Before the Storm: Binion’s Horseshoe (2002)

[h=1]Before the Storm: Binion’s Horseshoe (2002)[/h]
Writer’s Note: This is the second in a series of articles about Christ Moneymaker’s stunning victory at the 2003 World Series of Poker and what went on behind the scenes at Binion’s Horseshoe.


[h=3]Part 1 — War of the Binion’s
[/h] The 2002 Hall of Fame tournament was a disaster. A colossal failure. It would be the last Hall of Fame tournament ever held.
Now, you have to understand that the Hall of Fame tournament used to be a really big deal. Jack Binion ran two major tournaments each year — the WSOP and the Hall of Fame. The later was done in conjunction with the official announcement of the latest inductee(s) into the Poker Hall of Fame. Usually a dozen tournaments were scheduled for what was basically a redux of the WSOP. The winners received gold watches emblazoned with the Horseshoe emblem.
By September of 2002, the Hall of Fame — much like Binion’s Horseshoe — had become a shell of it’s former greatness. That final fateful tournament was held downstairs at Binion’s Horseshoe — just as it had been during the previous 15 years. But this time an odd thing happened. Nobody showed up. The biggest names in poker, namely Doyle Brunson and Chip Reese were still boycotting the Horseshoe out of their loyalty to Jack, and that undoubtedly hurt attendance. Some of the tournaments drew a dozen players. A few events were even canceled. It was an embarrassment.
A big reason for the Hall of Fame’s rapid downfall was the messy Binion Family feud and split. Patriarch Jack Binion his sister Becky Behnen (Note: Becky Binion married Nick Behnen, and thereafter became Becky Behnen) fought in a bitter power struggle that ultimately resulted in the division of the family empire. The famous Binion murder trial (their brother Teddy was allegedly murdered by his stripper girlfriend) and the scrutiny of a national media spotlight on the casino and it’s oddball family didn’t help matters.
As part of the 1998 deal reached after years of infighting, Jack took his immensely profitable two new properties in Bossier City (Louisiana) and Tunica (Mississippi), along with rights to build another casino in Hammond (Indiana) just outside Chicago. Meanwhile, Becky was given control over the family’s flagship property — Binion’s Horseshoe in Downtown Las Vegas. Along with Binion’s Horseshoe came rights to the World Series of Poker. That’s one reason why Jack eventually struck out on his own and created what became known as the “Jack Binion World Poker Open,” played every January in Tunica (2000-2005). Jack’s tournament was every bit as big and successful as the WSOP. One can only speculate what might have happened were it not for the remarkable events of 2003, and the ultimate closure of Binion’s Horseshoe.
While Jack was raking in hundreds of millions in profits at his properties, Becky was hemorrhaging money and credibility. To be fair, she inherited a horrible situation. By 2002, the old Horseshoe was starting to show serious signs of decline. The casino was in a state of perpetual disrepair. The carpeting became worn out and was even ripped in some areas. In one area in the middle of the casino, an underpaid maintenance man actually “repaired” a huge tear with silver duct tape (on black, red, and yellow carpet). That eyesore — two long strips of silver duct tape slapped over dark carpeting and left there for the next couple of years — pretty much symbolized how the Horseshoe was going downhill.
Indeed, the casino started to look filthy. Everything inside smelled like smoke. Televisions inside the hotel rooms were broken, and stayed that way. Some of the TV still used old-fashioned rabbit ears. Rooms went for as cheap as $19 a night, and they still couldn’t book them. Binion’s Horseshoe was an excruciating reminder of the “old” Las Vegas that was disappearing, soon to be extinct. It was a dying dinosaur on its last legs. Fewer tourists came downtown anymore and those who stayed there didn’t tend to gamble much. The real action and excitement was down on The Strip, which might as well have been not just in a different state, but on another planet.
This is the impossible situation I stepped into when I was asked to come and work for Binion’s Horseshoe in the fall of 2002. I was brought in as the “Director of Public Relations” for a casino making headlines for all the wrong reasons. Oh, we were getting publicity all right. Plenty of free publicity. We were getting more press than Steve Wynn. On the front page. But the headlines and articles were scathing.
Following revelations about Teddy’s cocaine and stripper addiction, made worse by his out of control use of black tar heroin, the lid had been blown off the Binion’s Family secrets. Employes spoke off the record to the media about a circus atmosphere, punctuated by moments of terror and even acts of violence. There were cries of gross mismanagement. Cash simply “disappearing” out of the cage. Union issues. Dealer walkouts. Unpaid debts. Lawsuits. Gaming violations. It’s wasn’t just a madhouse. The place was a complete clusterfuck.
And to think — I didn’t even apply for the job.
I’d moved to Las Vegas months earlier and played in the poker room regularly. The Director of Poker Operations George Fisher was in charge of things and we were great friends. He actually lived in the hotel and was one of the key people who ran it, his authority courtesy of Nick Behnen (Becky’s husband) who I’ll get to in a moment. George asked me to come and work full time for the Horseshoe, which frankly did not interest me in the least. I’d moved to Las Vegas to NOT work. Instead, I intended to play poker and bet on sports and pursue some writing projects on the side. I had absolutely no interest in a 9 to 5 job. When George explained I could make my own hours and pretty much do as I pleased — including playing poker, betting sports, and even drinking on the job — well, that was far too fucking good an offer to pass up. I was to be salaried at $50,000 a year plus benefits, plus a bonus for working the WSOP (another $30,000 or so). Come to think of it, this was a honey of a gig — collecting 80 grand to hang out with gamblers, drink, and play poker at a casino where I’d spend a lot of my free time anyway.
But a funny thing happened on the way to the forum.

