[h=1]But What’s His Real Name? (Moneymaker Series Continues — Part 5)[/h]
Writer’s Note: This is the fifth in an extended series of articles about Chris Moneymaker’s victory at the 2003 World Series of Poker and what went on behind the scenes at Binion’s Horseshoe — before, during, and after.
Part 7: “839″
On the eve of the 2003 World Series of Poker Main Event, the preliminary numbers weren’t just down. They were abysmal. We dropped about 25 percent overall in attendance from the previous year, which had also been a disaster.
But after four weeks, no one was bringing up the ugly numbers. Instead, everyone was talking about big names.
The very biggest names in poker won gold bracelets — and lots of them. Doyle Brunson, Phil Hellmuth, Johnny Chan, Huck Seed, Layne Flack, Mickey Appleman, John Juanda, Daniel Negreanu, Men “the Master” Nguyen, Chris Ferguson, Erik Seidel, and Carlos Mortensen were among the illustrious winners. Imagine a single series with Brunson, Chan, and Hellmuth all winning titles. In fact, Chan and Hellmuth both won two each!
Those were the headlines and became the talk of poker. Not declining numbers.
And so, heading into the 36th gold bracelet competition known as the Main Event Championship, we’d pretty much weathered the worst of the storm. This old relic called Binion’s Horseshoe was still afloat. Best of all, prospects for the $10,000 buy-in Main Event looked promising because George Fisher had the great vision to establish partnerships with other casinos and cardrooms, including online poker sites. That would surely boost attendance. But could it make up for a 25 percent gap?
The previous year’s championship drew 631 entrants. Given our significant drop in preliminary events, we would have been thrilled to reach the same figure as in 2002. As things turned out, we would do much better.
It bears noting that these were not merely “numbers” to us. The success of the WSOP was a matter of tremendous personal pride. I’d also be lying if I didn’t add there was some bitter resentment towards the big changes that were happening on The Strip — particularly at the Bellagio with their marques attraction called the World Poker Tour. We felt disrespected by the new kids on the block. Some of the people down there were quoted in the media as saying they were now the real deal and seemed to be dancing on the grave of poker’s grandest tradition.
Moreover, we were fundamentally different from our rival in every way imaginable. We had a long tradition dating back nearly four decades. They had zilch. The style and design of their tournaments were also vastly different, and frankly repulsive to poker purists like myself. For instance, the glistening WPT final table set looked more like the television studio for an episode of “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?” rather than a gritty poker event. Their big championship was held inside a first-class billion-dollar palace owned by Steve Wynn. Our championship took place in a crumbling dump that was half a century old owned by a dysfunctional family coming off a murder trial.
So, reaching the magical number number of 631 was paramount to the overall success of failure of the 2003 WSOP.
When I walked into Binion’s Horseshoe on the morning of May 19th, there was an electricity hanging in the air like nothing I’d ever felt before in poker. I’ve never experienced what some call a “sixth sense” about things. But that’s as close as I’ve come, as I rode the escalator up to where the tournament was about to take place.
It was a beautiful sight. Ecstasy. Players lined up down the second-floor hallway, waiting to register. An hour before the tournament was scheduled to begin, we crossed the 631 mark. And so we were free-rolling, possibly an even bigger number.
That didn’t necessarily mean all was good. With success comes expectation and obligation. The problem with the growing number was twofold — lack of tables and not enough poker dealers. We’d prepared for around 600 entrants, which meant 60 tables would be used. With tables already set up inside Benny’s Bullpen upstairs, plus the tables used for cash games downstairs, we could accommodate as many as 600 players. But players kept on streaming in.
At one point, the two tournament directors Matt Savage and Jim Miller realized there was no other option but to go to 11-handed tables — at least early in the tournament until players started busting out. This was an unprecedented move. But it became clear that even 11-handed play wasn’t going to solve the problem. This was an “all hands on deck” moment for the staff. Frantic phone calls were made to neighboring casinos to try and borrow additional poker tables and chairs. Some casinos agreed to helped us. Others — still pissed at the Horseshoe for a multitude of very good reasons — slammed down the phone and refused.
As cards were in the air and chip stacks rose, dwindled, rose again and moved around the room in whirlwinds of flops, turns, rivers, lucky breaks and bad beats, maintenance staff were seem hauling poker tables through the room, dragging chairs, and setting up for another 11 fresh bodies. Some of these tables landed haphazardly in the middle of hallways, oblivious to fire codes and regulations. Four tables were shoddily thrown together inside the casino sportsbook, where small wooden school-type desks were tossed against the wall in a giant pile in order to make room for what would turn out to be the biggest $10,000 buy-in poker tournament in history.
Some of the tables and chairs were so badly worn out, they wobbled. Folding metal chairs, the type you might see at a VFW hall, rickety and bent hopelessly out of shape, held the bulging bodies and fanciful dreams of poker players who’d mostly flown to Las Vegas for the premier annual event in the game.
And during all the madness — the wobbly tables with worn-out felts, the mismatched metal chairs teetering on unbalanced legs, furniture dragged down the aisles, errant furniture piled up in corners, shouts and demands for new set ups and chips, dealers plucked from the casino floor and thrown into the fire of dealing Hold’em for the first time, ceaseless announcements over the public address system that couldn’t be understood — miraculously somehow and some way, it all worked. No one complained. Everyone seemed to understand. They got it. It was like a thousand strangers coming together in some unspoken bond during a national crisis or disaster.
Once 839 players were registered and seated, with each passing minute things got a little bit easier. The number of bodies dropped to 800, then 750, and then to 700. By late afternoon, the field size was down to 500 and falling fast. The WSOP ship was now sailing full steam ahead. It was a victory. A surprising one at that. It didn’t seem to really matter to any of us what happened after that. Debatable or not, that year’s WSOP was destined to go down as the most successful in history.
That night, I enjoyed a steak dinner at Hugo’s Cellar at the Four Queens like I had not tasted in a month. We toasted our success and the long life of the World Series of Poker.
Hours later, surviving players bagged up and tagged after a long 13-hour day. The poker player’s day was over. But for some of the staff like me, my job was really just beginning.
Part 8: But What’s His Real Name?
The poker world thinks the day is over when the dealing’s done. Bullshit.
For a select few, the most critical part of the day and night gets underway just as players are streaming out of the tournament room.
One of the least enjoyable tasks in tournament poker and reporting as such involves all the data entry on overnight chip counts. Hundreds of names and numbers and figures. Players who bag up at the end of the night sign a small piece of paper listing their names and chip counts. It sounds like a very simple process. Alas, it would be simple if only players would do as they are asked. But they don’t.
And so, the final few hours of every day are usually a maddening mind fuck.
That’s right, a mind fuck of illegible handwriting, completely blank forms, missing names, and gibberish that makes it all but impossible to create an accurate scorecard of where everyone stands. Imagine a golf scorecard where you can’t read the numbers or decipher names. Then, you have to post that scorecard for the entire world to see. Blanks, misspellings, and errors make us look incompetent, not to mention harming the decent players who complied and are are eager for reliable information.
Indeed, some overnight reporting slips would be hysterical to inspect if it weren’t already at the tail end of a busy 14-hour day. So, each slip that’s illegible might require spending five or ten extra minutes comparing it against the original registration list. Forced to become pseudo-handwriting analysts, it comes down to working the crime lab for CIS.
By the time the overnight chip counts come around, I’m usually exhausted. Totally spent. And so at 3:15 am, knowing that I must return to work at 11 am and do it all again — in between then somehow trying to wind down and sleep perhaps 3 to 4 hours — coming across an unreadable reporting slip ignites a moment of angst.
“Fuck!” is a word heard many times at Binion’s Horsehose, and probably ten thousand times since then. Forget mercy. I have none. It shouldn’t be so goddamned difficult for people to write their names. I mean, how tough a task it that?
But the real ballbusting moment always comes the following morning, when some sniveling poker player from the night before comes up to me and announces, “You got my name wrong.” It’s just about always a case where the jackass can’t write or was too lazy to fill out the form properly, which takes all of about 40 seconds. I don’t believe in acts of violence. But these moments have actually triggered deep feelings of wanting to commit an assault.
