peterbirks (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
peterbirks) wrote2006-07-06 05:43 am
peterbirks) wrote2006-07-06 05:43 am
Downsides
I don't think of myself as an overly pessimistic person. I know that many other people do, but I see myself more as a "prepare for the worst and hope for the best" kind of person. In a way, it's borne me pretty well over the years, although in the biggest game of all that is life it has probably made me a little bit too risk-averse. Women have another phrase for this -- they call it "petrified of commitment". The problem there was that I have seen so many people (men and women) declare one year how much in love with a person they are, how this is person "is my best friend as well as my partner" etc etc etc, only for them to split up 10 years later. Wow, you think to yourself, that was one fucking bad move.
But then perhaps this is a definition of pessimism. Because I know a number of other couples who haven't split up, who are still together after 20 years. They took the gamble, and they won.
Anyway, back to realism: Felicia posted this morning about Vegas and the tourney circuit. Half-way through came this:
The one constant theme with a lot of my friends is that they are running bad, running out of money, running out of steam and need sponsorship to keep playing. I was so, unbelievably hurt for them. Poker is changing. No longer is the top pro making a score out of every 50 tourneys or so. It's more like 500 these days, due to the fields literally going up 1000%.
To every one of them, I said that brighter days are ahead, sponsorship is coming, a big score is coming, things will turn around.
The thing is, if it's a constant theme (and, let's face it, there have been a fair number of players who ran well up to 2005 but who, as I warned, are finding things a lot tougher this year) might it not be the case that something fundamental has changed? In other words, might it not be the case that brighter days are not ahead. That the brighter days are, most definitely, behind?
Americans are, in the main, enviably optimistic and upbeat. It's one of the attributes in them that I can't help but admire. No matter how many times you beat 'em down, they remain convinced that, the next time, they will hit it big. I've met ex-executives serving sandwiches in a casino deli, perfectly happy to talk about losing their six-figure job and how they have plans to do this or do that.
However, although I admire this attribute, mainly because it's a good way to keep yourself sane, in many cases any dispassionate observer would see it for what it is -- self-deception on a grand scale.
The question is, how long should you go on deceiving yourself, and when should you accept reality? No, that isn't the question. The question is, at what point can you conclude rationally that, even though you might have been unlucky, the odds favour the conclusion that you are no longer a long-term winner?
Sklansky et al are, as usual, not much use here. They just say that you should constantly check your figures. If I look at my numbers for the past 12 months, I'm a long-term winner. If I look at them for the past three months, I'm a long-term marginal winner. If I do the same for the past eight weeks, I'm a break-even player, and if I do if tor the past five weeks, I'm a loser. Standard deviation saves the statisticians from the accusation that "well, basically, you are no fucking use at all, are you?"
Poker is a bit like golf. If you start tinkering with your swing, then all the other bits, which used to come naturally, suddenly start feeling strange. I read an interesting thread on 2+2 yesterday, mainly relating to how frequently you should continuation bet on the flop. However, I chose the wrong time to try to implement it -- in the middle of a downswing (neat extension of the golf analogy, huh?). All of a sudden I was floundering all over the place. Moves that were automatic (and you need a lot of automatic moves when you are multi-tabling) became "thinkers". I was a mess. Note to self, if you are going to tinker with your game, cut down on the number of tables that you play.
So, although I am 95% certain that "things will turn around", there remains the nagging 5% uncertainty. Perhaps Americans have that doubt as well, but they seem to think that admitting to its existence is a bad thing, that by denying its possibiility, they make its reality less likely. They hide it away. To the outside world, they are eternally optimistic. Until, eventually, reality cannot be denied. At this point some kinod of massive internal shift occurs, and they go off somewhere else, saying that "I decided that poker wasn't for me".
With reference to Russ Boyd, Paul Phillips wondered why Boyd stuck at poker, when he had screwed up so much and when there were so many other fields of endeavour available. I think that this says a lot more abbout Paul Phillips' attitude to poker (and to life) than it does about Russ Boyd. I don't have much (for which read, "any") sympathy for Russ Boyd, but I can understand why he can't just say "oh, I failed at that, I'll try something else". That's the kind of thing that the Phillips of the world do. relentlessly clever in a particular way, they succeed at one thing, get bored, succeed at something else, get bored, and so on. I can think of two others who have entered and (mainly left) the poker world in London who were like this -- Guy Bowles and Demis Hassabis.