COMING NEXT: DAY ONE ON THE JOB (DIRECTOR OF PUBLIC RELATIONS AT BINION’S HORSESHOE)

Posted by Nolan Dalla on May 11, 2013 in Blog

Akillies said:

Before the Storm: Binion’s Horseshoe (2002)

Writer’s Note: This is the second in a series of articles about Christ Moneymaker’s stunning victory at the 2003 World Series of Poker and what went on behind the scenes at Binion’s Horseshoe.


Part 1 — War of the Binion’s

.​

The 2002 Hall of Fame tournament was a disaster. A colossal failure. It would be the last Hall of Fame tournament ever held.
Now, you have to understand that the Hall of Fame tournament used to be a really big deal. Jack Binion ran two major tournaments each year — the WSOP and the Hall of Fame. The later was done in conjunction with the official announcement of the latest inductee(s) into the Poker Hall of Fame. Usually a dozen tournaments were scheduled for what was basically a redux of the WSOP. The winners received gold watches emblazoned with the Horseshoe emblem.
By September of 2002, the Hall of Fame — much like Binion’s Horseshoe — had become a shell of it’s former greatness. That final fateful tournament was held downstairs at Binion’s Horseshoe — just as it had been during the previous 15 years. But this time an odd thing happened. Nobody showed up. The biggest names in poker, namely Doyle Brunson and Chip Reese were still boycotting the Horseshoe out of their loyalty to Jack, and that undoubtedly hurt attendance. Some of the tournaments drew a dozen players. A few events were even canceled. It was an embarrassment.
A big reason for the Hall of Fame’s rapid downfall was the messy Binion Family feud and split. Patriarch Jack Binion his sister Becky Behnen (Note: Becky Binion married Nick Behnen, and thereafter became Becky Behnen) fought in a bitter power struggle that ultimately resulted in the division of the family empire. The famous Binion murder trial (their brother Teddy was allegedly murdered by his stripper girlfriend) and the scrutiny of a national media spotlight on the casino and it’s oddball family didn’t help matters.
As part of the 1998 deal reached after years of infighting, Jack took his immensely profitable two new properties in Bossier City (Louisiana) and Tunica (Mississippi), along with rights to build another casino in Hammond (Indiana) just outside Chicago. Meanwhile, Becky was given control over the family’s flagship property — Binion’s Horseshoe in Downtown Las Vegas. Along with Binion’s Horseshoe came rights to the World Series of Poker. That’s one reason why Jack eventually struck out on his own and created what became known as the “Jack Binion World Poker Open,” played every January in Tunica (2000-2005). Jack’s tournament was every bit as big and successful as the WSOP. One can only speculate what might have happened were it not for the remarkable events of 2003, and the ultimate closure of Binion’s Horseshoe.
While Jack was raking in hundreds of millions in profits at his properties, Becky was hemorrhaging money and credibility. To be fair, she inherited a horrible situation. By 2002, the old Horseshoe was starting to show serious signs of decline. The casino was in a state of perpetual disrepair. The carpeting became worn out and was even ripped in some areas. In one area in the middle of the casino, an underpaid maintenance man actually “repaired” a huge tear with silver duct tape (on black, red, and yellow carpet). That eyesore — two long strips of silver duct tape slapped over dark carpeting and left there for the next couple of years — pretty much symbolized how the Horseshoe was going downhill.
Indeed, the casino started to look filthy. Everything inside smelled like smoke. Televisions inside the hotel rooms were broken, and stayed that way. Some of the TV still used old-fashioned rabbit ears. Rooms went for as cheap as $19 a night, and they still couldn’t book them. Binion’s Horseshoe was an excruciating reminder of the “old” Las Vegas that was disappearing, soon to be extinct. It was a dying dinosaur on its last legs. Fewer tourists came downtown anymore and those who stayed there didn’t tend to gamble much. The real action and excitement was down on The Strip, which might as well have been not just in a different state, but on another planet.
This is the impossible situation I stepped into when I was asked to come and work for Binion’s Horseshoe in the fall of 2002. I was brought in as the “Director of Public Relations” for a casino making headlines for all the wrong reasons. Oh, we were getting publicity all right. Plenty of free publicity. We were getting more press than Steve Wynn. On the front page. But the headlines and articles were scathing.
Following revelations about Teddy’s cocaine and stripper addiction, made worse by his out of control use of black tar heroin, the lid had been blown off the Binion’s Family secrets. Employes spoke off the record to the media about a circus atmosphere, punctuated by moments of terror and even acts of violence. There were cries of gross mismanagement. Cash simply “disappearing” out of the cage. Union issues. Dealer walkouts. Unpaid debts. Lawsuits. Gaming violations. It’s wasn’t just a madhouse. The place was a complete clusterfuck.
And to think — I didn’t even apply for the job.
I’d moved to Las Vegas months earlier and played in the poker room regularly. The Director of Poker Operations George Fisher was in charge of things and we were great friends. He actually lived in the hotel and was one of the key people who ran it, his authority courtesy of Nick Behnen (Becky’s husband) who I’ll get to in a moment. George asked me to come and work full time for the Horseshoe, which frankly did not interest me in the least. I’d moved to Las Vegas to NOT work. Instead, I intended to play poker and bet on sports and pursue some writing projects on the side. I had absolutely no interest in a 9 to 5 job. When George explained I could make my own hours and pretty much do as I pleased — including playing poker, betting sports, and even drinking on the job — well, that was far too fucking good an offer to pass up. I was to be salaried at $50,000 a year plus benefits, plus a bonus for working the WSOP (another $30,000 or so). Come to think of it, this was a honey of a gig — collecting 80 grand to hang out with gamblers, drink, and play poker at a casino where I’d spend a lot of my free time anyway.
But a funny thing happened on the way to the forum.

