Two Ante Up Ambassadors Walk Into a Poker Room...

The first night of my March Madness trip, I finally met Dave Palm. 

Dave (and yes, that’s his real name) is my Los Angeles counterpart for Ante Up Magazine.  Like me, Dave does a monthly column about the poker scene in his assigned territory.  (We’re actually called “Ambassadors” so show us some respect!).  He covers the Los Angeles rooms—you know, The Bike, Commerce, Hollywood Park, Hawaiian Gardens and Hustler).  Like me, Dave lives in the L.A. area.  Unlike me, he lives near the territory he covers for Ante Up.

I first heard from Dave not long after I started writing for Ante Up.  Turns out he reads the blog (in other words, he is a man of impeccable taste) and was surprised to learn I live in L.A., not Vegas.  We emailed and tweeted back and forth about getting together for some poker and to compare notes.  You would think we would have been able to arrange a day and time to get together in L.A.—say at a poker room, like the Bike—since we both live here.  But we always kept missing each other.  We just never were available at the same time.  Often when he would suggest a joint visit to the Bike, I’d be in Vegas.  Last year when he hit Vegas during WSOP time, it was during the short period of time that I was in L.A. 

But early this year, Dave told me he was going to be in Vegas on St. Patrick’s Day and for a few days later.  It turned out that his last night in town was going to be my first day in town, the night before the official start of March Madness (assuming you don’t count those annoying “play-in games”)  So we both agreed to do our best to get together for some Vegas poker.

Dave was staying at Harrah’s and so we agreed to meet in the poker room there.  I hadn’t played at Harrah’s since they moved their room last year, so it was a good opportunity to check it out.  So after settling in to my room in Vegas and having some dinner, I headed over to Harrah’s.

Dave told me that he was wearing a Tigers shirt.  But he noticed me wondering around looking for someone first.  He was already in a game, and after we exchanged pleasantries, I got on the list for a 1/2 game.  One of Dave’s first comments to me was, “Hey, maybe you’ll get a blog post out of this.”  I said, “Yeah, that’s what I’m here for.  That’s my number one priority.”  He responded that my priorities may be a bit messed up.

Even before I got into the game, I noticed that Dave was taking advantage of the fact that Harrah’s offers the button straddle.  Ugh.  I groaned and he said, “Hey, if they offer it, it’s +EV to take advantage of it every time.”  I didn’t get into a debate with him.  Or tell him that I did a long post once entitled, “Why I Loathe The Button Straddle,” which you can find here.  All I did was ask which version of the BS (short for “Button Straddle”) they used.  He said first action was on the small blind—in other words, the worst form of the BS imaginable (again, read the post I just linked to for an explanation as to why this the worst form of BS).

After I got my name on the list, I went over and saw that they had the latest issue of Ante Up, which was good because they were all out of them at the Bike when I visited there 10 days earlier.  I strongly considered taking the issue, going over to the guy who was running the room, showing him Dave’s column as well as mine (and which have a pictures) and explaining to him that he had two “celebrities” in the room tonight.  But it would have been too out of character for me to call attention to myself like that.

I got called to a different table (they had 4 1/2 games going) but just then a spot at Dave’s table opened and I took that instead.  We were on opposite sides of the table and trying to carry on a conversation was a bit problematic.  But after a few orbits, the seat to Dave’s immediate right opened and I moved over there.  Now, I had seen enough of Dave’s play to realize he was a real good player, no doubt much better than me.  But there was no way I was going to sit on Dave’s left. No way was I gonna put myself in a position where I’d get button straddled every time I was the small blind.  So I preferred being on his right.

Dave seemed to be having a good night, he hit a few big suckouts and had lotsa chips.  At least he hadn’t won any from me.  I was so card dead I barely played a hand for the longest time.  As it was my first night in town, I was just trying to ease into things anyway and didn’t see any need to try anything cute with a weak hand.  Besides, it was an action table and I felt like if I made a hand, I would likely get paid off.  I lowered my calling standards a bit trying to find that hand, but the crap I was getting was unplayable under any circumstances.

