Coming Home

When I return home from a tough poker trip part of me expects a hero's welcome. After all, I am back from a brutal battle zone, fighting exhaustively in the hopes of bringing back a huge prize for my family. On the losing trips this feeling is even stronger, as I fancy myself a wounded warrior, entitled to appropriate homage and a chance to rest and relax.

Dana, of course, sees the situation somewhat differently. To her I am not a hero, but more like the village idiot, who has abandoned her and skipped town to squander the family fortune gambling. Clearly I deserve to immediately takeover all of the chores she has been doing in my absence. She is a good enough sport to always muster a warm welcome, but as I inevitably start to crash from all the excitement, there's generally a hard moment or two.

Furthermore, while Dana has total respect for my online and cash game play, she views my attempts at the big buy-in World Series tournaments, where my competition is the best players in the world, as my personal equivalent of tilting at windmills.

Truth be told, my wife has a valid point. I'm well ahead after 20 years of the World Series of Poker, but nowhere near as far ahead as I would be if stuck to the more lucrative sidegames and satellites, and this year is no exception. The tournaments are an enormous drain, both mentally and physically. But if you want to have a significant chance of coming home with a life-changing amount of money, there is no way around being down considerably more often than not.

This year's homecoming is the best out of all 20 trips. I show up on Saturday night, a day ahead of schedule. Dana's sister was supposed to be here but got sick, so she is absolutely delighted to see me. We take a hot tub, have a glass of wine, a nice dinner, and it's as close to the hero's welcome I imagine for myself as I will ever get in this lifetime.