COMING NEXT: DAY ONE ON THE JOB (DIRECTOR OF PUBLIC RELATIONS AT BINION’S HORSESHOE)

Posted by Nolan Dalla on May 11, 2013 in Blog

Click to expand...

+

looking forward to part II -- good read so far.

i remember that ducktaped carpet, shame what she did to that place

That 2 dollar steak dinner at night was always pretty good; along with giving 2 to 1 on blackjacks for 10 dollar and below players at Xmas time..single deck...

gl

[h=1]Day One as Director of Public Relations for Binion’s Horseshoe (Moneymaker Series Continues — Part 2)[/h]
Left to Right — Benny Behnen (Benny Binion’s grandson), Becky Binion-Behnen, and Nick Behnen (Photo Credit: AmericanMafia.com)


Writer’s Note: This is the third in an extended series of articles about Chris Moneymaker’s victory at the 2003 World Series of Poker and what went on behind the scenes at Binion’s Horseshoe — before, during, and after that historic event.

[h=3]Part 2: Day One as Director of Public Relations for Binion’s Horseshoe[/h]
On my first day, I nearly got fired.
In fact, I was fired. Then, I got re-hired.
George Fisher was in a panic. He called me urgently into his office. There was big trouble brewing, and I hadn’t even started working yet. “Shit is hitting the fan,” he said. What was the problem? No one knew. I’d find out soon enough.
I’d been “summoned.” That meant I was to have what’s known in other menacing circles as a “sit down.”
The dreaded “sit down.”
Unbeknownst to me, I was scheduled to meet none other than Nick Behnen himself – the dark and mysterious shadow of a figure who was whispered to actually run Binion’s Horseshoe behind the scenes.
The casino license and ownership of Binion’s Horseshoe might have been in Becky’s name. She surely made executive decisions, most in fact. But her husband Nick wielded the heavy fist and did the ballbusting. He took over most of the gaming-related matters, along with son Benny Behnen (grandson of the late Benny Binion, founder of the Horseshoe).
Since Nick couldn’t get a license on his own from the Nevada Gaming Board (no further comment), he was prohibited from making any management decisions on property. So, instead he spent most afternoons barking into a telephone at subordinates from his living room at the Binion Family Estate. Those who took orders included George, Warren Schaeffer, a few others, and eventually me. It was like working for the Wizard of Oz and Al Capone, rolled into one towering and intimidating figure who often wore dark sunglasses indoors (see photo above).
Nick was someone you didn’t fuck with. Those who did ended up in back alleys on the wrong end of an escort courtesy of Binion’s crack security detail. Everyone who knew the landscape was terrified of Nick. When he came on property, the joint snapped into shape like a military brigade. Everyone’s tie was perfectly straight. He was rumored to fire people on the spot at the slightest hint of annoyance (some of it justified, by the way based on what I later observed).
Fact was, whether it was true or not, Nick had the reputation of a gangster. A throwback to the old days of the mob. Later, he even later revealed to me that he’d killed someone (in self-defense, he insisted). I can’t remember if the body count was one or two — so long as it wasn’t going to be three. But Nick was never actually charged with a crime, so it must have been self-defense.
Nick acted like Attila the Hun on the casino floor. Many of the stories are so wild, you wouldn’t believe it. He reportedly threw a fully dressed hot dog at an employee one time which bounced off the back of the poor unsuspecting victim’s head, an incident that even made the newspapers.
Nick could also turn on the personal charm. A vociferous reader and intense student of history, Nick quoted philosophy like an Ivy League professor and told great stories (he knew Robert Maheu well, the close confidant of Howard Hughes and even had a huge collection of Maheu’s personal notes from the relationship — a treasure trove that’s priceless). He knew everyone in town, on both sides of the tracks. Nick also knew as much about the ins and outs gambling and how to run a casino than anyone I’ve ever met.
The man had the eye of a hawk. It was uncanny. He was able to spot cheaters and pick out sloppy dealers just by casually strolling through the casino (incidents I later witnessed several times). Some of this expertise Nick picked up working temporarily at casinos in the former Yugoslavia, where he spent some time. If Nick had a dark side, and he most certainly did, he also knew as shitload about casino operations and was a gold mine of both entertainment and insight.
The events leading up to my “sit down” with Nick also bear some reflection.
By fall of 2002, Binion’s Horseshoe had burned through some really good people. Like Tom McEvoy, the 1983 world poker champion — who had been hired to run the poker room. He lasted a month. Cathi Wood, WSOP Tournament Director Robert Thompson’s loyal daughter took over for awhile. She was close to Becky and lasted some time before inevitable conflicts arose, much having to do with the infamous 2002 WSOP — the most insane atmosphere for any poker event in history. No other event comes close to the circus that existed that previous April and May.