As you can tell, this is an ass-frosting royal pet-peeve of mine. I’ve never psychoanalyzed it, but many jobs that require dealing with the public trigger outlandish over-reactions that seem way out of proportion. It’s important to realize these tiniest of incidents all add up and can crush even the strong.
Late that night, the reporting slips were stacked high. Perhaps 350 or so in a giant pile. Doing some quick math, at 20 seconds per slip on an Excel Sheet (name, hometown, chip count, table, and seat), that represented about two hours if typing non-stop. Some of the players and their friends actually hung around, hoping to get the first early print-out of those that survived Day One. Players were eager to find out who they were sitting and playing with on the following day. An hour or so into data entry, after being badgered for perhaps the dozenth time, you had to abandon all sense of common courtesy and simply yell, “Go away!” — in language that increasingly became more rude as the night went long.
Midway through the process, I came upon one of those annoyingly confusing slips:
CHRISTOPHER B. MONEYMAKER
HOMETOWN: NASHVILLE, TN
CHIP COUNT: 60,475
TABLE: 57
SEAT: 6
I recognized most of the player names on in the top 20. They were easy. I didn’t recognize this one. This player ranked 11th overall. For that reason, there would likely be considerable interest in him on Day Two, especially by ESPN which had cameras filming the WSOP that year for the first time.
Who was this joker?
Chris B. MONEYMAKER?
What derailed me was the letter “B,” his middle initial. It appeared this unknown player had written out CHRIS B. MONEYMAKER, which was obviously a goof. Either that, or the player used “Moneymaker” as his nickname and had simply forgotten to write out his last name. Indeed, many players used names like Men “the Master” or Marcel “the Flying Dutchman.” This rube seemed to be using “Moneymaker” as his moniker.
I’m not sure why we couldn’t cross-check the name. Perhaps our computers were down again, which happened a lot at the Horseshoe. But we went ahead and reported the 11th-ranked player to the world as CHRIS B. “MONEYMAKER” ??? with the last name identified with a question mark.
The following day, tournament action resumed at noon.
One of my first tasks was to find the jackass who wrote out “MONEYMAKER” on his slip. I found him easily. Chris was a quiet, unassuming young man, about what one might expect when you heard his job was working as an accountant for a restaurant chain. When I introduced myself to Chris, he seemed to immediately know why I was there.
“Want to see my ID?” he asked.
“Yes, I need to know how to spell your last name,” I replied. “I think we have it wrong in our database.”
“It’s just like it sounds,” Chris said.
Imagine my shock when confronted with a Tennessee Driver’s License with the last name MONEYMAKER clearly inscribed with a photo of a smiling 27-year-old Southerner.
“I’m sorry, but…..”
Chris cut me off in mid-sentence.
“Don’t worry. It happens all the time,” he said.
I can only imagine. And here I was yet another hard ass disbelieving the man simply because he had an unusual last name.
At least in my defense I can justify some skepticism. Never in my life had I ever heard of anyone named “Moneymaker.” Not a single person. The name had to be fake. But it wasn’t. What a name for a player who was competing for the biggest cash prize ever in the history of poker. Too good to be true.
As I walked away from Table 57, I remember having the smug attitude that was so prevalent, even instinctive for those of us who had been around the poker scene for some time.
“That poor kid doesn’t stand a chance,” I thought to myself.
COMING NEXT: CHAMPIONSHIp
Part 7: “839″
On the eve of the 2003 World Series of Poker Main Event, the preliminary numbers weren’t just down. They were abysmal. We dropped about 25 percent overall in attendance from the previous year, which had also been a disaster.
But after four weeks, no one was bringing up the ugly numbers. Instead, everyone was talking about big names.
The very biggest names in poker won gold bracelets — and lots of them. Doyle Brunson, Phil Hellmuth, Johnny Chan, Huck Seed, Layne Flack, Mickey Appleman, John Juanda, Daniel Negreanu, Men “the Master” Nguyen, Chris Ferguson, Erik Seidel, and Carlos Mortensen were among the illustrious winners. Imagine a single series with Brunson, Chan, and Hellmuth all winning titles. In fact, Chan and Hellmuth both won two each!
Those were the headlines and became the talk of poker. Not declining numbers.
And so, heading into the 36th gold bracelet competition known as the Main Event Championship, we’d pretty much weathered the worst of the storm. This old relic called Binion’s Horseshoe was still afloat. Best of all, prospects for the $10,000 buy-in Main Event looked promising because George Fisher had the great vision to establish partnerships with other casinos and cardrooms, including online poker sites. That would surely boost attendance. But could it make up for a 25 percent gap?
The previous year’s championship drew 631 entrants. Given our significant drop in preliminary events, we would have been thrilled to reach the same figure as in 2002. As things turned out, we would do much better.
It bears noting that these were not merely “numbers” to us. The success of the WSOP was a matter of tremendous personal pride. I’d also be lying if I didn’t add there was some bitter resentment towards the big changes that were happening on The Strip — particularly at the Bellagio with their marques attraction called the World Poker Tour. We felt disrespected by the new kids on the block. Some of the people down there were quoted in the media as saying they were now the real deal and seemed to be dancing on the grave of poker’s grandest tradition.
Moreover, we were fundamentally different from our rival in every way imaginable. We had a long tradition dating back nearly four decades. They had zilch. The style and design of their tournaments were also vastly different, and frankly repulsive to poker purists like myself. For instance, the glistening WPT final table set looked more like the television studio for an episode of “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?” rather than a gritty poker event. Their big championship was held inside a first-class billion-dollar palace owned by Steve Wynn. Our championship took place in a crumbling dump that was half a century old owned by a dysfunctional family coming off a murder trial.
So, reaching the magical number number of 631 was paramount to the overall success of failure of the 2003 WSOP.
When I walked into Binion’s Horseshoe on the morning of May 19th, there was an electricity hanging in the air like nothing I’d ever felt before in poker. I’ve never experienced what some call a “sixth sense” about things. But that’s as close as I’ve come, as I rode the escalator up to where the tournament was about to take place.
It was a beautiful sight. Ecstasy. Players lined up down the second-floor hallway, waiting to register. An hour before the tournament was scheduled to begin, we crossed the 631 mark. And so we were free-rolling, possibly an even bigger number.
That didn’t necessarily mean all was good. With success comes expectation and obligation. The problem with the growing number was twofold — lack of tables and not enough poker dealers. We’d prepared for around 600 entrants, which meant 60 tables would be used. With tables already set up inside Benny’s Bullpen upstairs, plus the tables used for cash games downstairs, we could accommodate as many as 600 players. But players kept on streaming in.
At one point, the two tournament directors Matt Savage and Jim Miller realized there was no other option but to go to 11-handed tables — at least early in the tournament until players started busting out. This was an unprecedented move. But it became clear that even 11-handed play wasn’t going to solve the problem. This was an “all hands on deck” moment for the staff. Frantic phone calls were made to neighboring casinos to try and borrow additional poker tables and chairs. Some casinos agreed to helped us. Others — still pissed at the Horseshoe for a multitude of very good reasons — slammed down the phone and refused.
As cards were in the air and chip stacks rose, dwindled, rose again and moved around the room in whirlwinds of flops, turns, rivers, lucky breaks and bad beats, maintenance staff were seem hauling poker tables through the room, dragging chairs, and setting up for another 11 fresh bodies. Some of these tables landed haphazardly in the middle of hallways, oblivious to fire codes and regulations. Four tables were shoddily thrown together inside the casino sportsbook, where small wooden school-type desks were tossed against the wall in a giant pile in order to make room for what would turn out to be the biggest $10,000 buy-in poker tournament in history.
Some of the tables and chairs were so badly worn out, they wobbled. Folding metal chairs, the type you might see at a VFW hall, rickety and bent hopelessly out of shape, held the bulging bodies and fanciful dreams of poker players who’d mostly flown to Las Vegas for the premier annual event in the game.
And during all the madness — the wobbly tables with worn-out felts, the mismatched metal chairs teetering on unbalanced legs, furniture dragged down the aisles, errant furniture piled up in corners, shouts and demands for new set ups and chips, dealers plucked from the casino floor and thrown into the fire of dealing Hold’em for the first time, ceaseless announcements over the public address system that couldn’t be understood — miraculously somehow and some way, it all worked. No one complained. Everyone seemed to understand. They got it. It was like a thousand strangers coming together in some unspoken bond during a national crisis or disaster.
