All In (17 page)

This place kept me grounded in who I was. Even as my chip stack grew, coming back to my downtown hotel kept me from thinking too highly of myself.

It also helped me stay focused on the task at hand. If I'd stayed in a nice hotel on the Strip, I might have been swept away by the glitz and glamour of Las Vegas and lost sight of why I was here. After my playing day ended, I might well have gone to the shows. Instead, when I got to my hotel, I stayed in my room until it was time to resume play.

When I'd first seen my downtown hotel, it had been the last place I'd wanted to spend the next twelve days. Yet as I climbed the ranks during the tournament, I realized this was the perfect place for me.

When play began on day three, excitement filled the Amazon
Room. The veterans called this money day. Everyone still alive at the end of the day would cash out.

I knew the minimum payout amount by heart. I'd written it on a slip of paper and kept it in my pocket while I played. During breaks, I stared at it.
All I have to do is finish in the top 621, and I take home $20,230.

I didn't let myself think about it, but I was also well aware that whoever finished at number 622 took home nothing.

This day I felt confident going in. Given the size of my chip stack, I knew I could cash out, unless of course I had a complete breakdown. And I was not going to allow myself to be drawn into that position.

I sensed fear in those with short stacks. In poker, fear plants a target on a player's forehead, and I took aim. The closer I got to the money, the more aggressively I played.

Aggression doesn't mean recklessness. Those on the bubble, those who needed a miracle to climb into the money, played recklessly. They had no choice but to take one chance after another and play hands they normally would've folded away. I took advantage of their desperation and pushed them as hard as I could.

By 5:00 in the evening, we were down to 650 players.

I could feel it. Everyone, especially the short stacks at every table, could feel it. No one wanted to bust out before the bubble boy, the last player to bust before cashing out. I wasn't worried about it. I knew I was about to surpass my wildest dreams.

Then, during a hand, a floor man started applauding loudly in the middle of the room. “Congratulations, everyone!”

The place went nuts. It was bubble party time. The players
at my table jumped up, slapped one another on the back, and high-fived.

As soon as all the hands were played, the round ended and cell phones popped out everywhere.

I immediately called my wife. “Guess what, Mommy,” I nearly yelled into the phone. “I did it! I'm in the money.”

I felt as if I'd just climbed a huge mountain. I had already won. Now I knew I couldn't lose.

After hanging up, I made another call. One I'd wanted to make for a long time.

Yet one I never wanted to make.

I took a deep breath, then punched in the number. My little brother Reagan answered. After briefly telling him what had happened, I said, “Please put Father on the line.”

After a pause I heard, “
Nyob zoo
,” which is Hmong for “hello.”

“Father,” I said, also in Hmong.

“Vaam,” my father said, “it is so good to hear from you. How are you?”

“I'm doing well, Father. In fact …” I hesitated, afraid to tell him where I was because I knew how he felt about cards and gambling.

“What is it, Vaam?”

“Father, I'm in Las Vegas for the World Series of Poker. I am doing very well. So well, in fact, that even if I lost right now, I'd take home at least $20,000. But I'm not in danger of losing right now. I stand a very good chance of being one of the top finishers.”

He didn't say a word, but I didn't give him a chance. “Father, I would like you to come to Las Vegas to be with me while I play these last couple of days. I really need your support.”

The next thing I heard was my brother's voice. “Father handed me the phone and walked away. What did you say to him?”

“He now knows his son is a poker player.”

“Give him time, Vaam. Give him time.”

We talked for a short while, and he prayed with me, as he did every time we talked. Then he said, “Don't let Father's reaction get to you or distract you. You keep playing the way you have been, big brother. I'm very proud of you, and Father will be as well. You can do this. I know you can.”

“Thank you, Brother.”

As disappointed as I was with my father's reaction, I realized my brother was right. I could do this. I knew it.

Entering day four of the main event, I could feel the excitement. The 700,000 chips in my stack put me in a strong position among the 337 players left in the tournament. Even if I foolishly went all in and lost the first hand of the day—something I would never, ever do—I would go home with nearly $40,000. If I survived the day, that amount would increase to almost $60,000. The longer I lasted, the more my confidence soared. I was having the tournament of my life.

But then Texas Hold 'Em did what it always seems to do. Unlike day one, when I'd drawn pocket aces seven times in two hours, I couldn't draw a hand this day to save my life. Or if I did, something would go awry. Another player always seemed to hit a miracle card on the river and beat me. In poker, when a strong hand is beaten by a long-shot hand, we call it a bad beat.

It's one thing to have pocket kings and lose to someone
holding ace-queen who draws an ace on the river. But it's another thing entirely to have pocket aces and lose to someone playing seven-two off suit who draws a miracle straight to take the pot. Those losses stick with you.

Day four was my day of bad beats and bad hands. I won a few pots, but just about the time I regained my confidence, I lost several in a row.

About halfway through the day, my chip stack had shrunk from 700,000 to 300,000.
Patience, Jerry, patience,
I warned myself, but sometimes I have trouble taking my own advice.

After the cards were dealt, I watched my eight opponents closely. The first one or two folded.

Then Maria Ho, one of the few women still alive in the tournament at this point, raised.

I studied her, looking for any sign of bluffing.

The next person called.

Now it was my turn to act. Only then did I look at my cards. Ace-three. The combination had an 8 percent chance of winning a pot. Smart poker strategy says to fold and wait for better cards. A focused, disciplined, patient player almost always does exactly that.

But I wasn't thinking about patience or focus or smart poker strategy. I kept staring at a stack of chips that a few hours earlier had been twice as large, and I wanted to do something to get the chips back.
Now
.

“I'm all in.” I said it with the same amount of emotion I might use to announce that the paint on the side of the house has dried.

