All In (11 page)

That dreamed flashed in my mind as I stared at my main event entry form. I knew when my tournament needed to begin: July 7, 2007.

Even though I chose the fourth and final day, I drove to Vegas a day early. I wanted to give myself plenty of time to walk around the Amazon Room and take in the World Series of Poker before I actually started play.

Before that, I wanted to check into my hotel. I took the downtown exit off Interstate 15 and turned right. I nearly made a U-turn.
This can't be right
, I said to myself when I pulled up in front of my hotel. It looked like a scene out of an old cop show. Trash covered the parking lot, and the asphalt was all broken up. A couple of drunks leaned against one of the dilapidated buildings neighboring the casino.

No, no, no, this can't be the place. How am I going to stay here … for twelve days?

I got out of my car, locked it, and walked toward the hotel lobby, leaving my luggage in the trunk. I thought,
If the inside is as bad as the outside, I have to find another place to stay. This won't work.

When Pat from Lake Elsinore had told me the hotel was downtown rather than on the Strip, I hadn't realized the difference. And when he'd told me he was able to get the room for just under $700, I'd thought,
Wow, this must be a really nice hotel.
Clearly, $700 wasn't much in Vegas.

On my way to the lobby door, I stepped around a couple of prostitutes working the street in front of the hotel. Inside, stains spotted the carpet. The lobby itself was dark, even in the daytime. The fluorescent lights gave off a dingy, otherworldly glow. Off to the side of the check-in desk, repairmen worked on one of the two elevators, a large “Out of Order” sign hanging above them.

“What have I gotten myself into?” I said to no one in particular.

I walked to the check-in desk but paused before ringing the bell. Part of me wanted to turn around, walk away, jump in my car, and find another place, anyplace, besides this broken-down dump. But I didn't have a choice. I'd brought enough money to cover only my food.

I let out a long sigh.
Okay, Jerry, this place leaves a lot to be desired, but at least it's paid for
. I took another look around the lobby.
Besides, I've stayed in worse places. A lot worse.

On my way up to my room, the one working elevator
creaked and moaned like a rope about to break. I fully expected it to stop at any moment.

My mind jumped back to the nursing home in Fresno where I'd worked when I was in high school. Back then, I'd clocked in at three in the morning, worked for four hours, then headed off to school. One morning my mop bucket and I had gotten stuck in an elevator for two hours. The Otis Elevator guys had finally shown up and pried the door open, setting me free.

Back then, I'd only been late for class. Listening to the hotel elevator groan now, I wondered,
What if I get stuck in this thing and miss my start time? But what's my other option? Walking down a dark stairwell and getting mugged?

I wished I'd been more specific about where I wanted to stay.

The second I opened my hotel room door, a stench hit me. The room smelled as if a chain smoker had left a pile of wet towels in one corner for a week or so. I flipped the light switch, but it didn't seem to make the room any brighter. The light fixture had turned yellow years before.

How will I ever get any sleep in this place? I can hardly breathe.

I went into the bathroom and turned on the light, which sent roaches scrambling for cover. Mildew crawled up the cracked shower tile.
Just great.

I walked back into the room, sat on the bed, and grabbed the television remote.
Let's at least see what channels they have.
I began pushing buttons. Nothing happened.
That's it.

I picked up the phone and called the front desk.

“May I help you?”

“Yes, this is Jerry Yang. My room has several problems. Would it be possible to move me to another?”

“I'm sorry, sir, but you're already in one of our better rooms.”

I laughed.

I don't think the desk clerk caught the joke.

“Can you at least send up a television remote that works?”

“Coming right up, sir.”

Nothing could dampen my excitement. I wanted to get to the Rio as quickly as possible. Before taking the fifteen-minute drive south on the expressway, though, I stopped at a drugstore and bought a large can of air freshener. Then I went back and emptied all of the contents into my room: in the bathroom, on the drapes and carpets, all around the bed, even a little into the hallway outside my room. If it stunk, I sprayed air freshener on it.

