#162: “The Running of The Bull”

Watching a Spaniard playing poker is like listening to Paul McCartney singing ‘Hey Jude’. It’s messy, it’s laboured, it’s a throwback to the 1960s and you fully expect him to be put out of his misery at any moment. For that reason, Spain is my favorite place to play poker or, at least, it was. San Sebastian is a stunningly beautiful place to visit but on the poker front, things could not have gone worse so far this week.

To say I’ve run horridly would be an understatement. My demise in the Main Event came when I flatted a HJ raise with KK in the CO. The table dynamics were such that a squeeze from someone seemed likely and sure enough, the Button obliged. The original raiser tank folded and I nonchalantly tossed in my remaining chips (46bbs). He called with A10o and snap-spiked an Ace in the window. Later that day, in the Turbo side event, I 3bet AQs from the BB, got called by the CO raiser, c-bet a Q87r flop and called the shove. My opponent held 99 and turned a 9. Another turbo side event on Friday garnered much the same result as my KK was cracked by AQ for a huge stack early. I battled back from less than 10bbs to take the chiplead with 30 left but a cooler and a flip sent me packing in 22nd.

On Saturday afternoon, it was Dara’s turn for some rough Spanish injustice. I don’t want to say what happened as I’m sure Dara will dedicate an entire Blog to it but suffice to say, he was well and truly bent over. So filthy and controversial was his exit that he pledged to never again play poker in Spain, effective immediately. While I utterly sympathise with his position and respect his decision, that has meant that I have had to deal with fidgetty Dara going through the poker-DTs, compulsively scratching his numerous mosquito bites and randomly blurting out lines like “That never would have happened in Ireland” and “Spain really is a big pathetic joke of a country”.

On Saturday night, I played the 300 Event. Having played uncharacteristically tight in the early levels, I opened up and had fostered a loose image before the following hand. With 13,600, I opened my button to 900 with KK, was 3bet to 2400 by the SB and clicked it back to 4400. My opponent shoved and I beat him into the pot. He grimaced, turning over AJo but already fearing the worst, I stood up. The flop was bone dry with no backdoors. The turn bricked but the river dealt the killer Ace! I let out a groan, the cumulative effect of so many consecutive bad beat exits finally taking its toll. As I walked solemnly back to the hotel (comforted only by three scoops of ice-cream), I cursed Kings and the bullshit flops that had scuppered me in every tourney.

There is still one tourney left on the schedule – the Deepstack Turbo – but I must admit I am currently experiencing ‘Queen Elizabeth at the Olympics’ levels of enthusiasm for it. Two weeks ago, three people were gored in Pamplona and so far I feel like victim number four as the Casino Kursaal implement their very own interpretation of ‘The Running of the Bull’.