While sitting next to Dave, I realized this momentous occasion needed to be recognized, so I sent out the following tweet:  “Playing 1-2 @POKERHLV with @Dave_Palm. @anteupmagazine Ambassadors game.”  And Dave tweeted back, “thankfully I have position and am a luckbox.”  I responded with a retweet of Dave’s tweet and the addendum “ßtrue dat.”

We had a great time trading stories and impressions of Vegas & L.A. poker rooms.  And of course, poker in general.  Now, the Lakers were on TV, getting their asses kicked as per usual this year, and so at one point Dave said, “Thank god the Lakers are bad this year.”

Dem’s fighting words.  I said, “You hate the Lakers?  We have nothing further to discuss.”

Well, as it happened, the cocktail waitress had just come over to us at that point to deliver our drinks.  And she thought my last comment was meant for her.  “What I’d do?  What I’d do?”

“No, no,” I explained. “I was talking to him.  You’re wonderful.”

This thrilled her.  “I’m wonderful?  Could you say that louder, please.”  And then as she walked away, I heard her saying several times—not sure to whom—“I’m wonderful.  Did you hear that, I’m wonderful!”

Truth be told, I was very impressed with the cocktail service.  I have to say, it was the best cocktail service I’d ever seen in a poker room, or at least since a certain blonde bombshell waitress had a baby and got married and retired (see here).  Really.  We were served by two different waitresses during the evening and I’m pretty sure there was never more than five minutes when the waitress wasn’t in the poker room.  It was fantastic.

So when I told the woman she was wonderful, I actually meant it.

Another time she saw me writing in my notebook.  She said to me, "Oh, come on....it's not that interesting."  First time a waitress ever commented on my note-taking!

But back to Dave.  Of course, the Tigers shirt was a tip-off.  It was the Detroit Tigers, not the LSU Tigers.  Dave is an escapee from Michigan so he likes the Pistons.  At least they’re not having a better year than the Lakers are!  We did spend some time reminiscing about the great Lakers-Pistons rivalry from the late ‘80’s.

After what seemed like forever I finally got a hand to play, Ace-Queen in late position.  After a few limpers, I made it $15 and only one person called.  Nothing on the flop but my c-bet took it down.  Very next hand I got a low pocket pair and limped in.  All the cards on the flop were higher than mine.  But when it checked to me, and with only one player left behind me, I decided to take a stab at it and bet.  No one called.

Then, in the cut-off seat, I looked down at the dreaded pocket Kings.  Now, if I was in the cut-off seat that meant that Dave was the button which meant he was BS’ing.  As in Button straddling.  Three or four limped in (for $4), so when it got to me I made it $25.  Only one player called, the only woman at the table.  The flop was low enough—no King, no Ace.  I bet $40 and she thought for a bit but folded.  As I collected the pot, I whispered to Dave, “My favorite hand.”

He responded, “Oh, I thought it was the ‘dreaded’ hand.”  “Yeah, that’s what I meant.  ‘Favorite’ was in quotes.”  Everyone who reads this silly blog knows what my “favorite” hand is.

By now I had found some hands to play and all that did was cost me chips.  I was down to about $155 from my $200 buy-in.  Under the gun, I limped in with pocket deuces and had to call a raise to $10 to see the flop.  Four of us saw the flop, which was 9-7-2, two hearts.   I led out for $25 and had one caller, a new player who had just come to the table.  The turn was a 10, a non-heart.  With $119 left, I just put it all in.  The guy thought for a long time, asked for a count (we had similar stacks, actually).   Finally he said, “If you’re already ahead, I’ve got outs,” and called.  The river was a blank and I showed my set of deuces.   He showed pocket 8’s.  So he had picked up the open-ender on the turn.  And missed.  (Edited to add:  Until I saw Dave's comment below (under "Unknown") I had forgotten that Dave totally called my hand (before I had to show it).  He could tell by my bets that I had the pocket deuces.  He's good.  Or I played my hand face up--getting accused of that a lot lately).

One more hand I’ll discuss.  In late position, I had pocket Jacks.  The lady who folded to my Kings earlier raised to $7 and another player called before it got to me.  I’m three-betting with Jacks more and more often these days.  This woman had been very active at the table, but more for calling a lot of hands than for raising.  So I made it $25.  The lady re-raised to $95.  Gulp.

