News
WALKING THE WSOP GANGPLANK
Oct 29 2012 01:12 PM EST
Behind the stage and curtains is a long barren hallway of broken dreams. It's the 120-foot long tile-floor path leading away from the main stage at the Penn and Teller Theater, out to the cavernous lobby, where friends and family are waiting.
Imagine the gambit of emotions. Players are pumped full of adrenaline and must somehow focus on the game, with the entire world watching, and the knowledge that every table decision made will be scrutinized, not only tonight, but perhaps for months or years to come. Then, players must try to contain their emotions, if at all possible – so as not to reveal key information that could tip opponents off to the strength of their hands.
Then, in one crushing blow of disappointment, the cards do not fall the way that was hoped. The dream does not come true. The player is rudely eliminated and must stand upon the stage just a while longer and put on a brave face, while everyone watches.
After a live ESPN television interview, the player exits the set. He leaves a bright stage behind, knowing quite possibly that this will be the only chance he'll ever have to pursue the dream of a championship victory. The transition -- walking from the illuminated stage into the darkness is not just real, but also symbolic, the player metaphorically departing (at least for now) the collective consciousness of the poker world.
After a 60-second walk across hundreds of taped-down electrical cables, and the bright backdrop of the ESPN set overhead glowing in the distance, the eliminated player exits the stage off to the right, where he passes through two steel doors. Next, he enters a long hallway, lighted by bright fluorescent lights. The hue overhead is a rude awakening, a sanitized slap in the face back to reality. Beneath these bright lights and with cheers echoing in the past is a hallway which may was well be the WSOP gangplank.
The distance may take only 90 seconds, perhaps. But it's the longest minute-and-a-half of the poker player's life. In the same hallway where finalists have broken down and cried....in the same hallway where Phil Ivey famously gave his one and only 4-minute interview after busting out three years ago, only to be whisked away by a waiting car and driver outside....in the same hallway where magicians Penn and Teller customarily walk following each and every performance, this is a journey without any magic.
It's a walk of disappointment.
But there is light at the end of the dark tunnel of despair. At the end of the path, a door opens. Waiting on the other side are dozens of family and friends, loved ones who share the feeling of disappointment, but stand there as only family and friends can provide a testament – to provide their unwavering love and support.
Usually, the cheering begins softly. Then, the chorus of voices grows and the cheering becomes louder until it's deafening. Then, there are chants. Then, there are hugs and kisses. Sometimes, there are even tears.
And when the night is finally done, all finalists know that after they've taken this long and painful walk, there's a most comforting payoff in the end. Indeed, there's no price on that.
Imagine the gambit of emotions. Players are pumped full of adrenaline and must somehow focus on the game, with the entire world watching, and the knowledge that every table decision made will be scrutinized, not only tonight, but perhaps for months or years to come. Then, players must try to contain their emotions, if at all possible – so as not to reveal key information that could tip opponents off to the strength of their hands.
Then, in one crushing blow of disappointment, the cards do not fall the way that was hoped. The dream does not come true. The player is rudely eliminated and must stand upon the stage just a while longer and put on a brave face, while everyone watches.
After a live ESPN television interview, the player exits the set. He leaves a bright stage behind, knowing quite possibly that this will be the only chance he'll ever have to pursue the dream of a championship victory. The transition -- walking from the illuminated stage into the darkness is not just real, but also symbolic, the player metaphorically departing (at least for now) the collective consciousness of the poker world.
After a 60-second walk across hundreds of taped-down electrical cables, and the bright backdrop of the ESPN set overhead glowing in the distance, the eliminated player exits the stage off to the right, where he passes through two steel doors. Next, he enters a long hallway, lighted by bright fluorescent lights. The hue overhead is a rude awakening, a sanitized slap in the face back to reality. Beneath these bright lights and with cheers echoing in the past is a hallway which may was well be the WSOP gangplank.
The distance may take only 90 seconds, perhaps. But it's the longest minute-and-a-half of the poker player's life. In the same hallway where finalists have broken down and cried....in the same hallway where Phil Ivey famously gave his one and only 4-minute interview after busting out three years ago, only to be whisked away by a waiting car and driver outside....in the same hallway where magicians Penn and Teller customarily walk following each and every performance, this is a journey without any magic.
It's a walk of disappointment.
But there is light at the end of the dark tunnel of despair. At the end of the path, a door opens. Waiting on the other side are dozens of family and friends, loved ones who share the feeling of disappointment, but stand there as only family and friends can provide a testament – to provide their unwavering love and support.
Usually, the cheering begins softly. Then, the chorus of voices grows and the cheering becomes louder until it's deafening. Then, there are chants. Then, there are hugs and kisses. Sometimes, there are even tears.
And when the night is finally done, all finalists know that after they've taken this long and painful walk, there's a most comforting payoff in the end. Indeed, there's no price on that.