Once 839 players were registered and seated, with each passing minute things got a little bit easier. The number of bodies dropped to 800, then 750, and then to 700. By late afternoon, the field size was down to 500 and falling fast. The WSOP ship was now sailing full steam ahead. It was a victory. A surprising one at that. It didn’t seem to really matter to any of us what happened after that. Debatable or not, that year’s WSOP was destined to go down as the most successful in history.
That night, I enjoyed a steak dinner at Hugo’s Cellar at the Four Queens like I had not tasted in a month. We toasted our success and the long life of the World Series of Poker.
Hours later, surviving players bagged up and tagged after a long 13-hour day. The poker player’s day was over. But for some of the staff like me, my job was really just beginning.
Part 8: But What’s His Real Name?
The poker world thinks the day is over when the dealing’s done. Bullshit.
For a select few, the most critical part of the day and night gets underway just as players are streaming out of the tournament room.
One of the least enjoyable tasks in tournament poker and reporting as such involves all the data entry on overnight chip counts. Hundreds of names and numbers and figures. Players who bag up at the end of the night sign a small piece of paper listing their names and chip counts. It sounds like a very simple process. Alas, it would be simple if only players would do as they are asked. But they don’t.
And so, the final few hours of every day are usually a maddening mind fuck.
That’s right, a mind fuck of illegible handwriting, completely blank forms, missing names, and gibberish that makes it all but impossible to create an accurate scorecard of where everyone stands. Imagine a golf scorecard where you can’t read the numbers or decipher names. Then, you have to post that scorecard for the entire world to see. Blanks, misspellings, and errors make us look incompetent, not to mention harming the decent players who complied and are are eager for reliable information.
Indeed, some overnight reporting slips would be hysterical to inspect if it weren’t already at the tail end of a busy 14-hour day. So, each slip that’s illegible might require spending five or ten extra minutes comparing it against the original registration list. Forced to become pseudo-handwriting analysts, it comes down to working the crime lab for CIS.
By the time the overnight chip counts come around, I’m usually exhausted. Totally spent. And so at 3:15 am, knowing that I must return to work at 11 am and do it all again — in between then somehow trying to wind down and sleep perhaps 3 to 4 hours — coming across an unreadable reporting slip ignites a moment of angst.
“Fuck!” is a word heard many times at Binion’s Horsehose, and probably ten thousand times since then. Forget mercy. I have none. It shouldn’t be so goddamned difficult for people to write their names. I mean, how tough a task it that?
But the real ballbusting moment always comes the following morning, when some sniveling poker player from the night before comes up to me and announces, “You got my name wrong.” It’s just about always a case where the jackass can’t write or was too lazy to fill out the form properly, which takes all of about 40 seconds. I don’t believe in acts of violence. But these moments have actually triggered deep feelings of wanting to commit an assault.
As you can tell, this is an ass-frosting royal pet-peeve of mine. I’ve never psychoanalyzed it, but many jobs that require dealing with the public trigger outlandish over-reactions that seem way out of proportion. It’s important to realize these tiniest of incidents all add up and can crush even the strong.
Late that night, the reporting slips were stacked high. Perhaps 350 or so in a giant pile. Doing some quick math, at 20 seconds per slip on an Excel Sheet (name, hometown, chip count, table, and seat), that represented about two hours if typing non-stop. Some of the players and their friends actually hung around, hoping to get the first early print-out of those that survived Day One. Players were eager to find out who they were sitting and playing with on the following day. An hour or so into data entry, after being badgered for perhaps the dozenth time, you had to abandon all sense of common courtesy and simply yell, “Go away!” — in language that increasingly became more rude as the night went long.
Midway through the process, I came upon one of those annoyingly confusing slips:
CHRISTOPHER B. MONEYMAKER
HOMETOWN: NASHVILLE, TN
CHIP COUNT: 60,475
TABLE: 57
SEAT: 6
I recognized most of the player names on in the top 20. They were easy. I didn’t recognize this one. This player ranked 11th overall. For that reason, there would likely be considerable interest in him on Day Two, especially by ESPN which had cameras filming the WSOP that year for the first time.
Who was this joker?
Chris B. MONEYMAKER?
What derailed me was the letter “B,” his middle initial. It appeared this unknown player had written out CHRIS B. MONEYMAKER, which was obviously a goof. Either that, or the player used “Moneymaker” as his nickname and had simply forgotten to write out his last name. Indeed, many players used names like Men “the Master” or Marcel “the Flying Dutchman.” This rube seemed to be using “Moneymaker” as his moniker.
I’m not sure why we couldn’t cross-check the name. Perhaps our computers were down again, which happened a lot at the Horseshoe. But we went ahead and reported the 11th-ranked player to the world as CHRIS B. “MONEYMAKER” ??? with the last name identified with a question mark.
The following day, tournament action resumed at noon.
One of my first tasks was to find the jackass who wrote out “MONEYMAKER” on his slip. I found him easily. Chris was a quiet, unassuming young man, about what one might expect when you heard his job was working as an accountant for a restaurant chain. When I introduced myself to Chris, he seemed to immediately know why I was there.
“Want to see my ID?” he asked.
“Yes, I need to know how to spell your last name,” I replied. “I think we have it wrong in our database.”
“It’s just like it sounds,” Chris said.
Imagine my shock when confronted with a Tennessee Driver’s License with the last name MONEYMAKER clearly inscribed with a photo of a smiling 27-year-old Southerner.
“I’m sorry, but…..”
Chris cut me off in mid-sentence.
“Don’t worry. It happens all the time,” he said.
I can only imagine. And here I was yet another hard ass disbelieving the man simply because he had an unusual last name.
At least in my defense I can justify some skepticism. Never in my life had I ever heard of anyone named “Moneymaker.” Not a single person. The name had to be fake. But it wasn’t. What a name for a player who was competing for the biggest cash prize ever in the history of poker. Too good to be true.
As I walked away from Table 57, I remember having the smug attitude that was so prevalent, even instinctive for those of us who had been around the poker scene for some time.
“That poor kid doesn’t stand a chance,” I thought to myself.
COMING NEXT: CHAMPIONSHIp
Part 9: Championship Day (May 20, 2003)
The 2003 World Series of Poker finale included a bit of everything.
It had intrigue, suspense, surprise, triumph, tragedy, and even a bit of mystery.
Of all the championship final tables over the past quarter century, that year’s cast of characters was right off the pages of a Hollywood script. Everybody watching the show could pick one of the finalists to root for (or against) among those nine who took seats on Friday at noon inside Benny’s Bullpen.
That final table included an astounding seven players who had won (or would later win) WSOP gold bracelets — a collection of talent unheard of since the very earliest days of the championship during the 1970′s. Chris Moneymaker, Sammy Farha, Dan Harrington, Jason Lester, Amir Vahedi, David Grey, and David Singer all now have WSOP wins. But some captivating underdogs also captured our interest — potential stars that millions of viewers would come to know through a bombardment of broadcasts later shown on ESPN. “The nine” became as famous as any characters on a hit reality TV series.
The finale included the perfect mix of both amateurs and pros. It included high-stakes cash game players — including Farha, Lester, and Grey. It included seasoned tournament specialists including Harrington and Vahedi. It had competitors of different ethnic backgrounds — including North America, Asia, and the Middle East. It had Harrington, a former world champion aiming for his second win. It had a wonderfully colorful group of players sure to banter amongst themselves and make the supreme poker game of the year as entertaining as possible for the debut international telecast. Everyone literally brought something to the table as a personality.
Three players were obvious “good guys,” meaning they’d likely be fan favorites. These players included the obvious rising star with the magic name “Moneymaker” plus two others — one known, and the other less so.
A true champion of the human spirit, Amir Vahedi was one of the most beloved poker players of the last twenty years. Always cheerful, smiling, and often telling a funny story, everyone enjoyed being around Vahedi. He became the life of any poker party when he sat down. His caricature long associated with his trademark (unlit) cigar, Vahedi was the perfect mixture of player and entertainer. He was intimately watchable, without ever trying to be. But Vahedi’s lesser-known back story made him even more intriguing.
