By Tony Dunst
Strangely enough, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been to Nottingham. That’s not a city I thought I’d ever see, and like most people my only prior association was the ‘Sheriff Of’ from the Robin Hood stories. There’s a statue of him there; plus a couple of universities and many bars. Otherwise, I’m not sure why you’d visit Nottingham…unless you’re a poker player heading to Dusk Till Dawn.
While there’s a handful of casino games on offer, Dusk Till Dawn is a card-room in the purest sense. Poker is the building’s theme, with pictures of past champions on the walls and the tables arranged in a half-circle to invoke an arena.
When there’s a tournament series on, they build the center table into a ready-to-stream ‘Final Table.’ The English are fond of watching these finals with a drink in hand and abusing the friends who made it. Here, poker is a sport where the atmosphere promotes the battle; a very different and infectious energy from the serious tone of American finals.
But maybe you think I’m exaggerating, and the poker there is not so different from your local casino. If that’s the case, please write me where you’re playing, because I lost buffoonish hands in Nottingham in ways I thought were extinct. For my second bullet in the WPT UK Main Event, I’d made it near the end of the day and the floor announced one more orbit of play. The guy two on my right said he would go all-in blind every hand now, and did so right away.
Somehow, he won kings against ace-queen; and after that continued shoving blind. On the final hand I called his all-in holding queen-jack—as did the player on my left with kings—and we both lost to his seven-six off-suit.
My fourth and final bullet was lost to a man at least four drinks in named Greymo, which I learned when he rivered an opponent for his stack then jumped up and repeatedly yelled “You got Grey-Mo’d! You got Grey-Mo’d.”
From what I gathered, Greymo didn’t play much poker, and just came for a good time. He was getting on in years, and when he ordered drinks he’d flirt with the waitress then swear he was gay after she left. Greymo dismantled me in two hands. First, calling his stack off with eight outs and rivering me in a huge pot, then getting his top pair in against my pair-plus-flush-draw to bust me out.
Now I know these are bad-beat stories, but I don’t want you to think I’m complaining. I was happy to lose these hands, thrilled even, because losing in poker is usually mundane and against opponents playing reasonably. Most bust-out stories go something like “So then I shoved ace-king and he called with jacks and held.” Cool story bro.
But in Nottingham I lost my money to a guy who hadn’t seen his cards and another who couldn’t. Count me in on that anytime.