That 2002 WSOP was a mind-boggling mess. A total disaster in every conceivable way. Dealers and staff threatened to walk out in a bitter dispute over money and the allocation of tips, which was all public. Drunken on the gritty details of the Ted Binion murder trial, anything to do with the the daily soap opera that was the Horseshoe was reported somewhere, often on the front page.
In retaliation for the dealer and staff walkout, the Behnens came down with an iron fist on all those deemed to be “traitors.” They barred not only employees, but players who spoke out against them — one of the reasons legends like Doyle Brunson , Chip Reese, Billy Baxter and others boycotted the Horseshoe for a number of years.
One of these outspoken players was named Paul Phillips, a popular up and coming young tournament regular who’d made a fortune selling his Internet company during the high-tech boom of the late 1990′s. By 2002, Phillips was playing poker tournaments and quickly evolved into one of the circuit’s most well-liked players.
In characteristic fashion, Phillips spoke out in support of the dealers who’d been fired. His comments appeared in the Las Vegas ***************. When one of the Behnens discovered the traitor Phillips playing cash games at the Horseshoe, he was rudely plucked from the game and was instantly escorted by security to the infamous backroom, where Nick Behnen sat waiting. Phillips’ version of this incident appeared at various poker forums after he was released. To say he was intimidated would be a gross understatement. Phillips was ultimately barred from the Horseshoe and read the trespass clause, which meant he could be arrested if he returned to the property. There would be no 2002 WSOP for poker player Paul Phillips. But the heavy-handed strategy backfired. It just made the acrimony between Becky Behnen and poker players even more bitter. She became hated. Becky caught the flack for it all, as the head executive of the Horseshoe. But the fingerprints belonged to someone else. Nick’s heavy-handed tactics were really behind much of the mess.
Then, there was the infamous “Russ Hamilton incident.” Before anyone else knew he was a scumbag cheater, Russ was a highly-respected member of the poker community. The 1994 world poker champion had been a regular player in cash games at the Horseshoe for more than ten years. But Nick somehow uncovered some serious dirt on Russ and vowed to make things as difficult as he could for the former champ.
The great irony here is that Nick’s instincts turned out to be entirely correct about Russ. For years (afterward), I tried to find out what and how Nick knew about Russ’ background that caused such rage. Of course, this predated the Ultimate Bet scandal which took place around 2007. But Nick was onto something very early on and was the only person out there unwilling to kiss ass and instead kick ass. Nick teased me about it for years, often referring to the infamous cheat as “your pal, Russ Hamilton.” To this day, I have absolutely no idea how Nick fingered the slimy slug out long before he revealed his true lack of character to the world. But it bears mentioning that this insight was one of the things that eventually made Nick a fascinating person to be around, at times.
I wasn’t there the night the actual incident happened. But according to multiple witnesses inside the poker room including the legendary graveyard shift boss Tony Shelton, Nick became enraged at Russ to the point where he defaced one of the most sacred shrines in poker. Worse, there were dozens of witnesses.
At the rear of the poker room was the famous “Gallery of Champions,” which had the portraits of every world poker champion dating back to 1970. This was “the wall” of all walls in poker. Everyone wanted their picture up alongside Brunson, Moss, Ungar, Chan, and all the rest. Since Hamilton had indeed won the 1994 world championship eight years earlier in that same building, his portrait was hung proudly among the winners.
Nick had reportedly been “drinking heavily” that night. I later spent a lot of time drinking with Nick, and the “drunk” charge doesn’t ring true with me. He probably wasn’t drunk, but simply had just been drinking as was his normal routine. When he revealed what for him was quite a normal pattern of behavior (rage and sometimes violence), it later widely became reported as a “drunken rage.” But I’m not buying it.
However, what Nick actually did do is undisputed. He summoned a crowbar from the maintenance department, stormed over to the paneled wall where he Gallery of Champions was hanging, and plucked Hamilton’s portrait right from the walnut. The glass frame, with Russ’ smiling championship pose, was completely shattered into bits. Nick allegedly screamed something like “We won’t have any fucking cheaters on the wall,” and then stormed out of the building.
The glaring empty void where Russ Hamilton’s picture once famously hung became an instant focal point to everyone on the poker universe. Everybody knew about it. Even overseas. People were scared to come into the casino after that. The act had been so malicious that the wood was permanently scared from the sharpness of the crowbar. The great irony here is that everyone at the time thought Russ was a hero. And so Nick Behnen, already so detestable to many, became Darth Vader to poker players.
This was the man I was about to have a meeting with on my very “first day,” in the back of a dark and empty Binion’s Horseshoe coffee shop.