Born in Iran, Vahedi overcame obvious personal challenges, even severe hardships, to achieve his success as a bona fide professional poker player. He witnessed the fall of the Shah of Iran and experienced the Iranian revolution as a teenager. He later fought on the front lines of the Iran-Iraq War, one of the bloodiest and most obscene military conflicts of the late 20th Century, before eventually becoming a refugee seeking political asylum. He immigrated to America and eventually found his way to Los Angeles — and into everyone’s hearts. Vahedi, who died prematurely a few years ago, became an almost Shakespearean tragic hero by the manner in which he got to his first and what would be only Main Event final table, where he ultimately melted down in front of his peers and the entire world.
The other mini-Moneymaker bio belonged to Tomer Benvenisti, a carefree amateur player who worked as a tour guide operator and specialized in white water rafting. Like most of his rivals, Tomer’s “game” included incessant table chatter and an uncanny natural ability to fit in with the crowd and quickly adapt to the surreal surroundings, even though he’d never been on a stage like this before.
Finally, it was time. The big moment had arrived. When I took the microphone at 11:59 am, the first words out of my mouth were dead silence.
Promptly at noon, we were to begin making our final table introductions. The natural-born Tournament Director Matt Savage performed the task with script in hand. But I had the honor of introducing Matt and warming up the crowd before we went live. At least that was “the plan.”
But the plan disintegrated. It collapsed under the weight of stress, fatigue, and a voice shot to hell.
That 2003 WSOP was the first to a designated as a non-smoking event. In previous years, many players chain smoked right at the poker table, as did bystanders. Burnt ash soiled the felts and carpets. Spilled ashtrays littered the floors. There wasn’t a single poker table at the Horseshoe that didn’t have black marks on the cushions or cigarette burns on the felt. The casino smelled like a giant ashtray.
While “non-smoking” signs were clearly posted inside the tournament room, the rest of the casino’s interior resembled a house on fire. You couldn’t walk anywhere downstairs, including the poker room, without inhaling a stomach-turning whiff of cigarette smoke. It was enough to make you vomit. We once considered making the entire poker room a non-smoking facility, but decided against it. The poker manager Warren Schaeffer, himself a non-smoker, killed the idea. He insisted that we’d lose about 80 percent of our poker business.
Then, there were the preposterous imaginary battle lines drawn between smoking and non-smoking zones. Even though smoking wasn’t allowed inside Benny’s Bullpen, the hallway outside became the de facto smoking lounge. Smokers stepped out into the hallway and lit up immediately. And so a giant blue cloud of death hung in the air outside the door where poker players pumped themselves full of killer carcinogens. Given the hopelessly clogged air filters and malfunctioning ventilation system at Binion’s Horseshoe, none of these non-smoking restrictions seemed to do much good. It was like working in a coal mine.
Very late at night when I’d return home after working 15-hour days, Marieta was utterly repulsed by my smell. No matter what hour of the day or night, it became mandatory to take a long hot shower to wash away the foul stench. Even my hair smelled like smoke. Business suits were so nauseating that she’d hang them outside for days at a time in order to freshen the odor. It was like I’d been in a fire.
Everyone who worked on the WSOP got sick. I mean everybody. Not a single person who worked full time didn’t end up with the flu, or a severe cold, or some other respiratory ailment which sucked whatever energy you had left after the long work days, punctuated with shots of intoxicants over at Las Vegas Club casino bar. Bloodshot eyes, runny noses, and breathing problems became part of the job description.
Everyone developed what we called the “WSOP cough.” The human body couldn’t take the abuse anymore. It would simply break down. Sometimes, you’d cough so long and with such force that you’d bowl over and get hit with a splitting headache. There were occasions when I had to step outside, run towards the street, and spit out gooey flem filled with globs of black tar. Once outside, you’d then run over to the Las Vegas Club, pop a couple of Bendryls, and wash them down with a shot of Johnny Walker chased with Irish coffee. And then go right back to work. By the end of the series, I felt like “the Dude” out of The Big Lebowski.
A couple of days before the finale was to start, my throat was worn so raw, I sounded like 70-year-old man. I did a pretty convincing “Godfather” (post shooting) impression with that scratchy throat. Shortly thereafter, my voice gave out entirely. I’d mouth the words, vocalize them, and then nothing would come out. Or worse, the larynx would connect during part of a phrase and then fade out. I sounded like an underpowered radio station over a distant mountain range.
I figured there was enough energy and voice left to make one last appearance, what amounted to a simple 45-second intro. But when I spoke, the words didn’t come. Nothing happened.
Matt Savage stood there in a tuxedo like the Cheshire Cat, eagerly anticipating his glowing introduction. I stammered and somehow screeched his name out to the crowd and — completely unable to speak — pretty much abandoned the rest of the intro. Then, I quickly pushed the microphone over to Matt and scurried away behind some curtains. The show began.
Cards flew into the air and two New Yorkers were the first to fall as David Singer and David Grey hit the rail early. Then, Young Pak, probably the least-known of final nine, next went out in seventh place. That left a dream lineup for television consisting of Vahedi, Benvenisti, Lester, Harrington, Farha, and Moneymaker.
Vahedi had the chip lead for a short time early. But his aggressive style came back to haunt him with what amounted to train wreck on a global stage. Since then, Vahedi’s play has been analyzed in some detail with different opinions as to who things went down. I won’t presume to offer any assessment of his decisions other than to say — as cruel and sick as it sounds — this was yet another great moment for television.
Indeed, poker isn’t really about glory and moments of triumph, as those are rare. It’s more often about pain and crushing disappointment, which is far more common. And millions of viewers could plainly see that pain once on the face of a crushed cigar-chomping Vahedi, who bit off more than he could chew against one of the most feared players in the game. When it was shown a few months later, no one could possibly have scripted the better “swan song” for this popular favorite, blowing off his chips and falling from the lofty perch as chip leader to a painful escalator ride down to valet parking and an exit from the building fearing that was likely the only chance anyone in that spot would ever have to reach the pinnacle of the game.
Next, Tomer went out fifth, which was soon followed by Jason Lester. With all due respect to these players and those who busted earlier, the three finalists could not have provided a more perfect trio. David faced not just one, but two Goliaths. One was a former world champion known for his patience and discipline. The other was one of the biggest cash game players in the world, as dashing and debonaire as he was intimidating with a look that drew comparisons to Humphrey Bogart as Rick. But in deference to Farha, there would be no utterances of “Play it again, Sam.”
Chris Moneymaker could have busted right there and he would have still been a “winner.” Outlasting 836 players and winning $650,000 for third place would have been a mystifying debut for any poker player. But Moneymaker wasn’t quite finished yet.
His quality of competition could not possibly have been more of a challenge, something poker history seems to have forgotten. He had the unenviable disadvantage of not facing just one, but playing against two stellar players, who were vastly different in image and style. They were both independently wealthy, which also provided some advantages in not thinking about the money. Harrington was well off mostly from his practice of law and guidance as an investor, while Farha was a self-made high-stakes gambler and poker player. And they were playing against a novice 27-year-old accountant from Tennessee who made $40,000 a year playing in his first live poker tournament.
But at least Moneymaker did enjoy some advantages. One was, he had most of the chips. And perhaps the most important edge of all was this — no one expected him to win.
Part 10: “He Doesn’t Stand a Chance, It’s Over”
I previously alluded to a classic Janis Joplin song which goes, “Freedom’s just another word of nothing left to lose.”
In poker, this is called “freerolling.”
Moneymaker was freerolling the 2003 WSOP. He had nothing to lose. Moneymaker was freerolling the moment he boarded a plane and flew to Las Vegas.
A short time after the world’s biggest poker game became a trio, the 1995 world champion Dan Harrington busted out in third place. That left Farha to face Moneymaker alone. During a scripted break when television cameras were being calibrated for what would turn out to be an epic heads-up match, the two finalists walked off the floor and stepped into a public restroom, perhaps 40 steps away from the main stage. Amidst the echoes of flushing toilets the duo discussed a deal, which meant agreeing to some kind of split of the prize money. I wasn’t privy to that conversation nor to any of the details. But in retrospect, Farha might have made his worst strategic blunder — not at the poker table — but in that restroom. Moneymaker and Farha have both filled in the details of their discussion in other accounts of the incident (See: “When We Held Kings.”). The bottom line is, Farha proposed a financial arrangement which apparently insulted Moneymaker, which fueled the amateur’s desire in a much greater way than any preconceived ambition to become the new world poker champion. It was like kicking a pit bull.
