Intersection

[Balance] Two gambling circles

Moments at the World Series of Poker and a Gamblers Anonymous meeting

Joshua Longobardy

Sunday, July 15: Day 6 of the World Series of Poker main event. Yeah, baby!

The tall, iridescent Rio Hotel and Casino, the dimly lit Amazon room.

Just four tables left now, just 36 players. Down from 6,358 on Day 1. Each of whom paid $10,000 to enter this no-limit Texas hold ’em tournament.

This extravaganza! Journalists, television cameras, TV audiences, ESPN banners, Full Tilt Poker logos, Bluff magazines, fans ... oh my God, the fans. “We love you, Scotty!” they say.

And there he is, fan-favorite Scotty Nguyen, who won it all in 1998 and is in place to possibly repeat. There he is, taking it all in, so happy and proud! “Hey, Scotty: We love you!” they say.

And why not? He has a mountain of chips next to him, purple and pink and tall and telling: $5.4 million worth. But not as much as Lee Watkinson, who has won more than $2 million during tournaments like these in his career. He has a mountain of chips totaling $13 million. Wheeeewww!

And who’s that? Oh, that’s just Hevad Khan, doing another one of his flamboyant victory dances. And there’s Jerry Yang. He’s going to win it all come Tuesday, the whole shebang. A grand prize of $8.25 million, advertising endorsements, Internet sponsorships, international acclaim and national glory. Yeah, baby!, as Scotty Nguyen would say.

The sunless Amazon room is packed with people. Europeans, a Dane, Asian women, real-estate men, celebrities, more than a few software engineers, high school teachers, army personnel, a psychologist. But the body heat does not impart itself on the room. No, sir. It’s nippy, rather. The hotel and casino’s air conditioner is running strong, and there is a distinct frigidity about the competition in this high-stakes tournament.

Poker faces. Cold, ruthless calculations. Absolutely no affiliations. Which is to say: Every man for himself. Brrrrrrrr.

They, the remaining players, are sitting in nines around four poker tables with green carpets.

Reticent, emotionless, stoic, hats, glasses, hoods, reticent, drinking coffee, oh yeah, this is it, this is for all the marbles, the final table, the chance to play in the final circle on Tuesday for the $8.25 million and the goods and the glory and it just doesn’t get any better than this, big-time poker in fabulous Las Vegas, baby, yeah!

One by one they are eliminated until only nine remain.

Thursday, July 19. A weekly group meeting at the Problem Gambling Center on Paseo del Prado. Dr. Robert Hunter’s office.

There is a real circle inside a small room, and it is composed of real people with real lives and real jobs and many with real college degrees, and there is a real summer camp counselor who really says “awesome” with every noun, and next to her is a real man dressed like a general contractor with his toddler boy.

“My name is Steve, and I am a compulsive gambler.”

“Hi Steve,” they all say.

“I placed my last bet on July 2. I’m frustrated today. But I’m so happy because today I got to pick up my little boy. My affirmation today is that I’m not alone.”

The circle is so full that people have to sit on the green carpet. The people in the circle are diverse as diverse can be, because the gambling addiction is a pathological disease that does not discriminate, and they talk around the circle, either to someone in specific or to the circle in general.

“Shoot, a roll of quarters wouldn’t last me two minutes.”

“I played doubly hard when I was winning; I chased my losses when I was losing.”

“I felt like the only way I could fix my problem was to do it more.”

“I think we all felt hopeless when we first called.”

There is no longer any argument: The medical books say addicts are genetically predisposed. The problem derives from the same physical place in the brain as alcohol and drug addictions do.

“It’s called the middle brain,” says Dr. Hunter, during his education time with the group. “If a gambling addict’s brain were put under a CAT scan while he or she was near a video poker machine, it would light up in all these electrical ways that 96 percent of the population’s does not.”

The low buzz of the refrigerator. A box of Kleenex, circled. Gambling has cost some of them everything.

“Everything you’d guess,” says Dr. Hunter. “Jobs, cars, houses, spouse, kids—you name it.”

The natural six o’clock summer light comes through the blinds. There is no air conditioning. It’s warm in here. Very, very warm.

Like one large and prolonged and nonjudgmental embrace.

“Thank you all for sharing your stories, your experiences,” one compulsive gambler says to the four women who are moving on today. They have been in the program for six weeks, and they are commencing a new life. “The way it affects me is that it gives me hope. Hope that recovering from this treacherous disease is possible. Thank you so much.”

“It’s so important that we keep that contact with each other, that support for one another,” one says. “I feel my life is much better, and I love you all with all my heart.”

Dr. Hunter says nobody is ever cured of the disease. His program is meant to lay down the groundwork for recovery.

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