Then I tossed the can in the trash, shut the door, and headed for my car.

When I first walked into the Amazon Room of the Rio, I felt like a four-year-old boy walking through the gates of Disneyland. The place was like a carnival. Brightly colored booths lined the walls, filled with every poker-related thing you could imagine. Everywhere I turned, I saw free giveaways: poker chips, water bottles, magazines, key chains—you name it. I grabbed a plastic bag and went from one booth to the next, collecting free stuff. This way, even if I busted out the first day, I'd have something to show for my time in Vegas.

Once my bag was full, I headed into the room where play
actually takes place. The first day was well under way, and I could feel the excitement in the room. Poker tables went in both directions as far as the eye could see. Giant posters hung on the walls, each one maybe 10 or 12 feet high, showing photographs of all thirty-eight main event champions.

I stood and stared at the giant photos of Johnny Chan, Doyle Brunson, and my favorite player, Chris Ferguson. On the far wall was the photo of Joe Hachem, who'd won the main event that had introduced me to poker two years before. In a sense, he was the one who'd gotten me started. Now here I was, a player, not a spectator, in the very room where he'd won over $5 million.

Like every other player who stands and gawks at the champions' photos, I let myself dream a little.
If only my picture could hang up there.

Before I left the main area, I stepped out of the tourist mode and tried to think like a poker player. I wandered about and watched a few hands at different tables, making a mental note of where ESPN's cameras were, how the room was lit, the spacing between the tables, how the cards were dealt, even the conversations among the players. Basically, I wanted to become familiar with everything so that when I came back the next morning to play, I wouldn't be so in awe of my surroundings that I'd make a fool of myself.

Outside the playing area, I stepped back into the poker carnival. I wanted to meet some of my poker idols. I didn't have to wait long. Standing there in the hallway was Chris “Jesus” Ferguson. A crowd gathered, one after another taking
pictures with him or asking for his autograph.

I waited my turn. At 6 feet 3 inches, Chris towered over me. “Mr. Ferguson,” I said as I held out my hand, “I want to tell you what a thrill it is for me to meet you. I've watched you play on television many times and have learned many things about the game from you.”

He politely thanked me. “Are you here as a player?”

“Yes, I am. I start tomorrow.”

“Well, good luck to you then.” He smiled.

Only after I walked away did I realize I'd forgotten to ask him for an autograph.

Back at my hotel room, I found another surprise waiting for me. The musty, old, wet towel and cigarette stench had now become the musty, old, wet towel, cigarette,
and air freshener
stench. No matter what the label on the can may have said, the spray didn't eliminate odors. It simply added to them.

At least I won't be tempted to oversleep
. I laughed.
I just hope the smell doesn't follow me back to the Rio.

The following morning, my eyes popped open before my alarm sounded. Though I tried to treat this like any other morning, my body didn't want to cooperate. Six hours before play began, the adrenaline was already flowing.

Get a hold of yourself, Jerry. You can't start on tilt. You'll be the first one out for sure if you do.

I tried reading my Bible and praying, but my mind wanted to wander.

For the next thirty minutes, I soaked under a cold shower.
The chilly water snapped me back to where I needed to be. Even after the shower, though, I could feel the tension building inside.

Rather than letting it take over, I sat in a chair, closed my eyes, and went back to Laos. My buddies and I were in our village. No guns boomed in the distance, and no planes flew overhead. The five of us ran the trail to our favorite swimming hole. A waterfall on the river not far from our village emptied into a wide spot and formed a pond. A vine hung from a tree on one side. I saw myself there, the Hmong Tom Sawyer once again, swinging from the vine, splashing and laughing with my friends.

By the time I opened my eyes in my smelly Las Vegas hotel room, all of my anxiety was gone. I was ready to play.

