In elementary school I got beat up everyday by Jarett Moore. We were about the same size, but for some reason when he picked on me, I wouldn’t fight back.
Thirty years later the sense of shame for never fighting back is still palpable. Actually, it’s embarrassing and haunting. The only comfort I have in these memories is that by not fighting back I probably avoided living my life with a limp. Had I somehow managed to level Jarett, his brother or one of his 57 cousins would have removed my head and shat down my throat. R.I.P.
After thirty years on the shrink’s couch, I have finally learned to stand up for myself, though sometimes my timing is bad. Whenever there is a bully at the poker table, I always have the same knee jerk reaction: you’re not going to push me around. This is great when I have the nuts, but when I am on a stone cold bluff and Joe Bully re-raises, this reaction is a recipe for disaster.
Problem is, I never believe people’s bets. My rational brain thinks there is a chance I am beat, but my alligator brain says, EAT THAT FISH. You see, I have this gift. With 99% accuracy, I can mistakenly think someone is bullying me when they are not.
I realize that the poker table is a very expensive and completely unsympathetic place to work out my childhood turmoils. When I am feeling strong, I look for and attack the poor suckers who have the tell tale signs of being in poker therapy. And yet some nights my childhood gets the better of me. I am the sucker and have a very expensive poker therapy session.
You’d think by now I would pick a new place to work this out, but I have come to terms with the fact that from time to time I will find sadistic comfort in being picked on. I guess I am addicted to the rush of confrontation and the challenge of standing up to the bully. Even if the only person I am fighting with is myself.
Why do you play? Let me know at stories@whydoiplaypoker.net