But for people like Russ (and me), poker isn't a choice, it's in the blood. Even as we come to hate the very site and sight of the limit table, we know that we have to struggle on and maintain that possible fiction that the light will be at the end of the tunnel just as we turn the next corner.
We survive, battered, scarred, but, with that eternal phrase, "I'm still here".
But then perhaps this is a definition of pessimism. Because I know a number of other couples who haven't split up, who are still together after 20 years. They took the gamble, and they won.
Anyway, back to realism: Felicia posted this morning about Vegas and the tourney circuit. Half-way through came this:
The one constant theme with a lot of my friends is that they are running bad, running out of money, running out of steam and need sponsorship to keep playing. I was so, unbelievably hurt for them. Poker is changing. No longer is the top pro making a score out of every 50 tourneys or so. It's more like 500 these days, due to the fields literally going up 1000%.
To every one of them, I said that brighter days are ahead, sponsorship is coming, a big score is coming, things will turn around.
The thing is, if it's a constant theme (and, let's face it, there have been a fair number of players who ran well up to 2005 but who, as I warned, are finding things a lot tougher this year) might it not be the case that something fundamental has changed? In other words, might it not be the case that brighter days are not ahead. That the brighter days are, most definitely, behind?
Americans are, in the main, enviably optimistic and upbeat. It's one of the attributes in them that I can't help but admire. No matter how many times you beat 'em down, they remain convinced that, the next time, they will hit it big. I've met ex-executives serving sandwiches in a casino deli, perfectly happy to talk about losing their six-figure job and how they have plans to do this or do that.
However, although I admire this attribute, mainly because it's a good way to keep yourself sane, in many cases any dispassionate observer would see it for what it is -- self-deception on a grand scale.
The question is, how long should you go on deceiving yourself, and when should you accept reality? No, that isn't the question. The question is, at what point can you conclude rationally that, even though you might have been unlucky, the odds favour the conclusion that you are no longer a long-term winner?
Sklansky et al are, as usual, not much use here. They just say that you should constantly check your figures. If I look at my numbers for the past 12 months, I'm a long-term winner. If I look at them for the past three months, I'm a long-term marginal winner. If I do the same for the past eight weeks, I'm a break-even player, and if I do if tor the past five weeks, I'm a loser. Standard deviation saves the statisticians from the accusation that "well, basically, you are no fucking use at all, are you?"
Poker is a bit like golf. If you start tinkering with your swing, then all the other bits, which used to come naturally, suddenly start feeling strange. I read an interesting thread on 2+2 yesterday, mainly relating to how frequently you should continuation bet on the flop. However, I chose the wrong time to try to implement it -- in the middle of a downswing (neat extension of the golf analogy, huh?). All of a sudden I was floundering all over the place. Moves that were automatic (and you need a lot of automatic moves when you are multi-tabling) became "thinkers". I was a mess. Note to self, if you are going to tinker with your game, cut down on the number of tables that you play.
So, although I am 95% certain that "things will turn around", there remains the nagging 5% uncertainty. Perhaps Americans have that doubt as well, but they seem to think that admitting to its existence is a bad thing, that by denying its possibiility, they make its reality less likely. They hide it away. To the outside world, they are eternally optimistic. Until, eventually, reality cannot be denied. At this point some kinod of massive internal shift occurs, and they go off somewhere else, saying that "I decided that poker wasn't for me".
With reference to Russ Boyd, Paul Phillips wondered why Boyd stuck at poker, when he had screwed up so much and when there were so many other fields of endeavour available. I think that this says a lot more abbout Paul Phillips' attitude to poker (and to life) than it does about Russ Boyd. I don't have much (for which read, "any") sympathy for Russ Boyd, but I can understand why he can't just say "oh, I failed at that, I'll try something else". That's the kind of thing that the Phillips of the world do. relentlessly clever in a particular way, they succeed at one thing, get bored, succeed at something else, get bored, and so on. I can think of two others who have entered and (mainly left) the poker world in London who were like this -- Guy Bowles and Demis Hassabis.
But for people like Russ (and me), poker isn't a choice, it's in the blood. Even as we come to hate the very site and sight of the limit table, we know that we have to struggle on and maintain that possible fiction that the light will be at the end of the tunnel just as we turn the next corner.
We survive, battered, scarred, but, with that eternal phrase, "I'm still here".