Part 3: The Sit Down

Loved the horseshoe when I lived there in Vegas...great book with Nick B in charge..

Part 3: The Sit Down
I didn’t know it at the time, but my “sit down” meeting with Nick Behnen turned out to be one of the most important moments in my professional life.
Had I not survived the confrontation which was to come, I most certainly wouldn’t have been with the World Series of Poker to this day, nor would I be working on the business side of poker. Hell, I’d probably be out pumping gas somewhere.
Not only did what happened over the next 40 minutes or so reshape the entire direction of my career, it also taught be an important lesson that I’d now like to share.
There’s a memorable line from the Kris Kristofferson song performed by the Janis Jopin. The line is from “Me and Bobby McGee.” It goes like this: “Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose.”
The verse means that true freedom comes from having no fear of loss. For instance, if I’m not afraid of losing my job, I might do and say things that another employee would never dare think or share. I’d be free to say what I really thought. And that’s pretty much what happened.
I was ordered to go to the coffee shop. Immediately. Nick was sitting there and waiting on my arrival. George was convinced I was about to get fired. His assistant, a hard-working man named Steve McDonald just sat there shaking his head. He’d already worked for Binion’s Horseshoe for some time and never even met Nick before. Fact was, no one had a “sit down,” unless it was one of Nick’s most trusted confederates, or there was some serious ballbusting about to happen.
The problem for me was — I had no idea what I’d done wrong.
I walked downstairs into a deserted coffee shop which was located underground at the basement level. How fitting. Off to the rear in a separate alcove sitting alone at a large round table was an immaculately-tailored man in his mid-50′s. He wore black horned-rimmed glasses, with thick lenses. He sat all by himself with a cup of coffee. No one talked to him. On the table was a manila file envelope stuffed with papers.
This image was right out of central casting and this scene was virtually out of the movies. You couldn’t imagine a more “old school Las Vegas” freeze-frame moment. In retrospect, most people would have probably said “fuck it,” and never even showed up. Why work in a madhouse where this kind of atmosphere exists?
But my curiosity was too strong. I had to find out why I was in big trouble.
Nick saw me coming and didn’t bother get up. That was bad sign.
I approached his table. Nick stuck out his hand. I shook it.
“Sit down,” Nick said.
I obliged.
“Tell me. Who are you?” he asked.
“Excuse me. Who am I?” Was this conversation even real?
“I’m Nolan Dalla,” I said. “George Fisher asked me to come meet you.”
“Tell me a little about you. I’d like to know more.”
Again, I obliged with a short bio on my education and working background that lasted perhaps 30 or 40 seconds.
Nick wasn’t rude. But there were no pleasantries either. When Nick heard I’d worked and lived in Romania, he revealed that he’d worked in a neighboring Communist country — Yugoslavia
“So, George tells me you’re going to be head of our PR,” he said.
“Yes, that’s my understanding.”
“Well, I have a serious problem here, you see. You’ve had some very interesting things to say about us in the past. Look here.”
With that, Nick sprawled out a file which spilled out dozens of Internet posts of mine to various online forums, as well as articles I’d written for Card Player, Poker Digest, and others. Some passages were highlighted in yellow. The goodies had been provided by Federico Schiavo, who worked sort of as IT man/investigator for the Behnens. One article was paper clipped to the top. When I saw it, I knew instantly why I ‘d been summoned and why I was there.”
“What in the fuck is this?” he asked.
Nick was holding a scathing editorial I’d written for Poker Digest. The article expressed the view that by its actions Binion’s Horseshoe had demonstrated it no longer should be the custodian of the crown jewel of poker, which was the WSOP. Disturbed by what had happened with the dealer firings and to friend Paul Phillips, I editorialized that an effort must be made to try and get new ownership for the WSOP.