Farha’s lack of respect for Moneymaker was hardly out of the ordinary. It was pretty much the universal consensus of opinion in that room filled with followers and poker fans. Even the poker insider whom I respected most, the man who hired me and who was responsible for me having a front row seat to poker history shared Farha’s outlook on the match.
George Fisher, the Horseshoe’s Director of Operations, came down from his hotel room once heads-up play began. He lived in the hotel penthouse suite and hadn’t been seen much during the series. Fisher passed away in 2005. Otherwise I would not be telling this story.
“He doesn’t stand a chance, it’s over,” Fisher whispered to me as the two finalists were taking seats to play heads-up for the 2003 world championship.
“What are you talking about, George — what do you mean it’s over?” I asked. “You think Moneymaker’s got this thing wrapped up?”
“Moneymaker doesn’t stand a chance. It’s ovvvvvvveeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrrr.”
That was quite a bold statement coming from someone in the know, especially since Moneymaker had about two-thirds of the chips in play at the time. Instantly, I thought of the worst.
Binion’s Horseshoe was known for pulling some shenanigans. One of these days, I’ll add another chapter to this story. But I don’t fancy waking up tomorrow morning with a decapitated horse’s head in my bed. So, those “rumors” will have to be addressed another day.
“Oh fuck, George — don’t tell me he’s going to get cold decked.”
“No, no, no. Nothing like that,” Fisher replied. “There’s just noooo waaaay Sammy loses to this Moneymaker. It’s not happening.”
Yes, we were all dealt the joker. We were all fooled. Every one of us, except for about three people in that crowd.
If that unforgettably wonderful, and awful, and miraculous, and painful, sparkle in our history called the 2003 World Series of Poker could be eclipsed by a single moment, it would be “the hand.”
“The hand” has since gone down as the greatest bluff in poker history. I’m not sure about that, since many of the best bluffs are never shown. But certainly in terms of a key historic moment on a grand stage, it would be difficult to top Moneymaker’s extraordinary all-in move against Farha late in the duel, which probably sealed the final outcome. Instead, had Farha won that huge pot he’d have swung the chip lead in his favor for the first time. Moneymaker might have melted down from that moment forward, only to become a poker footnote. Instead, Moneymaker experienced every poker’s player’s dream come true fantasy. It was the equivalent of crossing the goal line and scoring the winning touchdown in a Super Bowl with seconds to play or belting a home run in the bottom of the ninth in the other kind of World Series. Moneymaker swung for the fences and brought it all home, in a suspended moment in time that poker players will likely be talking about a century from now. If aces and eights is still somehow remembered from the Deadwood days over 150 years ago, “Moneymaker’s bluff” is certain to be etched into the collective consciousness of every future poker player. Forever, as long as there are cards and chips.
An authority on the subject, Matt Lessinger, who wrote “The Book of Bluffs,” called it the greatest bluff in history, “at least that we know of.”
A few hands later, it all ended. There were probably 300 people or so who actually witnessed the epic moment of victory. Like Woodstock, today thousands insist they were there. But the stage area and tournament room actually held no more than a few hundred bodies. When an ecstatic Moneymaker raced across the glossy black stage into the arms of his proud father at the instant of victory, those 300 witnesses cheered for a future of 60 to 70 million, the number of poker players worldwide likely to have been created somewhat by that moment in time and in the decade since the game’s great moment of global ignition.
Since then, I’ve been asked many times at what point I realized this was the start of something really big. It wasn’t then. It wasn’t even that night. Worn out by the demands of the recent past, while basking in the celebration of the present, the future seemed all too distant to think about right then as I stood and watched and clapped and cheered and marveled at the moment of glory next to $2.5 million in crisp $100 bills stacked on a side table. I whisked two Las Vegas showgirls that we’d hired for the all-important winner’s shot into the photo frame as a few dozen photographers snapped away and the non-stop flashes gave Moneymaker the look of a shining new star taking center stage on a Broadway.
Moneymaker was suddenly the new star. He would instantly come to represent us all — those of us who had worked for years to put poker on the map as well as those who would soon flock to the game by the millions, inspired by his story and triumph.
The 2003 World Series of Poker was officially over.
But my real work was just beginning and I loved every minute of it.
NEXT CHAPTER: “Our job isn’t over. It’s just beginning.”
The 2003 World Series of Poker finale included a bit of everything.
It had intrigue, suspense, surprise, triumph, tragedy, and even a bit of mystery.
Of all the championship final tables over the past quarter century, that year’s cast of characters was right off the pages of a Hollywood script. Everybody watching the show could pick one of the finalists to root for (or against) among those nine who took seats on Friday at noon inside Benny’s Bullpen.
That final table included an astounding seven players who had won (or would later win) WSOP gold bracelets — a collection of talent unheard of since the very earliest days of the championship during the 1970′s. Chris Moneymaker, Sammy Farha, Dan Harrington, Jason Lester, Amir Vahedi, David Grey, and David Singer all now have WSOP wins. But some captivating underdogs also captured our interest — potential stars that millions of viewers would come to know through a bombardment of broadcasts later shown on ESPN. “The nine” became as famous as any characters on a hit reality TV series.
The finale included the perfect mix of both amateurs and pros. It included high-stakes cash game players — including Farha, Lester, and Grey. It included seasoned tournament specialists including Harrington and Vahedi. It had competitors of different ethnic backgrounds — including North America, Asia, and the Middle East. It had Harrington, a former world champion aiming for his second win. It had a wonderfully colorful group of players sure to banter amongst themselves and make the supreme poker game of the year as entertaining as possible for the debut international telecast. Everyone literally brought something to the table as a personality.
Three players were obvious “good guys,” meaning they’d likely be fan favorites. These players included the obvious rising star with the magic name “Moneymaker” plus two others — one known, and the other less so.
A true champion of the human spirit, Amir Vahedi was one of the most beloved poker players of the last twenty years. Always cheerful, smiling, and often telling a funny story, everyone enjoyed being around Vahedi. He became the life of any poker party when he sat down. His caricature long associated with his trademark (unlit) cigar, Vahedi was the perfect mixture of player and entertainer. He was intimately watchable, without ever trying to be. But Vahedi’s lesser-known back story made him even more intriguing.
Born in Iran, Vahedi overcame obvious personal challenges, even severe hardships, to achieve his success as a bona fide professional poker player. He witnessed the fall of the Shah of Iran and experienced the Iranian revolution as a teenager. He later fought on the front lines of the Iran-Iraq War, one of the bloodiest and most obscene military conflicts of the late 20th Century, before eventually becoming a refugee seeking political asylum. He immigrated to America and eventually found his way to Los Angeles — and into everyone’s hearts. Vahedi, who died prematurely a few years ago, became an almost Shakespearean tragic hero by the manner in which he got to his first and what would be only Main Event final table, where he ultimately melted down in front of his peers and the entire world.
The other mini-Moneymaker bio belonged to Tomer Benvenisti, a carefree amateur player who worked as a tour guide operator and specialized in white water rafting. Like most of his rivals, Tomer’s “game” included incessant table chatter and an uncanny natural ability to fit in with the crowd and quickly adapt to the surreal surroundings, even though he’d never been on a stage like this before.
Finally, it was time. The big moment had arrived. When I took the microphone at 11:59 am, the first words out of my mouth were dead silence.
Promptly at noon, we were to begin making our final table introductions. The natural-born Tournament Director Matt Savage performed the task with script in hand. But I had the honor of introducing Matt and warming up the crowd before we went live. At least that was “the plan.”
But the plan disintegrated. It collapsed under the weight of stress, fatigue, and a voice shot to hell.
That 2003 WSOP was the first to a designated as a non-smoking event. In previous years, many players chain smoked right at the poker table, as did bystanders. Burnt ash soiled the felts and carpets. Spilled ashtrays littered the floors. There wasn’t a single poker table at the Horseshoe that didn’t have black marks on the cushions or cigarette burns on the felt. The casino smelled like a giant ashtray.
