Lessons Learned: Penny Poker

Throughout high school I was always trying to broaden my group of friends. That meant my adapting to what they liked to do. For some it was cars, so there was a bit of cruising involved; for others, it was video games; and still others, swimming.

There were those who had a weekly cards/billiards night. They were not the usual guys I hung out with. Some were part of the hockey crowd, a fairly excusive crowd, at best. I suppose most cliques are or they wouldn’t be a clique.

I remember the card clique well, just not what they were into, individually. Hockey does come to mind, but one of their number was heavily involved in tennis during the summer, as well. Some were “popular.” Certainly more popular than I was. I’d become more quiet and bookish throughout my high school years, in spite of track and helping out at the pool. So, I was flattered when I was asked to join them on their weekly Saturday gathering.

The game of choice was usually blackjack, although one of their number hosted billiards at his home. I wasn’t that good at pool then, I would be later at college, but I was a passable player, so I enjoyed those nights. Music was playing. There was much laughter. So, yeah, those nights were fun. Games were bet on, of course. Everything these guys did on a Saturday night involved a bet.

I was never much of a card counter, though. My family didn’t play cards much. My father could play cards, and was always dealing games of solitaire when I was growing up. And I discovered over the years that he was good at most card games. He’d brag to me on occasion on how he’d taken the guys he played with at Stags to the cleaners, on how cards were how he got his mad money (my father passed his paycheck to my mother, and never took an allowance, so I’d say those claims were true). I suppose it wasn’t just bragging. I believe now that he just wanted me to be proud of the things he did and had done. So, yeah, he was good at cards, good at gambling. Me? Not so much.

There was always a big winner each night we played. When I say big, I mean five or ten bucks. That was a lot of money to me then. I had yet to begin working for my money, so I was limited to my allowance. As there were about five or six of us, no one lost that much, no more than a buck, usually. I was never a big winner. I was usually a loser. I’m not complaining, it usually only amounted to a buck or two each Saturday night, less than I’d dole out at the arcades. But the potential for greater loss was always there.

There was a precedent set, earlier on, before I’d ever been invited (or so they said), where players could back a player against the “bank.” The bank was whomever was dealing that round. I didn’t understand how that went, or how odds could increase one’s winnings, but I went along with the precedent. One is supposed to trust one’s friends, so I was taught to believe. And I wanted these guys to be my friends.

The last night I played cards with that group, indeed, the last time I ever actually hung out with the gambling group, they took me to the cleaners. A player had doubled down, then doubled again. And had drawn some good cards. Not great. But good enough. So, when I had drawn 17, one of his three hands still beat my hand. And then, as fate would have it, there was another precedent I was unaware of, that the house had to “hit on 17, stick on 18,” and that if any of his hands beat mine, I lost and had to pay out on all three.

So, I drew another card, and busted. I lost 20 bucks in one hand, more money than I had with me. My heart caught my throat. I was devastated. I was sure they had just played me, that their precedents and their rules were bullshit. Moreover, I was sure they had only reason they invited me to join them in the first place was as a fleece. Why? Because they all laughed at me. They insisted I pay up. They insisted that I pay up RIGHT NOW.

I couldn’t, of course. But I did pay up. It took me a week, but I paid my debt. As my parents had taught me to do.

I’ve never gambled since. I have no respect for it.