Naturally, this didn’t stand too well with Nick or the Behnens.
There was nothing to run and hide from, here. It was all there in black in white. In fact, at that very instant I accepted the reality that I was certainly going to be fired on my first day on the job. And, I really didn’t care. And that’s when the line from the Joplin song popped into my head: “Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose.” What did I have to lose by speaking my mind openly in a forceful but respectful manner?
“Yeah, I wrote that,” I affirmed. “The WSOP last summer was a mess. But I’m here now because I want to make it better.”
Nick stared at me as I talked, studying perhaps, although I couldn’t really see what he was thinking behind those dark glasses.
“Mr. Behnen, you hired me as your head of public relations. For that, I become your advocate. Like an attorney. My job is to represent you as best I can, and maybe even give some advice which you can take or leave. I’d like to work here and make this place better if you’ll give me the chance.”
I don’t know how or why it happened but the tone of the conversation completely changed from that point forward. In retrospect, I suspect someone simply leveling with Nick honestly and showing some loyalty despite some differences made an impression on him. Or, maybe I just caught him on a lucky day. Whatever the explanation, I became a friend and confidant from that moment forward.
“Call me Nick,” he insisted.
After several minutes of casual conversation, next a stunning development took place. I remember the dialogue verbatim because it was so stunning.
“So what can we do to bring back the poker players. Everybody hates us. What can we do to make the World Series better?”
I really hadn’t thought about talking points comiing into this meeting. But the first thing that popped into my head was the Russ Hamilton incident and the glaring void on the wall of the Gallery of Champions. It was an embarrassment to poker and the WSOP.
“You should put Russ Hamilton back up on the wall,” I said.
Nick paused. He did that a lot, as though he was thinking. He nodded. He sat for a good 20 to 30 seconds before reaching for the telephone. The conversation that ensued was surreal. He dialed “0″ which brought on the Horseshoe operator.
“Get me engineering!” he demanded.
A few seconds later, I heard his part of a two-way conversation.
“I want you to go down and get another picture of Russ Hamilton and put it back in the wall,” he ordered. “Do it right now.”
Click.
“Anything else?”
What the fuck? Moments ago, I was a phone call away from being barred — and maybe even backroomed. Now, I was calling him Nick and advising on how to undo the damage caused by the Russ Hamilton incident. And he complied!
“So, what else do you need?”
“Uhhhh, uhhhhhh, uhhhhh…” For whatever reason, I couldn’t think of anything else.
“Go up to security and tell them to give you a private cell phone,” Nick said. “Tell them I told you to do this. I’ll call you on that phone when we need to talk, okay?”
So, I was about to have a personal line from Nick which might ring any hour of the day or night.
“Anything else?” Nick asked.
“No, I don’t think so,” I said.
“Do you need any money? You need to borrow some money?” Nick inquired.
I couldn’t believe this course of events. I’d been a step away from being fired. Now, I was about to be linked to the boss, and he was asking me if I needed any money.
“No, I’m fine. But thanks.”
Nick spent considerable time on this point, insisting I should simply ask if I needed money. Pretty unusual question for any boss to ask, probably motivated by wanting to gain some control over people who worked for “the Family.” Nick explained I would be given “green draft” privileges at the casino cage. That meant I could go sign out any amount of money I wanted at any hour, for virtually any purpose.
I was starting to fucking feel like Meyer Lansky.