While “non-smoking” signs were clearly posted inside the tournament room, the rest of the casino’s interior resembled a house on fire. You couldn’t walk anywhere downstairs, including the poker room, without inhaling a stomach-turning whiff of cigarette smoke. It was enough to make you vomit. We once considered making the entire poker room a non-smoking facility, but decided against it. The poker manager Warren Schaeffer, himself a non-smoker, killed the idea. He insisted that we’d lose about 80 percent of our poker business.
Then, there were the preposterous imaginary battle lines drawn between smoking and non-smoking zones. Even though smoking wasn’t allowed inside Benny’s Bullpen, the hallway outside became the de facto smoking lounge. Smokers stepped out into the hallway and lit up immediately. And so a giant blue cloud of death hung in the air outside the door where poker players pumped themselves full of killer carcinogens. Given the hopelessly clogged air filters and malfunctioning ventilation system at Binion’s Horseshoe, none of these non-smoking restrictions seemed to do much good. It was like working in a coal mine.
Very late at night when I’d return home after working 15-hour days, Marieta was utterly repulsed by my smell. No matter what hour of the day or night, it became mandatory to take a long hot shower to wash away the foul stench. Even my hair smelled like smoke. Business suits were so nauseating that she’d hang them outside for days at a time in order to freshen the odor. It was like I’d been in a fire.
Everyone who worked on the WSOP got sick. I mean everybody. Not a single person who worked full time didn’t end up with the flu, or a severe cold, or some other respiratory ailment which sucked whatever energy you had left after the long work days, punctuated with shots of intoxicants over at Las Vegas Club casino bar. Bloodshot eyes, runny noses, and breathing problems became part of the job description.
Everyone developed what we called the “WSOP cough.” The human body couldn’t take the abuse anymore. It would simply break down. Sometimes, you’d cough so long and with such force that you’d bowl over and get hit with a splitting headache. There were occasions when I had to step outside, run towards the street, and spit out gooey flem filled with globs of black tar. Once outside, you’d then run over to the Las Vegas Club, pop a couple of Bendryls, and wash them down with a shot of Johnny Walker chased with Irish coffee. And then go right back to work. By the end of the series, I felt like “the Dude” out of The Big Lebowski.
A couple of days before the finale was to start, my throat was worn so raw, I sounded like 70-year-old man. I did a pretty convincing “Godfather” (post shooting) impression with that scratchy throat. Shortly thereafter, my voice gave out entirely. I’d mouth the words, vocalize them, and then nothing would come out. Or worse, the larynx would connect during part of a phrase and then fade out. I sounded like an underpowered radio station over a distant mountain range.
I figured there was enough energy and voice left to make one last appearance, what amounted to a simple 45-second intro. But when I spoke, the words didn’t come. Nothing happened.
Matt Savage stood there in a tuxedo like the Cheshire Cat, eagerly anticipating his glowing introduction. I stammered and somehow screeched his name out to the crowd and — completely unable to speak — pretty much abandoned the rest of the intro. Then, I quickly pushed the microphone over to Matt and scurried away behind some curtains. The show began.
Cards flew into the air and two New Yorkers were the first to fall as David Singer and David Grey hit the rail early. Then, Young Pak, probably the least-known of final nine, next went out in seventh place. That left a dream lineup for television consisting of Vahedi, Benvenisti, Lester, Harrington, Farha, and Moneymaker.
Vahedi had the chip lead for a short time early. But his aggressive style came back to haunt him with what amounted to train wreck on a global stage. Since then, Vahedi’s play has been analyzed in some detail with different opinions as to who things went down. I won’t presume to offer any assessment of his decisions other than to say — as cruel and sick as it sounds — this was yet another great moment for television.
Indeed, poker isn’t really about glory and moments of triumph, as those are rare. It’s more often about pain and crushing disappointment, which is far more common. And millions of viewers could plainly see that pain once on the face of a crushed cigar-chomping Vahedi, who bit off more than he could chew against one of the most feared players in the game. When it was shown a few months later, no one could possibly have scripted the better “swan song” for this popular favorite, blowing off his chips and falling from the lofty perch as chip leader to a painful escalator ride down to valet parking and an exit from the building fearing that was likely the only chance anyone in that spot would ever have to reach the pinnacle of the game.
Next, Tomer went out fifth, which was soon followed by Jason Lester. With all due respect to these players and those who busted earlier, the three finalists could not have provided a more perfect trio. David faced not just one, but two Goliaths. One was a former world champion known for his patience and discipline. The other was one of the biggest cash game players in the world, as dashing and debonaire as he was intimidating with a look that drew comparisons to Humphrey Bogart as Rick. But in deference to Farha, there would be no utterances of “Play it again, Sam.”
Chris Moneymaker could have busted right there and he would have still been a “winner.” Outlasting 836 players and winning $650,000 for third place would have been a mystifying debut for any poker player. But Moneymaker wasn’t quite finished yet.
His quality of competition could not possibly have been more of a challenge, something poker history seems to have forgotten. He had the unenviable disadvantage of not facing just one, but playing against two stellar players, who were vastly different in image and style. They were both independently wealthy, which also provided some advantages in not thinking about the money. Harrington was well off mostly from his practice of law and guidance as an investor, while Farha was a self-made high-stakes gambler and poker player. And they were playing against a novice 27-year-old accountant from Tennessee who made $40,000 a year playing in his first live poker tournament.
But at least Moneymaker did enjoy some advantages. One was, he had most of the chips. And perhaps the most important edge of all was this — no one expected him to win.
Part 10: “He Doesn’t Stand a Chance, It’s Over”
I previously alluded to a classic Janis Joplin song which goes, “Freedom’s just another word of nothing left to lose.”
In poker, this is called “freerolling.”
Moneymaker was freerolling the 2003 WSOP. He had nothing to lose. Moneymaker was freerolling the moment he boarded a plane and flew to Las Vegas.
A short time after the world’s biggest poker game became a trio, the 1995 world champion Dan Harrington busted out in third place. That left Farha to face Moneymaker alone. During a scripted break when television cameras were being calibrated for what would turn out to be an epic heads-up match, the two finalists walked off the floor and stepped into a public restroom, perhaps 40 steps away from the main stage. Amidst the echoes of flushing toilets the duo discussed a deal, which meant agreeing to some kind of split of the prize money. I wasn’t privy to that conversation nor to any of the details. But in retrospect, Farha might have made his worst strategic blunder — not at the poker table — but in that restroom. Moneymaker and Farha have both filled in the details of their discussion in other accounts of the incident (See: “When We Held Kings.”). The bottom line is, Farha proposed a financial arrangement which apparently insulted Moneymaker, which fueled the amateur’s desire in a much greater way than any preconceived ambition to become the new world poker champion. It was like kicking a pit bull.
Farha’s lack of respect for Moneymaker was hardly out of the ordinary. It was pretty much the universal consensus of opinion in that room filled with followers and poker fans. Even the poker insider whom I respected most, the man who hired me and who was responsible for me having a front row seat to poker history shared Farha’s outlook on the match.
George Fisher, the Horseshoe’s Director of Operations, came down from his hotel room once heads-up play began. He lived in the hotel penthouse suite and hadn’t been seen much during the series. Fisher passed away in 2005. Otherwise I would not be telling this story.
“He doesn’t stand a chance, it’s over,” Fisher whispered to me as the two finalists were taking seats to play heads-up for the 2003 world championship.
“What are you talking about, George — what do you mean it’s over?” I asked. “You think Moneymaker’s got this thing wrapped up?”
“Moneymaker doesn’t stand a chance. It’s ovvvvvvveeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrrr.”
That was quite a bold statement coming from someone in the know, especially since Moneymaker had about two-thirds of the chips in play at the time. Instantly, I thought of the worst.
Binion’s Horseshoe was known for pulling some shenanigans. One of these days, I’ll add another chapter to this story. But I don’t fancy waking up tomorrow morning with a decapitated horse’s head in my bed. So, those “rumors” will have to be addressed another day.
“Oh fuck, George — don’t tell me he’s going to get cold decked.”
“No, no, no. Nothing like that,” Fisher replied. “There’s just noooo waaaay Sammy loses to this Moneymaker. It’s not happening.”
Yes, we were all dealt the joker. We were all fooled. Every one of us, except for about three people in that crowd.
If that unforgettably wonderful, and awful, and miraculous, and painful, sparkle in our history called the 2003 World Series of Poker could be eclipsed by a single moment, it would be “the hand.”
