The day you bust the Main
The first time I played the World Series of Poker Main Event back in 2008, every pro I knew told me that the day I bust would feel like the worst day of the year.
I got through Day 1 short-stacked and had a few days off before my Day 2. My brother and mentor at the time, Sean, and I spent much of the break trying to figure out my shove ranges (this was pre-shove charts and solvers) from different seats, and how my strategy would change if I doubled. In the event, I shoved first hand (A9s, under the gun) and it made it all the way around the table to the big blind, but he found Jacks and held.
As I walked away a little numb, it did feel like the worst day of the year.
The most painful bust
My most painful bust out came a few years later, early on Day 3. I’d built my biggest ever stack in the event when I got into a raising war with the only other big stack at the table. After I six-bet shoved, he snap called and slammed down Queens like they were the nuts. Another Irish player at the table directly across from me looked at them wide-eyed, then said:
“You’ve got Aces, right?”
I nodded and tabled them. There was a third Irishman sitting next to me, my close friend and roommate that year Daragh Davey. I decided to do something I often do in those high-pressure high equity spots: not watch the runout. I don’t want to feel any emotional rollercoaster in case it affects the next hand, assuming there is one.
On this occasion, there wasn’t. When Daragh winced and looked very sad on the turn, I knew a Queen had hit the turn, if the rail chanting “Queen! Queen! Queen!” going berserk wasn’t a sufficient indicator. Their raucous celebrations continued after the river as I staggered away in numb disbelief.
That wasn’t just the worst day of my year: it felt like the worst day of my career.
Slipping into stoicism
Over the years, I’ve slipped back towards my natural stoicism when it comes to busting the Main. It still stings of course, but it seems to be a little less every year.
There are probably a few reasons, both internal and external, for that. The more often you’ve already done it the less unique it feels. With age comes greater acceptance of the things outside your control. All my exits have been standard lost flips or bad beats: my guess is if I ever bust to a major mistake that one will sting for sure.
those post Main Event bracelets are almost certainly my best shots
And finally, it’s no longer the case (as it was for the first few years I played) that the Main Event is the last event (or even the last bracelet event). Knowing you still have a few more shots at a bracelet and don’t have the luxury of wallowing in self-pity if you want to be at your best in them are good reasons not to allow yourself to slip into fruitless regrets. I genuinely believe that those post Main Event bracelets are almost certainly my best shots. I’m able to play at or close to my best while others splash around in tilty waters, and field sizes shrink with each passing day as more and more disappointed hopefuls leave town.
This year
This year’s Main Event was almost an exact replay of 2022’s for me.
Hours and hours of card death on Day 1 meant I bagged up little more than starting stack. That left me with the nagging feeling that I’d have been better off doing what I did two years ago: max late regging on Day 2.
This feeling was reinforced when I barely won a pot on Day 2 and when I finally shoved my AQ into Kings and didn’t get there, I passed the last of the max later reg line waiting to get into the tournament as I walked out of it.
After the bust
Over the years I’ve tried different methods to clear the post-bust blues. Sleep, ice cream, alcohol, bad TV, tilt regging a tiny daily tourney, the movie theatre: they’ve all been given a shot. This year I decided to… do some laundry. Although my Main Event was over, I was barely halfway through my WSOP campaign… but out of clean clothes. A female friend with an apartment near the Aria had kindly offered to help out, so I packed my bags and walked across.
a car hurtles by inches from our noses
Halfway there, I’m stopped at the traffic lights outside Paris waiting for them to change. Seeing no cars coming I briefly consider jaywalking until I glance over my right shoulder and see cars turning at speed from the far side of Las Vegas Boulevard. The woman standing beside me seems to have a similar thought but doesn’t notice the cars now hurtling toward us in her blind spot. As she steps off the sidewalk I decide there isn’t time for anything other than the high-risk high variance of grabbing her from behind and pulling her back onto the sidewalk.
As I steel myself for her reaction I’m relieved to find that her male companion has witnessed and understood what just happened as a car hurtles by inches from our noses. “This guy just saved your life, honey,” he explains, before turning to me and repeating several times: “You’re an angel!”
I am not, far from it in fact, but as I continued on my way to my friend’s apartment, suddenly busting a poker tournament, even one as prestigious as the WSOP Main Event, didn’t seem that big a deal.