The other guy folded and I thought for quite awhile but finally folded.  Dave asked me, “The dreaded hand?”  I laughed.  “No, I’m not folding Kings.  Lower than that.”  “Jacks?”  “Yeah—do you think it was a bad laydown?”  He emphatically said no, it was not a bad laydown.

And that was about it.  I played a little longer but as it was just my first night in town, I didn’t want to stay up too much longer.  I cashed out up $60 and said goodbye to Dave.

The room at Harrah’s was good.  They recently added some tables and the action was good.  They had 4-5 tables full all the time I was there.  And the room was well-run.

While I was so close to it, I did want to check out The Linq for the first time, since it was mostly open by then.  The Linq is basically a shopping and restaurant area between The Quad and Flamingo.  The famous High Roller “observation wheel” hadn’t opened at this time (it has opened since) but frankly, I’m not really interested in spending $35 to stand up in confined space with 30 strangers for half an hour.  But I did walk the length of the Linq and didn’t really see anything that wowed me at all, Just some bars, restaurants and stores.  But then, I don’t suppose I’m their target demographic.

I was curious about something called The Brooklyn Bowl.  I wasn’t sure if this was an actually bowling alley or not.  It seemed to be a place that hosted musical acts.  The name didn’t convince me.  After all, I’ve been to the Rose Bowl in Pasadena and there are no bowling lanes there.

But yes, apparently this place offers bowling in addition to the current musical acts.  So now, bowling is so cool that you can mix it with rock groups?  When did bowling get to be cool?  In my day, only dorks went bowling.  I know, cuz I was one of the dorks.

I also checked out O’Sheas, newly re-opened.  I already knew that, unlike the previous O’Sheas, this was not a stand-alone casino.  No, it’s built into the side of the Quad.  But the dealers and waitresses do wear different uniforms than they do at the Quad.

And I was done for the day.  All in all, a very nice first day in Vegas.  Won about $60 playing poker, had a great time with a fellow Ante Up Ambassador (and glad to finally meet Dave) and got my exploration of the Linq accomplished.

And played in a Vegas poker room that I hadn’t (technically, at least) played in before.

"You're the Best Player at the Table"

This one goes back to late April.  And this is another of those sessions when the poker room was back in its old location, right next to the new nightclub that had just opened and had thus attracted The Slut Parade.  And yes, that comes into play.

Early on I had Ace-3 of spades in the small blind.  No one had raised, so I limped in for a buck.  Two low spades on the flop so I had my nut flush draw.  Everyone checked.  A red 2 on the turn gave me a gutshot in addition to the flush draw.  Again I checked.  I suppose with all those outs I should have bet, but I was very new at the table and didn’t have a read on anyone, so I played it chickenshit nitty.

The next guy bet $10 and the other guy made it $20.  With only one card to come, I was tempted to fold, but I had too many outs. I called and the first bettor folded.  A four of spades on the river gave me both the wheel and the flush, though not a straight flush.  Still, it was indeed the nuts. So I bet $25.  The other guy started pissing and moaning about the third spade, but reluctantly called.  He folded his hand in disgust when I showed my hand.  I’m sure it was exactly what he thought I had (although he probably didn’t think I had the straight too).

I had pocket Aces in early position and made it $8. There were two callers.  One of the callers had made a big deal about showing a bluff he had successfully pulled off (not against me) not that long ago.  That plays into this hand.  The flop was Jack high, with 2 diamonds and I did not have the Ace of diamonds.  I bet out $20 and the guy who had showed his bluff earlier made it $50.  The other guy folded. 

Always mindful—perhaps too mindful—of not losing “too much” money with just a top pair or overpair hand, I considered folding.  But I couldn’t stop thinking about the bluff the guy had shown.  I went ahead and called.

The turn was a blank, some low, black card.  I checked and he put out another $50.  He had me covered by quite a bit.  Again my inclination was to just let it go.  And you know what?  If the guy hadn’t shown the bluff, I probably would have.  And yes, yes, I know.  The reason he showed his bluff so was that he could get action when he actually had a hand.  I knew that.  I knew I could be falling into his trap.  Still, my gut told me to call, so I did.