Sitting at a table in the Amazon Room with a stack of 20,000 in chips feels very different than wandering around the room like a tourist. I wasn't nervous, at least not in a fearful way. More than anything, I was excited. I glanced toward the champions' pictures hanging on the walls and saw the image of Chris “Jesus” Ferguson, 2000 WSOP champion.
And I got to meet him yesterday
, I thought.
That was so much fun.
And that's what I'd come here to do: have fun. Just getting here was a victory in itself.

Other players took their seats at my table. They all had a look of excitement and terror as if they were climbing onto a monster roller coaster.

“Hi. I'm Jerry,” I said and offered my hand. “Where are you from? What do you do for a living? Have you been playing poker for a long time? How have you enjoyed the World Series
experience? Is this your first year here?”

In all the tournaments I'd played, I had rarely asked so many questions. However, I had a reason for being so chatty. One player said he lived right there in Vegas. That told me he probably played a lot of poker. Another was from North Dakota, which indicated he probably didn't play quite as much. Since I had never competed against any of these people, I hoped to find any bit of information I could use to gain an advantage.

The dealer took his seat. Play was about to begin. I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out a photograph of my children.
This is for you,
I thought; then I gave the photograph a little kiss before laying it beside my chip stack.

“Good luck charm, Jerry?” another player said.

“No, it's my family. I'm here for them.” It was a message to my opponents. I hadn't come to mess around; I'd come to win.

“Dealers, begin.” The announcement came through the public address system.

“Good luck, gentlemen,” our dealer said and then dealt the first hand.

As I looked at the two cards in front of me, a sense of joy washed over me.
This is really happening
.

I watched as each player looked at their cards. Several were overly excited like me, but in a couple of them I also sensed fear.
Take them out first
, I thought. The adrenaline was flowing.

Each day of the main event is divided into five two-hour rounds with twenty-minute breaks between. As I mentioned, on any given day, Texas Hold 'Em can be 90 percent skill or
90 percent luck, and that especially holds true on the starting days of the World Series of Poker.

During my first round of the 2007 main event, the cards certainly fell my way. I drew pocket aces seven times. There was that number again: seven. I couldn't believe it. Seven sets of pocket aces on 7-7-07. I think God was telling me something.

The first two-hour round ended. Blinds increased. Another two hours flew by, then another. My 20,000 in chips kept growing.

“Wow, Lady Luck is sure on your side today,” one of the players said.

I just smiled. Drawing pocket aces seven times in two hours was certainly lucky, but even after I quit drawing strong hands, I played very well.

When a player gets on this kind of roll, it does something to the others. They hesitate to go up against you, growing increasingly cautious with every card. There's a difference between patience and caution. The latter gives the aggressive player a huge advantage, and I used it for all it was worth, bullying players into folding good hands.

I did not take silly chances or play loose, however. Some players will loosen up when they get on a roll and play hands they normally wouldn't. It doesn't take too many bad hands for a roll to turn into a bust. I stayed patient, picking my spots carefully, not taking foolish chances. No one ever won a main event on the first day, but over 3,000 were sure to lose.

A tone sounded, and an announcement came through the public address system telling us play had ended for the day.
The dealer at each table handed out bags with plastic seals on top. Each player counted his chips and recorded the amount along with his name and hometown on a slip of paper with two carbon copies underneath. One slip went in the bag, one went to the dealer, and one the player kept. Then the bags were sealed and locked away until the second round.

As I counted my chips, one player at my table said, “Wow, you have a lot of chips.”

“Yeah, I guess I do.”

“I'm not joking. I think you have a pretty good shot to cash out.”

“Yeah, I did all right today.”

Another player joined in. “How many do you have? Seventy, eighty thousand?”

“Ninety-nine thousand seven hundred.”

“Whoa.”

I fought the urge to take myself more seriously than I should. “You know, some days are like this. I just got lucky here and there.”

“It takes more than luck to build up a stack like that at this place. You've got to be a pretty good player just to survive, much less get up around $100,000 on the first day.”