Sometimes, a hand can haunt you for years. I keep thinking back to one from this year's World Series of Poker.
With blinds at 50-100, an opponent called Juliano limped in on my right. Juliano had told me he was playing the main event for the first time, as a tribute to his late father. This, combined with the fact that he had not played a hand since the start, told me that he had no intention of bluffing on day one. When he limped, I put him on a small to medium pair, looking to hit a set.
My hand was 4♣ 5♣. This is a nice little hand for seeing a flop cheap and early, so I limped behind. An active youngster on the button raised to 400; Juliano called and I called.
The flop came a miraculous 6♥ 7♦ 8♠. Juliano checked and I checked, knowing the button would definitely bet. I was discounting his hand – it could be any old rubbish – but I knew he would make a continuation stab. He duly bet 1,200, called by Juliano, and I check-raised to 6,500. The button folded and Juliano called. Interesting. Cold-calling a bet and a check-raise? I hoped he had hit his set.
But the turn was 8♥. Now I hoped he hadn't hit his set. When he checked, I checked behind.
The river came 2♦ and Juliano bet 11,000. The alarm bells rang so loud, I practically got tinnitus. Why bet out on a paired, straightening board, after that strong flop action, with two pair? Too dangerous for a careful player. I swallowed and folded.
On the break, my fellow British player John Duthie told me: "85% he had a full house." But it comes back to me at traffic lights, in the bath, in my dreams: that 15%, that 15% . . .
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