The river was another brick and when I checked, this time he checked behind me.  He flipped over a busted flush draw.  My Aces were good.

In early position I had pocket 10’s  I raised to $10 and the young guy on my immediate left made it $30.  He had not been a particularly aggressive player.  It folded back to me.  I suppose that would have been a good place to fold there, with just the two of us.  I couldn’t recall him three-betting before.  But I called.  The flop was Queen high and missed me, I checked and he bet out $30.  I just folded.  I suppose he could have Ace-King or even a lower pocket pair, but I just didn’t think it was worth risking any more money there.  I was right, he flashed me his pocket Aces before pushing his cards to the dealer.

In early position I had Ace-King spades, I raised to $8.  Two called.  The flop was King-10-x, no spades.  I bet $20.  The first guy folded, the other guy, who was relatively new at the table, shoved for a total of $69.  I feared a set, but the guy was all in and I could lose no more than $69, I figured that calling made sense. The board blanked out and he showed a set of 10’s. 

I had to call a raise to $8 with pocket 6’s.  The raiser was an aggro Detroit Tigers fan (based on the fact that he was wearing a Tigers baseball cap).  This guy played a lot of hands and raised a lot.  I think it was just the two of us. The flop was King-6-x, two hearts.  He bet out $12 and I raised to $35.  Too much?  He grabbed his chips to call, put his hand out over the betting line….and then pulled back.  At some rooms that would be a call, but not here.  He thought about it a long time, but finally folded.  He did show a King.  I was really surprised he folded.

Then there was the hand against a Norwegian.  He seemed like kind of typical Euro aggro, tho perhaps not quite as aggro as most.  I had 8-7 offsuit in the small blind.  There were a bunch of limpers but no raise, so I came in for a buck.  There was both an 8 and a 7 on the flop, but I’m unsure about the third card.  I thought it was a King.  Based on a comment the Norwegian made, I may be wrong about that.  So I bet out $6 and the Norwegian made it $26.  When it got back to me, everyone else had folded; it was just the two of us. 

So I eyed his remaining stack and he only had $40-$50 left, a lot less than me.  So, I wasn’t all that concerned about the board.  I definitely had two pair there and I’m not going anywhere with it.  I suppose I should have put him all in, but I just called, assuming he was gonna shove the turn and that I would call.

The turn, I’m pretty sure, was a three, and he indeed shoved.  I indeed called. 

As the dealer was putting out the river card, he said to me, “You have a straight?”  I really didn’t think a straight was even possible.  I started to study the board when I saw the river card; it was another 8, filling me up.  I suddenly no longer cared about a straight.

I said, “No, I have a boat.”  And showed my cards.  He was really pissed.  He said that I hit a two-outer.  He said I got real lucky.  He said he had the nuts.

But he didn’t show his cards.  Afterwards—and the next day, even—I tried hard to think about the hand.  What did I get wrong?  The way I noted it, there was never any straight possible.  Why was he worried about me having one?  And what did he mean by the nuts?  The best hand until the river would have been a set of Kings.  And then he would have had a bigger full house than I had on the river.  Unless I was mistaken about the third flop card being a King.  I know it sounds bad that I can’t tell you with 100% certainty what the third card was, but as I said, with the amount of money he had left, I wasn’t going away even if the third card was 9 or a 6—and I am sure it was neither.  And the board was not monotone, either.

I don’t remember exactly how he said it, but he somehow made it clear that he thought I was a bad player.  OK, fine.  But I didn’t bother to point out to him that if he had a bigger stack behind him, I might indeed have played it differently.

With my pal Mike dealing, aka the guy who always cracks my Kings (as if that’s a challenge), I got the dreaded hand and raised to $8.  Only one called.  The flop was Ace high and I put out $12.  The other guy tanked a long time, then folded.  See, it is possible for Mike to not crack my Kings.

Then an early position player raised to $10, another guy called and in late position, I decided to call with Ace-Queen offsuit.  Now that I think about it, that’s a bad play, I should have folded.  But I did have position.

But I did like the flop.  It was King-Jack-10.  Nice to flop Broadway.  The preflop raiser and the other player both checked.  There were two hearts on the board, and I had no hearts, so I wasn’t about to slow play that.  I bet $20.  They both folded.