“The hand” has since gone down as the greatest bluff in poker history. I’m not sure about that, since many of the best bluffs are never shown. But certainly in terms of a key historic moment on a grand stage, it would be difficult to top Moneymaker’s extraordinary all-in move against Farha late in the duel, which probably sealed the final outcome. Instead, had Farha won that huge pot he’d have swung the chip lead in his favor for the first time. Moneymaker might have melted down from that moment forward, only to become a poker footnote. Instead, Moneymaker experienced every poker’s player’s dream come true fantasy. It was the equivalent of crossing the goal line and scoring the winning touchdown in a Super Bowl with seconds to play or belting a home run in the bottom of the ninth in the other kind of World Series. Moneymaker swung for the fences and brought it all home, in a suspended moment in time that poker players will likely be talking about a century from now. If aces and eights is still somehow remembered from the Deadwood days over 150 years ago, “Moneymaker’s bluff” is certain to be etched into the collective consciousness of every future poker player. Forever, as long as there are cards and chips.
An authority on the subject, Matt Lessinger, who wrote “The Book of Bluffs,” called it the greatest bluff in history, “at least that we know of.”
A few hands later, it all ended. There were probably 300 people or so who actually witnessed the epic moment of victory. Like Woodstock, today thousands insist they were there. But the stage area and tournament room actually held no more than a few hundred bodies. When an ecstatic Moneymaker raced across the glossy black stage into the arms of his proud father at the instant of victory, those 300 witnesses cheered for a future of 60 to 70 million, the number of poker players worldwide likely to have been created somewhat by that moment in time and in the decade since the game’s great moment of global ignition.
Since then, I’ve been asked many times at what point I realized this was the start of something really big. It wasn’t then. It wasn’t even that night. Worn out by the demands of the recent past, while basking in the celebration of the present, the future seemed all too distant to think about right then as I stood and watched and clapped and cheered and marveled at the moment of glory next to $2.5 million in crisp $100 bills stacked on a side table. I whisked two Las Vegas showgirls that we’d hired for the all-important winner’s shot into the photo frame as a few dozen photographers snapped away and the non-stop flashes gave Moneymaker the look of a shining new star taking center stage on a Broadway.
Moneymaker was suddenly the new star. He would instantly come to represent us all — those of us who had worked for years to put poker on the map as well as those who would soon flock to the game by the millions, inspired by his story and triumph.
The 2003 World Series of Poker was officially over.
But my real work was just beginning and I loved every minute of it.
NEXT CHAPTER: “Our job isn’t over. It’s just beginning.”
Part 11: Poker’s Sonic Boom
A frequent question I get asked is — at what instant did I realize everything had changed?
I’d be lying were I to answer it was the moment when Chris Moneymaker won.
Instead, it was the morning after.
The 2003 World Series of Poker didn’t just conclude on a high note. It ended with a blast that would go so far as to transform popular culture, especially among young people. I later condensed this phenomenon into a simple catchphrase which became known as “poker’s sonic boom.”
Once those three words were picked up by the Associated Press, they subsequently appeared in hundreds of newspapers and media outlets all over the country and even abroad in the frenzy that followed. “Sonic boom” really came to define the swelling crest of a tidal wave that was about to rise and lift anyone associated with poker to new heights. But there’s also a downside. All waves ultimately crash to the shore and disappear into the sand.
My late night drive back home from Binion’s Horseshoe following Moneymaker’s victory was moment of quiet reflection. I had witnessed the most stunning week in poker history – a relatively short time frame during which Binion’s Horseshoe and the World Series of Poker had rocketed from near obscurity to the front pages of every sports and entertainment section in the country.
A casino widely considered an embarrassment around Las Vegas suddenly became the most exciting place imaginable for a new generation that probably wouldn’t have dreamed of stepping into a place as old-fashioned as the Shoe, except it’s where Moneymaker made history. As the public relations spinner for the casino, my pitch went from making sad excuses for the property to pointing directly at our battle scars and eccentricities with great pride. I started taking news media, camera crews, and VIPs around Binion’s Horseshoe, pointing right at our blemishes and saying, you sure won’t find something like that on the Las Vegas Strip. Everyone loved it. We were real.
Nick Behnen, my boss embodied this new attitude more than anyone. We didn’t give a flying fuck what anyone else said or thought about us. Binion’s Horsehoe became a rollicking frat house during the months immediately after the WSOP. The poker room exploded with cash games — including No-Limit Hold’em which spread regularly for the first time. It became busier than ever. We often had 20 games going, four times the numbers before the 2003 WSOP. Visitors started coming inside just to look at the casino. The WSOP Gallery of Champions — a collection of framed portraits of all the world poker champions — became an instant tourist attraction.
Indeed, we took our shining moment and gave ourselves a total makeover – using our obvious negatives (a decaying and dying casino) and making them into our most appealing charms. We remained one of the few family run casinos in Las Vegas, and began to flaunt it. The owners might walk through the casino at anytime. One might even sit down at the poker table — which is precisely what happened in what became one memorable night that’s still discussed to this day (read the next post for details).
Where else could you go in Las Vegas and walk the carpets and shoot dice at the same tables where Titanic Thompson, Benny Binion, Archie Karas, and all the greats had stood, and where gambling legends were still being made with a new phenomenon named Chris Moneymaker? That one indelible moment had transformed Binion’s Horseshoe from a sinking ship into one of the hottest and hippest places to cruise the Las Vegas gambling scene.
Moneymaker changed everything. If the 2003 WSOP was seemingly about to transform Binion Horsehoe, that was nothing compared to it impact around Las Vegas, across the country, and abroad. Television programming was altered. Culture on college campuses changed. Poker suddenly became a means of empowerment for millions of regular people who weren’t good at anything else, but fancied the notion of playing poker, potentially hitting it big and becoming rich and famous. Poker was no longer a dirty word in most of mainstream America. It was cool. It was the thing to do. Poker was the game to play.
But on May 24, 2003 none of this had quite happened yet.
Part 12: The Morning After
I remember the morning after as if it was yesterday.
Two cell phones were with me at all times. In fact, I was always “on call.” My phone might ring at 3 pm or 3 am. It might be Nick Behnen with an emergency. It might be a reporter from Australia calling, clueless as to the actual hour in Las Vegas.
One was my private line. The other was a company phone linked directly to the switchboard at Binion’s Horseshoe. Anything to do with media or television was transferred straight from the switchboard to my cell phones. The switchboard was open 24-7. Calls came in from all over the world, day and night.
Around noon that Friday, I woke up. I picked up the first phone and began listening to voice messages. That’s the moment when I knew things had changed. Forever.
“This is the New York Daily News….”
“I’m with the Chicago Tribune….”
“I’m calling from Bloomberg….”
“This is the largest newspaper in Nashville, The Tennessean….”
“I’m with ESPN”s Cold Pizza….”
Then, there was this one:
“I’m with the David Letterman Show. We’d like to get in touch with Chris Moneymaker.”
Yes, that’s when I new things had really changed. Big time.
By day’s end, I’d retrieved so many voice messages that I couldn’t return the calls fast enough.
That evening, I was invited to an engagement dinner for poker pro Peter Costa. It was held at Ferraro’s — back then a popular Italian restaurant on Flamingo Road. The entire poker universe was invited, and everyone who was anyone was there. We took over the entire place — the bar and restaurant jammed with poker royaly. There was a stage with a giant piano. David “Devilfish” Ulliott serenaded the guests.
There, I met with Dan Goldman. I knew Dan was completely understood the unique significance of this moment in time. Dan wouldn’t need explanation or a pep talk. If anything, Dan was already ahead of the game.
While dozens of other guests stood at the bar and talked poker and Moneymaker, Dan and I took over a quiet booth off to the side. I remember looking across the table and staring straight at Dan and saying, “This isn’t the end. This is just the beginning. Our work — you and me — it’s just starting.”
He nodded. He knew. He understood.
Over time, I’ve come to realize that’s the attitude that often separates those who just get along from those who get ahead. This was one of the most pivotal moments in the game’s history. Sure, it was a time to drink and celebrate success — but with a greater purpose in mind.
