My sweetie’s father, Raoul, is some sort of character. He’s a bit older than Filthy Willy, has been married eight or nine times (everyone has lost count) and has daughters younger than my sweetie’s son. He’s tall, stately, dignified looking with a full head of white hair, and looks very much like Cesar Romero (when Cesar Romero was alive, that is). Every single night he goes out either to dance, or to sing karaoke (well, he calls it singing, but anyone who’s had to listen to him bellow six choruses of “I Did it My Way” might beg to differ), or to play poker.
What he calls playing poker, that is.
He once told me that Barbara inherited 98 percent of the poker talent in the family, while he got the other 2 percent. He wildly overestimates his share. While he may do OK in low-limit hold’em games—or at least he says he does–his passion is Omaha, a game for which he is about as suited as Big Denny would be for dancing ballet in Swan Lake. He does have amazing stamina, though. When he goes to Vegas, he can stay up two or three nights straight playing cards. Or maybe it’s because he doesn’t want to waste money on a hotel room that he could be using for poker.
It’s unfortunate, but the subtleties of Omaha seem to completely escape him. I think the only time he ever won at it was when his table shared a jackpot that two other players hit. I once played at his table, and felt so sorry for him that I only check-raised him 12 times and tried not to peek at his cards, except when I absolutely had to.
Raoul doesn’t wear glasses, but he is farsighted, and holds his Sbobet88 cards about three feet up in the air and three feet away from him. Not only can everyone at the table see his hand, so can everybody at the other tables … even at the tables in the restaurant. Everyone in the casino can read his cards better than he can. …