I got pocket Queens in early position and bet $8.  Four players called.  That was scary.   The flop was 10-8-5, rainbow.  So I led out for $35.  Only one guy called.  The turn was a 3.  I put out $50.  The other player tanked for awhile and then folded. 

That’s about it for the poker.  There was one player at the table I want to mention.  He came to our table and sat next to me for the second half of my session.  He was from Boston.  I knew that the second he opened his mouth, it was the accent.  He was a friendly fellow, chatty but not excessively so.  Nice guy.  For awhile he was a regular in the room, though this was the first time I can recall seeing him.  He must have seen me before though, based on a comment he had made.  I haven’t seen him lately, though.

In keeping with a tradition I started here,  I’ll give this guy a blog name based on something Boston is famous for.  So let’s call him Clam Chowder.  The one thing I didn’t like about Clam Chowder was that he almost immediately expressed his love for all of the Boston sports team.  Yes, that would include a certain basketball team which will go unmentioned here, since I try to avoid using either the F-word or the C-word on this blog (the c-word, in this case, is the name of said Boston basketball team).  So he kind of lost me there.  He was actually talking quite a bit about the Boston teams and found a guy across the table who was also a fan of that basketball team.  They were having a good time talking about the glory days and I stayed out of it.  Insisting that the Lakers are superior to said team from Boston would only get me into trouble.  It would be like getting in a discussion of politics at the poker table.  Best to stay out.  I remained totally silent the whole time hoops were being discussed.  But unlike the guy from Philly in the story I just linked to, this guy was not at all obnoxious, as I said, he was a nice guy.

We didn’t really get into any hands together.  I believe there was one time I had raised preflop and he called.  I made a c-bet on a flop that missed me, and he folded and made a comment about giving me respect.  That was about it.

But at one point during the game, he grabbed my arm—yes, he actually grabbed my arm—and said, “You know what?  You know what I think?  I’m gonna say this.  My impression is, you’re the best player at this table.”

That was a shock.  “Really, oh thank you,” I said.

He continued, “Yeah, you sit here every night, and you don’t play like a tourist.”

I said, “Well, the Norwegian doesn’t think so.”

He just laughed.

Now Clam Chowder was definitely noticing the girls who had started to assemble for the club.  He didn’t make a lot of comments, at least, he wasn’t using actual words.  But he was kind of making some kind of sounds as he would notice some of the girls.  Whispered shrieks, groans, and a lot of head shaking.

But at one point we were chatting and suddenly I missed something he said.  I believe I was suddenly distracted by a girl—or a group of girls—wearing a short dress.  Or a tight dress.  Or a low-cut dress.  Or all three.

I apologized and asked him to repeat what he had said.

“That’s ok.  You were looking at the pussy.”

In fact, regrettably, that was the rather improper term he used for the young ladies who were gathering to get into the night club.

Such vulgarity.  Totally uncalled for.  Doesn’t he know there’s a much nice, more appropriate word to use for the ladies who go to the club wearing the least amount of clothing the law will allow?

It’s "sluts", of course.

Anyway, when I left, after having a profitable night, I said goodbye, nice playing with you, that sort of thing.

Then I added, “You’re a real nice guy for a Celtics fan.”

He just laughed.  Although I hadn’t discussed the Lakers the entire night, and hadn’t said one word while that offensive basketball team was being discussed, he knew exactly what I meant.

And yes, I know I just violated my own rule with the use of a vulgarity.  It’s my blog and I’ll swear if I want to.

Ok, one Red Sox pic.  They did win the World Series, after all.  At least it wasn't that damn basketball team.

Worst Choke Ever; Worst Coaching Job Ever

I’m afraid we must now interrupt Rob’s Vegas & Poker Blog and temporarily replace it with Rob’s NBA Finals blog.  I apologize to those of you who have no interest in the NBA, and to those of you who came back here looking for the second part of the post I put up on Monday evening.  I know it’s bad that I would interrupt a two-parter like this—although, truth be told, considering the reaction (or lack thereof), my last post got, perhaps you’re all tiring of crazy women stories and maybe I should change this to an NBA blog. Anyway, the regularly scheduled part 2 of my last post will appear shortly, whether anyone wants it to or not.