Dan was already preparing his own marketing campaign to leverage Moneymaker’s victory into an earth-shaker for PokerStars.com. This wasn’t just the moment that would come to define the start of what became “the poker boom.” It also jump started PokerStars.com into the industry leader’s chief rival. Party Poker might have been number one. But now, it had some serious competition. The way was now paved for the up and coming online poker site to become one of the fastest-growing and most successful gaming companies in the world.
As preposterous as this now seems, when Dan and I were sitting there face to face that night, with drinks and cheers off in the distance muffled out by the “Devilfish” singing John Lennon’s “Imagine” while playing piano, the intersection of that moment remains a vivid memory.
Imagine all the people….
Imagine this. Little did I know that the offshore poker site represented by Dan with perhaps 150 employees at that time would not only outlast Binion’s Horseshoe, but eventually be valued at more than 200 times the price our casino would fetch in what amounted to a fire sale.
Imagine this. Less than a year later, I’d be out of a job and be working directly for Dan and PokerStars.com as its worldwide Director of Communications.
Imagine this. What might have happened if PokerStars had realized the precarious financial situation that Binion’s Horseshoe was in at that time, and offered $50 million or so, more than enough to buy the casino and with it — the WSOP?
This was a crossroad. Unfortunately, in the middle of an intersection, you don’t always see the oncoming traffic.
Coming Next: Chris Moneymaker on the David Letterman Show / The Great Late Night Poker Freezeout at Binion’s Horseshoe
A frequent question I get asked is — at what instant did I realize everything had changed?
I’d be lying were I to answer it was the moment when Chris Moneymaker won.
Instead, it was the morning after.
The 2003 World Series of Poker didn’t just conclude on a high note. It ended with a blast that would go so far as to transform popular culture, especially among young people. I later condensed this phenomenon into a simple catchphrase which became known as “poker’s sonic boom.”
Once those three words were picked up by the Associated Press, they subsequently appeared in hundreds of newspapers and media outlets all over the country and even abroad in the frenzy that followed. “Sonic boom” really came to define the swelling crest of a tidal wave that was about to rise and lift anyone associated with poker to new heights. But there’s also a downside. All waves ultimately crash to the shore and disappear into the sand.
My late night drive back home from Binion’s Horseshoe following Moneymaker’s victory was moment of quiet reflection. I had witnessed the most stunning week in poker history – a relatively short time frame during which Binion’s Horseshoe and the World Series of Poker had rocketed from near obscurity to the front pages of every sports and entertainment section in the country.
A casino widely considered an embarrassment around Las Vegas suddenly became the most exciting place imaginable for a new generation that probably wouldn’t have dreamed of stepping into a place as old-fashioned as the Shoe, except it’s where Moneymaker made history. As the public relations spinner for the casino, my pitch went from making sad excuses for the property to pointing directly at our battle scars and eccentricities with great pride. I started taking news media, camera crews, and VIPs around Binion’s Horseshoe, pointing right at our blemishes and saying, you sure won’t find something like that on the Las Vegas Strip. Everyone loved it. We were real.
Nick Behnen, my boss embodied this new attitude more than anyone. We didn’t give a flying fuck what anyone else said or thought about us. Binion’s Horsehoe became a rollicking frat house during the months immediately after the WSOP. The poker room exploded with cash games — including No-Limit Hold’em which spread regularly for the first time. It became busier than ever. We often had 20 games going, four times the numbers before the 2003 WSOP. Visitors started coming inside just to look at the casino. The WSOP Gallery of Champions — a collection of framed portraits of all the world poker champions — became an instant tourist attraction.
Indeed, we took our shining moment and gave ourselves a total makeover – using our obvious negatives (a decaying and dying casino) and making them into our most appealing charms. We remained one of the few family run casinos in Las Vegas, and began to flaunt it. The owners might walk through the casino at anytime. One might even sit down at the poker table — which is precisely what happened in what became one memorable night that’s still discussed to this day (read the next post for details).
Where else could you go in Las Vegas and walk the carpets and shoot dice at the same tables where Titanic Thompson, Benny Binion, Archie Karas, and all the greats had stood, and where gambling legends were still being made with a new phenomenon named Chris Moneymaker? That one indelible moment had transformed Binion’s Horseshoe from a sinking ship into one of the hottest and hippest places to cruise the Las Vegas gambling scene.
Moneymaker changed everything. If the 2003 WSOP was seemingly about to transform Binion Horsehoe, that was nothing compared to it impact around Las Vegas, across the country, and abroad. Television programming was altered. Culture on college campuses changed. Poker suddenly became a means of empowerment for millions of regular people who weren’t good at anything else, but fancied the notion of playing poker, potentially hitting it big and becoming rich and famous. Poker was no longer a dirty word in most of mainstream America. It was cool. It was the thing to do. Poker was the game to play.
But on May 24, 2003 none of this had quite happened yet.
Part 12: The Morning After
I remember the morning after as if it was yesterday.
Two cell phones were with me at all times. In fact, I was always “on call.” My phone might ring at 3 pm or 3 am. It might be Nick Behnen with an emergency. It might be a reporter from Australia calling, clueless as to the actual hour in Las Vegas.
One was my private line. The other was a company phone linked directly to the switchboard at Binion’s Horseshoe. Anything to do with media or television was transferred straight from the switchboard to my cell phones. The switchboard was open 24-7. Calls came in from all over the world, day and night.
Around noon that Friday, I woke up. I picked up the first phone and began listening to voice messages. That’s the moment when I knew things had changed. Forever.
“This is the New York Daily News….”
“I’m with the Chicago Tribune….”
“I’m calling from Bloomberg….”
“This is the largest newspaper in Nashville, The Tennessean….”
“I’m with ESPN”s Cold Pizza….”
Then, there was this one:
“I’m with the David Letterman Show. We’d like to get in touch with Chris Moneymaker.”
Yes, that’s when I new things had really changed. Big time.
By day’s end, I’d retrieved so many voice messages that I couldn’t return the calls fast enough.
That evening, I was invited to an engagement dinner for poker pro Peter Costa. It was held at Ferraro’s — back then a popular Italian restaurant on Flamingo Road. The entire poker universe was invited, and everyone who was anyone was there. We took over the entire place — the bar and restaurant jammed with poker royaly. There was a stage with a giant piano. David “Devilfish” Ulliott serenaded the guests.
There, I met with Dan Goldman. I knew Dan was completely understood the unique significance of this moment in time. Dan wouldn’t need explanation or a pep talk. If anything, Dan was already ahead of the game.
While dozens of other guests stood at the bar and talked poker and Moneymaker, Dan and I took over a quiet booth off to the side. I remember looking across the table and staring straight at Dan and saying, “This isn’t the end. This is just the beginning. Our work — you and me — it’s just starting.”
He nodded. He knew. He understood.
Over time, I’ve come to realize that’s the attitude that often separates those who just get along from those who get ahead. This was one of the most pivotal moments in the game’s history. Sure, it was a time to drink and celebrate success — but with a greater purpose in mind.
Dan was already preparing his own marketing campaign to leverage Moneymaker’s victory into an earth-shaker for PokerStars.com. This wasn’t just the moment that would come to define the start of what became “the poker boom.” It also jump started PokerStars.com into the industry leader’s chief rival. Party Poker might have been number one. But now, it had some serious competition. The way was now paved for the up and coming online poker site to become one of the fastest-growing and most successful gaming companies in the world.
As preposterous as this now seems, when Dan and I were sitting there face to face that night, with drinks and cheers off in the distance muffled out by the “Devilfish” singing John Lennon’s “Imagine” while playing piano, the intersection of that moment remains a vivid memory.
Imagine all the people….
Imagine this. Little did I know that the offshore poker site represented by Dan with perhaps 150 employees at that time would not only outlast Binion’s Horseshoe, but eventually be valued at more than 200 times the price our casino would fetch in what amounted to a fire sale.
Imagine this. Less than a year later, I’d be out of a job and be working directly for Dan and PokerStars.com as its worldwide Director of Communications.
Imagine this. What might have happened if PokerStars had realized the precarious financial situation that Binion’s Horseshoe was in at that time, and offered $50 million or so, more than enough to buy the casino and with it — the WSOP?
This was a crossroad. Unfortunately, in the middle of an intersection, you don’t always see the oncoming traffic.
Coming Next: Chris Moneymaker on the David Letterman Show / The Great Late Night Poker Freezeout at Binion’s Horseshoe
