Live By The Hammer…

Wednesday, February 7th, 2007, 11:56 pm

And you die by the Hammer. But what else could I do when I’m dealt 7-2 during this evening’s Hammer Day tournament? I had a nice stack, over $7K, when I faced a raise whilst holding the Hammer. Fold? Fold? NEVER. GONNA. HAPPEN. I pushed in my mighty stack. Got called by AK. Felt like I was gonna hit. I felt it. In my bones, my marrow, my dingly-danglies.

Didn’t hit.

Then, down to $3K, the Hammer again! A big raise in front! He’s gonna be pot-stuck! He’s gonna call for sure!! Fold? No one would know.

Except me.

How glorious it was to hit the MAX button and push in all my chips. For the first time I knew what it was like to be part of Henry’s army at Agincourt on St. Crispin’s Day!

I was up against pocket 5s. Uh-oh. That hand has a name too. Presto. Bad karma. I didn’t hit, and was out. I didn’t outlive this hand, nor came safe home. I did not stand on tip-toe when this Hammer Day is named. I went out in 42nd place. Henry V did better than me. Crap!

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One Response to “Live By The Hammer…”

  1. Julius_Goat Says:

    What’s he that wishes so?
    My cousin Bill Rini? No, my fair cousin;
    If we are mark’d to bust, we are enow
    To do our country loss; and if to live,
    The worse the card, the greater share of honour.
    God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one card more.
    By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
    Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
    It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
    Such outward things dwell not in my desires.
    But if it be a sin to covet honour,
    I am the most offending soul alive.
    No, faith, my coz, wish not Aces from Lee Jones.
    God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour
    As one man more methinks would share from me
    For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
    Rather proclaim it, Mean Gene, through my host,
    That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
    Let him depart; his ePassport shall be made,
    And T-bucks for convoy put into his purse;
    We would not be felted in that man’s company
    That fears the hammer raise to die with us.
    This day is call’d the feast of Grubby.
    He that sucks out this day, and scoops the pot,
    Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam’d,
    And rouse him at the name of Grubby.
    He that shall live this day, and see th’ bubble burst,
    Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
    And say ‘To-morrow is Saint Grubby.’
    Then will he call hand histories and show his scars,
    And say ‘These sick beats I had on Grubby’s day.’
    Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
    But he’ll remember, with advantages,
    What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
    Familiar in his mouth as household words-
    Iggy the King, Pauly and Katitude,
    Hoy and Speaker, Daddy, Otis, Al Can’t Hang-
    Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb’red.
    This story shall the good man teach his son;
    And Grubby Grubby Day shall ne’er go by,
    From this day to the ending of the world,
    But we in it shall be remembered-
    We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
    For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
    Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
    This day shall gentle his condition;
    And gentlemen in Canada now-a-bed
    Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here,
    And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
    That fought UIGA with us upon Saint Grubby’s day.

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