But I have to interrupt that story to vent about last night’s game and more importantly, the totally agony that one of my friends and fellow bloggers/tweeters put me through.  This post goes in the category of “No good deed goes unpunished.”

I was already in a bad mood. I had awakened way too early this morning—reason #1 for my bad mood.  The reason I got up early was because I had a dentist appointment.—reason #2.

Then I was still somewhat annoyed at last night’s game.  It was one of the all time great NBA finals games but the good guys, the Spurs, just gave the game—and their only “real” chance to win the NBA title—away with some unbelievably horrific play and some horrendous coaching decisions.  Now, long time readers will note that I’m a Lakers fan, not a Spurs fan.  In fact, the Spurs are a major rival of the Lakers, and knocked the Lakers out of the playoffs in the first round this year.

So why do I call the Spurs the good guys?  Because every single person on Earth who is not from Miami hates the Heat and therefore their favorite team is “Whoever is playing the Heat.”  And so I’m one of those Heat haters.

That said, I’m not really going to lose any sleep if the Heat win and the Spurs lose.  I have a mild preference for the Spurs because the Heat are—well, the Heat.  But it’s not the end of the world.  If the Lakers had choked as badly as the Spurs did last night—and just handed the NBA championship over to the other team, I would be beyond inconsolable.  I would be looking for the nearest casino parking structure to drive off of.

As I was about to retire last night, it occurred to me that my friend, Coach, is a Spurs fan, living in Texas and all.  I could only imagine how he must have felt.  I thought, out of the goodness of my heart, I would reach out to Coach and offer my sympathies.  A virtual “there, there” pat on the back via Twitter.  What could be nicer?

So I tweeted to Coach, “How ya doing? What a tough loss. Worse choke of all time?”

The next morning I get a tweet back, “I'm fine. I'm sure that you're talking about the officials, choking on their whistles???”

In hindsight, I should have let it go, let him live with his fantasy that the Spurs were robbed instead of the more obvious explanation, which is, they friggin’ blew it.

Of course the Spurs choked, that was obvious to anyone who had watched the game.  A four-point lead, with the ball, with 2 free throws coming to them with 28 seconds to go and you lose?

That’s a choke.  Calling Mr. Heimlich.

Which brings us to the fourth reason I was in a bad mood this morning.  Because of the unique nature of the game, because of the Spurs’ epic fail, and because it went to overtime, I didn’t get to do any writing last night, too busy watching the game and the follow up commentary.  I watched the guys on ESPN and on NBA TV to get their takes on the game.  Everyone agreed with me.  It was an epic choke job.  Duh.

I thought I heard someone say it was the worst choke job ever. That’s a bar argument for sports fanatics, what’s the worst choke of all time?  But certainly in the immediacy of the Spurs’ choke, last night’s game was a contender for the title.

So it was in that context that I asked Coach if it was the worst choke of all time.  I think I would definitely feel it was if it had been my team.

But he was blaming the officials on this?  Wow.  Yes, there were two non-calls at the very end that went against them.  But before that, as a fairly neutral observer, I felt the Spurs had gotten all the officiating breaks up until then.

So I tweeted back to Coach:  “got the best of the officiating until the 2 non-calls at the end (fouls on Ginobili & Green). Pop worst coaching job ever.”

“Pop” is the nickname of Spurs coach Gregg Popovich, considered to be the best coach in the NBA now that Phil Jackson has retired.  It was my opinion that Popovich’s bad coaching decisions were a lot more responsible for the loss than any bad calls the officials may have made.

Twitter limits you to 140 characters. Despite what all my readers think, brevity is not my strong suit.  In order to get your point across without doing a 10 page blog post, you have to use short-hand, you have to use hyperbole (that’s exaggeration for you Celtics fans out there).  I’m sure there have been worse coaching night’s in the NBA, maybe even in the finals, maybe even to give away a championship.  But this was certainly not Pop’s best night. 

I had come to that conclusion while watching the game, and saw almost all the commentators who I watched make the same observations I did.  Pop had made some bad decisions that had been disastrous.  I’ll get to those in a minute.

Coach tweeted back: “Stick to poker Rob.”

