pumped his fists and wrapped his father
in a bear hug. The Internet amateur had a full house - and the victory.
Back in Tennessee, it was almost dawn. Wrung out and speechless,
Kelly Moneymaker thought, "I can't believe this is actually
happening."
More than anything, she felt relief. She wouldn't have to worry
anymore about hurrying back to work from maternity leave. Ever practical,
she fretted about how he'd get the money home and how they'd pay
their taxes. But after the worrisome losses, Chris' biggest gamble
had paid off. "Do I get my SUV now?" was the first thing
she asked when he called. Yes, she did. He used the prize money
to buy a Toyota Land Cruiser for Kelly and a BMW for himself and
to pay off their mortgage and other bills. After giving his father
and two friends their portion, totaling about $1 million, most of
the rest went into a college fund for his daughter. A small amount
also went into his online gambling account. Kelly still wants him
to stop.
Quelle: Las Vegas Sun
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