“I fold,” Maria Ho said.

Good
. That had been my plan exactly. I'd wanted all the other players at the table to think I had a very large pair and send them running for cover. The last thing I wanted to do was risk busting out on the flop, turn, or river and have to go home.

“I call,” the other player said.

Noooooo, that's not what you're supposed to do.
Even though I was yelling in my mind, I acted as if I'd wanted him to call all along.

I turned my cards, revealing the ace-three.

My opponent smiled. He held pocket eights. Pocket eights have a 57 percent chance of winning a hand as compared to my ace-three's puny odds.

“Good call,” I said.

I stood, said a quick prayer, and waited for the flop. The cards hit the table. King, seven, four. No aces but also no eights.

The four gave me an outside chance for a straight—a
very
outside chance. To make it, I needed a two or a five on the turn, then the opposite on the river. The odds of that happening were slim to none.

The dealer burned a card, then dealt the turn card: a five. I still had a chance for a gut shot straight. Now I just needed a two on the river. My only other chance of winning was for the river card to hit an ace. My tournament now came down to neither skill nor discipline but to luck. Pure, dumb luck.

The dealer burned another card, then turned over the river.

I could hardly believe my eyes. There staring up at me was the most beautiful two of hearts I had seen in my life. On my
day of bad beats, I gave another player one myself. I let out a huge sigh of relief.

“Congratulations, Jerry,” the player graciously said as he shook my hand.

That miracle gut shot straight turned my up-and-down day around. By the time I sealed my chips into a bag for the night and headed back to my smelly hotel room, I was up to 1.15 million in chips.

The tournament chip leader, Dag Martin Mikkelsen, held a three-to-one lead over me with 3.7 million. That didn't matter. I was closing in on ninth place, and that's where I needed to be at the end of day six to make the final table. Once you make it there, anything can happen.

Yet I still had to survive two long days.

Day five lasted fourteen hours. Play began at noon with 112 players. We didn't stop until after two the following morning, when the thirty-seventh place finisher finally busted out.

Day four had frustrated me with all its bad beats, but day five gave me a little break. I still had to play smart, disciplined poker, but I made enough hands to stay out of danger. Though the prize money increases with each round, that doesn't keep players on the brink of busting out from playing erratically. Thankfully, I managed to keep myself from getting damaged by any of them.

I also managed to stay relatively invisible. From the start on day one, no one had penciled Jerry Yang into their list of most dangerous players, which had allowed me to fly under the radar.

By this day, the players with healthy chip stacks had locked into survival mode, while those with dwindling stacks kicked into desperation gear. Neither type paid a lot of attention to a praying psychologist from Temecula, California.

My most dramatic moment of the day didn't come at the poker table but during one of the breaks.

The longer I survived, the more I wanted my father there. Though I had a master's degree in psychology and had completed all of the coursework for my PhD, my father still sometimes saw me as that mischievous little Tom Sawyer who invaded the henhouse with his buddies. By bringing him to the World Series of Poker, I could show him I'd become the man he'd always hoped I'd be: disciplined, focused, able to meet even my loftiest goals.

“Hello, Father,” I said to him over the phone.

“Yes, Vaam,” he said flatly. I could tell he was still disappointed with me for being in Sin City playing the devil's game.

“Father, I would like you to be with me while I play in the World Series of Poker. Before you say no, I want to tell you, Father, that I'm doing very well. I'm currently assured of making it to the next round of thirty-six, which means I'll take home at least $285,000.”

“I don't see how that's possible. For five generations, we Yangs have known that no one can gamble their way to riches. Only a fool gambles away what they worked so hard to earn. You, of all my sons, should know this. You're much too intelligent to do something so foolish.”

“I can assure you, dear Father, that not only is it possible but it is indeed happening right now. Kham Dy and I talk
every day. He knows I speak the truth. If you doubt me, he can take you to the World Series website and show you that what I say is true.”

“And how much did you gamble away to try to win all of this money? The stakes must be very high if they're giving so much to the winners.”

“I didn't risk any of my family's money. You taught me too well to do something so foolish. No, I entered a tournament with money I'd won. Father, I spent merely $225 to get to where I am now. I'm a businessman, and I believe that's a very good return on my money. Wouldn't you agree?”

My father said little—that is, until my brother showed him my name on the computer screen and my place at that moment in the main event. I wasn't there to see it, but my brother said my father's jaw dropped.

“Okay, Vaam, okay. I believe you.”

“Does that mean you'll come to Las Vegas and watch me the rest of the tournament? I very much need your support and wisdom.”

For a long time, I heard nothing but silence on the other end of the line. Finally, my father spoke up. “Yes, Vaam, I will get there as soon as I can.”

I made arrangements with my brother-in-law to buy airplane tickets for both my mother and father. I picked them up at the airport before heading back to the Rio. Although I would stay at my downtown hotel, I reserved a suite for my parents at the Rio. If all went according to plan, I and my entire family would join them there.

For that to happen, I had to survive one long, hazardous day.

I may have flown under the radar on day five of the World Series of Poker, but there was no chance of that happening on day six. Every one of the thirty-six players who started the day, especially the few remaining amateurs like me, wore a huge target. And with just over 5 million in chips, on a day when play began with an average stack of 4 million, I definitely had a bull's-eye plastered on me.

Early in my poker career, I had discovered that rookies play erratically, amateurs play the cards, and pros play the other players. Very good players, like all of the thirty-six remaining, look for any advantage they can find, even if they have to create it themselves. As one of the least experienced players, I knew everyone else was looking to take advantage of me.

I was in the sixth position at the feature table, the one set up specifically for ESPN's television audience and where the final nine would ultimately play. At all the other tables,
spectators stood outside ropes; around the feature table, they sat in grandstands.