OK, now I was officially pissed.  I supposed I should have taken that as a compliment to my great poker strategy expertise.  But that’s not how it struck me.

I don’t follow football all that closely these days; I haven’t since L.A. lost both its football teams in the same year.  And it’s been a lot longer since I paid much attention to baseball, losing interest when the Designated Hitter rule ruined the game for me.  And hockey?  I still don’t know what “icing the puck” is. Isn’t the puck always iced?

But basketball?  I know basketball.  That’s my sport.  I dunno how old Coach is, but I think there’s a good chance I’ve been following the NBA since before he was born.  I go back to the mid 1960’s when the Lakers were led by Jerry West and Elgin Baylor.  I’ve seen every NBA Finals since then.  I even watched the entire 1978 series, which was the last time a road team won a game 7 in the finals.

So the implication that I didn’t know what I was talking about, when all the experts were pretty much parroting everything I had thought while watching the game, just really irked me.

So I got in a twitter war with Coach, where he clearly didn’t get that my comment about the coaching was hyperbole and he didn’t realize that my comment about the worst choke of all time was a question.  And suddenly he was demanding that I defend my comments. 

Which I could, and will, but it’s hard to do it in a tweet.  So for short-hand again, I mentioned that I thought it was Magic Johnson that had called it the biggest choke in history.  He dismissed that because Magic had made a bad prediction earlier in the season.

Now, a prediction is one thing, and an observation about something that just happened is another thing.  Not the same thing at all.  So Coach, do you really want it on record that if a guy makes a bad sports prediction, you shouldn’t give any credence to anything he says?  You sure about that?

Turns out, after checking my DVR, I was wrong, Magic didn’t call it the worst choke of all time.  He did say the Spurs choked (duh).  I got confused with what Bill Simmons said on the same broadcast.  Simmons is a sports historian (and a—yuch—Celtics fan).  He said it was the worst loss in 25 years.  And he meant in the NBA finals.  And he went back to a game the Pistons lost to the Lakers the year before the “Bad Boys” won their first title.  So I combined the two in my mind.  BTW, later Simmons compared the Spurs lose to the Red Sox losing the World Series to the Mets when the ball when thru Buckner’s legs.  Aren’t you also a Red Sox fan, Coach?  Was that a choke? 

It doesn’t matter, because what they were saying was close enough to my own feelings, I was just using that as short hand.  Coach tried to insult me by saying I was acting like a disgruntled Lakers fan, which I don’t get.  The Lakers weren’t playing.  I suppose I might have been acting like a disgruntled Spurs fan, which I’m not.  I’m a disgruntled Heat-hater.

Anyway, I was already running late for my appointment, so I cut it off and knew I would have to address this further.  Fortunately, I have a blog, even though it’s not supposed to be about sports.  And Coach has a blog too, and he’s already made his case here.  Now, here’s my case.

If Coach doesn’t think the Spurs choked that game away, he’s pretty much the only one on the planet.   They missed two free throws and two defensive rebounds in the last 28 seconds of the game.  Any one of four of those and they are planning a parade in San Antonio right now.

If you don’t protect a 4 point lead with 28 seconds in a game and you have the ball and you have two free throws coming….that’s a choke.  It doesn’t matter that you were the underdogs before the series started.  What matters is that you had the championship in your hand.  It matters that they were already roping off the floor to protect the court from onrushing fans for the championship celebration.  It matters that they were actually in the process of wheeling out the trophy, the Spurs were so sure of victory.  It matters that even the Heat’s own fans had given up all hope, and had started exiting the arena.

And you lose that game and it’s not an epic choke?  Ridiculous.

Now, as for how big a choke it is?  Well, sure there have been other games, other series, that were more in hand than this one. There have been 20 point leads in the last 6 minutes blown, 8 point leads in the last minute blown.  Big favorites have gone down, of course they have.

But this was no regular season game, no early playoff series game.  The friggin’ NBA championship was on the line, it was right there for the Spurs’ taking.  If it was the biggest choke of all time, it was because of the stakes.  They were 28 seconds from spraying champagne all over each other and they frickin’ blew it.  That’s an epic choke.

If any NBA team was ever in a better position to win a championship that close to the end of the game and lost, please let me know.