COMING NEXT: ENDINGS AND NEW BEGINNINGS (THE 2003 WORLD SERIES OF POKER)

Part 4: Send in the Clowns
Binion’s Horseshoe was freak show.
Not a day passed without a “you’re not going to fucking believe this” moment.
A typical work day: Vagrants wondering in and out, crashing on the furniture inside the sportsbook. Nests of hookers at the bar. Cowboys shouldered up next to gangsters wolfing down hot pastrami sandwiches and guzzling Dr Brown’s cream sodas at the Horseshoe deli. Fistfights. Drunkeness. Card cheats. The mentally ill. Drug dealers and junkies. You name it — you saw it at “the Shoe.”
One of the most detestable of all the regulars was a crusty curmudgeon named Sam Angel, quite possibly the most repulsive person to have ever lived in Las Vegas, and that’s really saying something. A part-time pawnbroker and full-time hustler, Angel was the devil in disguise. By the time I had the misfortune to know him, Angel was pushing 80 years. His pot belly hung over his britches. Half the time his fly was open. Once, a bystander whispered to him about it and Angel said he didn’t care.
He always wore loud checkered coats that hadn’t been dry cleaned in years. He cursed profusely — no matter what company happened to be around. The old crab with the most ironic of names, Angel spent years hanging out at the Horseshoe. Decades earlier, he’d befriended the late family patriarch Benny Binion, and later son Jack, trying to persuade them to set up a temporary pawn shop right inside the casino. He reasoned that some people might be desperate enough to pawn their rings, their watches, and precious jewelry to raise more money to gamble with. Benny and Jack rejected the idea for its obvious crassness. They’d have none of this. But by 2002, the Horseshoe was in such dire financial straights management were willing to try and do anything. And so Angel set up a couple of folding tables that looked pretty much what you’d see at a flea market and propped up his business next to the hotel front desk. While I was there, he manned it 12 hours a day, while taking frequent breaks to drink Heineken beer and play poker, while he spewed ceaseless strings of f-bombs and insults at those he didn’t like.
Here’s Sam Angel, in a good mood, years before becoming broken down and bitter:


Another salty character was named “Jabber.” Seriously, that was his real name (his last name, I think). Jabber was a so-called “friend of the family.” That meant something special. “Friend of the family” had a unique connotation at the Horseshoe. The person was pretty much untouchable. That meant, he had a free ride to do whatever he wanted. Jabber detested me. From day one, we never got along.
Jabber was a barrel of bitterness. Standing perhaps 5 feet all and probably 250 pounds, Jabber was shaped like a bowling ball. In what has to go down as one of the most bizarre personnel decisions in the history of the casino business, some years earlier he’d been hired to run the sportsbook, and in the process managed to turn what was a virtual printing press into a broken-down vending machine. It’s inconceivable to this day why this idiot was hired to do anything. Jabber was utterly useless. He had even less brains than charm.
Anyway, Jabber waddled around like a duck. By that time, he was his late 70′s, so he was allowed to stay on and collect a full-time salary, still acting like a big shot. In reality, Warren Schaeffer, a perfect no-nonsense casino manager intimately close to the Behnens due to his Montana roots (the Binion Family owned a ranch up in Montana and spent a lots of time there) ran both the spotsbook operations and later the poker room. In all the time I hung around Jabber, I don’t think I ever heard him say an intelligent thing. I don’t think the man knew what a pointspread was. And he was supposedly in charge of the fucking sportsbook. No wonder the casino was bleeding money on life support.
I’d post a photo of Jabber if I had one. Instead, just think of a tomato.