As for Popovich’s horrific coaching decisions, where do I begin?  Let’s start with an easy one.  He had a guy playing in his very first basketball game play 35 minutes for him.  Can you imagine that?

What am I talking about?  Surely that guy named “Manu Ginobili” had never seen a basketball before last night.  I know a guy with the same name and same appearance had a great game two nights early.  But that clearly was a different guy.  The Ginobili guy last night was pretty much the worst excuse for a basketball player I’ve ever seen.  He was just awful. 

The Spurs have a great bench, that’s what we’ve been told.  And he couldn’t find anyone on it to play some of those minutes for a guy who couldn’t have played any worse if he tried?  Really?  I mean, yours truly would have done less damage to the Spurs playing in Ginobili’s spot.  Hell, Popovich should have stripped down to his shorts and taken Ginobili’s place himself.   It would have been a vast improvement over Ginobili’s plus-minus “-21”.

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, yeah I’m using that hyperbole again.  But seriously, with the nightmare game he was having, he surely didn’t need to play so many minutes.

Taking Duncan out not once but twice in the final 28 seconds was mind-boggling.  Great idea, taking your best defensive stopper, your best rebounder, a instant Hall of Famer, arguably the best power-forward ever and one of the top 25 players of all time out of the game at crunch time.

The first time was worse because the Heat had time to drive to the hoop instead of settling for a three.  Didn’t Pop see what LeBron did when the Pacers took out Hibbert in that game?  But LeBron took a three instead of driving.  Lucky Pop.  Oh wait….with no Duncan to get that rebound, LeBron scores on a second chance shot.  Pop should remember what Pat Riley used to say, “No rebounds, no rings.”

No, actually, that wasn’t the worst.  The worst was the second time.  I thought it spoke for itself, with Bosh getting the offensive rebound and feeding Allen for the game tying shot.  But when I watched the end of regulation again this afternoon, I noticed something else.

When Leonard was on the line taking two free throws (which, if he had made both, the game is over), Duncan was in the game.  Of course Leonard missed the first.  It was only then that Duncan came out.  And both teams were out of time outs by then. 

Bad enough you didn’t have Duncan on the floor at the other end to get the defensive rebound.  But with only a two-point lead, how the hell do you take Duncan out when you don’t know Leonard is going to make the second free throw?  You have to keep Duncan in there—who is, I repeat their best rebounder and one of the best rebounders of all time—in case Leonard misses.  You need him in there to try to get that rebound.

Total bonehead move.

Then, at the end of the overtime, they have Parker out for defensive reasons.  Totally understandable, plus he’s nursing a sore hamstring and must be exhausted.  But when you get the ball back with a chance to win down by one, how the hell do you not call time-out there to get your best clutch player (Parker) back in the game?  Instead you trust things to Ginobili who’s playing for the Heat this night.  And instead of setting up a play, you just wing it???

I know, you would like to take a shot before the Heat can set up their defense.  But really, you have to get Parker in there at the end, he’s your best option if you don’t have a set play, right?  Either way, winging it or set play, you have to call time out and get him in the game.

Instead, Ginobili carries the ball like a running back.  He doesn’t even look like he’s making a basketball play.  Sure he may have been fouled, but he had no chance of making a shot anyway the way he was caring the ball.  Because last night, he was the worst player on the floor whenever he was in the game.

OK, was it the worst coaching job ever?  No, probably not.  Worst coaching performance by a Hall of Fame coach in close-out game that he had been thisclose to winning?  Maybe.  Just maybe.

Well, that’s it. Sorry I had to do that, but I needed to get that off my chest.

And I’ve learned my lesson.  I’ll never again try to soothe the feelings of a blogger who I feel may be suffering from a bad sports beat. So when the Blackhawks lose the Stanley Cup, you can bet I won’t be sending any consoling “there there” tweets to Lightning.

((Edited to add:  Congrats to the Heat, 2013 NBA champions.  Game 7 was a much better game than I expected, the Spurs hung tough.  Great series, but the Spurs will forever live with the fact that they had the Championship in their hands and couldn't hold on to it.))

Jerry Buss 1933 - 2013

The original post has been taken down out of respect to the Buss family

R.I.P., Jerry Buss