Even though I reported directly to Nick, I developed a close personal rapport with Benny Behnen. Recall, he was Nick’s son and the grandson of Benny Binion. Noted for a playboy lifestyle and some genuine affiliation with underworld types, fact was — Benny was as dedicated as they came to the family business. He was constantly around and involved in most decisions. Moreover, Benny didn’t have any of the self-destructive habits that might have destroyed others in his situation. He had no use for drugs, rarely drank, was unfailingly courteous to everyone he dealt with. I came to very much like and respect Benny.
But like his father, Benny also had a violent streak. The story of a fight at Piero’s Restaurant with casino mogul Bob Stupak made the local newspapers (READ: “Stupak, Behnen Animosity Heats Up”)
I bring Benny into the story because he seemed to be a magnet some of the most outlandish characters in the history of Las Vegas. One of these men was contract killer and lifelong criminal named R.D. Matthews. By this time, Matthews was in declining health. He wore an eye patch. But age didn’t slow Matthews down a bit. Even at 80, he reportedly took a swing at Stupak and landed a punch in the infamous Piero’s Restaurant incident cited above.
But R.D. Matthews was more than just a bruising senior. He may have had a very real connection to one of the most famous crimes in history. His real claim to infamy was a close association with the late Jack Ruby (the Dallas strip club owner who gunned down Lee Harvey Oswald). There were also allegations that Matthews was one of the three “hobos” seen on the railroad tracks overlooking Dealy Plaza on the fateful day President Kennedy was assassinated. Some people even speculated R.D. Matthews was the so-called “second gunman.” No doubt, his dubious record and known ties to organized crime in Dallas (and later presumably Las Vegas) made all the speculation plausible.
Here’s R.D. Matthews (READ MORE HERE) in a file photo from the 1960s:

The circus parade went non-stop.
Another mysterious performer under the big top was Phil Tartaglia, better known as “Philly Brush.” His name might also be familiar. This was Stu Ungar’s shadowy “protector,” dating back to his early days in New York. Philly allegedly murdered lots of people as a hitman for one the major crime families. He moved to Las Vegas and settled down years ago, at times serving a vital father figure in train wreck of a life that was Stu Ungar. When I was with Ungar, he often referred to Philly. He was really as close to family as Stuey had here in Las Vegas.
During the time, I was writing the Stu Ungar biography that became known as “One of a Kind” (the great Peter Alson would come onto the project a year later). Philly was an integral part of the Ungar story. In fact, there were huge gaps in the timeline that only Philly could fill with some detail (Ungar died in 1998). Trouble was, Philly absolutely refused to talk to me. He wouldn’t talk to anyone that could identify him. Philly kept such a low profile that he supposedly didn’t have a social security number or an identity. It was as though he didn’t exist. Philly wanted to keep things that way and talking to me would have potentially exposed — not just his background — but his actual identity. Philly wanted to stay in the shadows.
But Philly loved to hang out with Benny and the feeling was mutual. They hung out together often. When I burst into the circle, usually at the sportsbook or coffee shop, Philly would scurry away immediately without saying a word. In all the times I saw Philly, he nodded to acknowledge me just once. Otherwise, he wanted nothing to do with me, or anyone else except for Benny for that matter.
The list of outlandish characters goes on and on. The stories are endless. One of these days, I might write a book about the wild final year that was Binion’s Horseshoe at the end. Those times were great. They days were awful. The nights were worse. And I loved every minute of it.
In fact, the ambiance become infectious. Although I took the Director of Public Relations position partially as an excuse to hang out and be a part of the gambling scene, I actually came to deeply care and love the place where I worked. I gradually came to think of myself as the caretaker of a monument — like it was the Lincoln Memorial or something. Indeed, rather than spending my time goofing off, I found myself more dedicated than ever to helping to turn Binion’s Horseshoe around. I started putting in 70-hour weeks with no days off. I pretty much lived at the Horseshoe. It became my life for nearly two years.
When the eve of the 2003 World Series of Poker came upon me, I had no idea of the magnitude of what was about to come. A sleepy and dysfunctional madhouse was about to be transformed into the a global stage — epicenter of the poker universe and the incendiary which was to light what became known as the worldwide poker boom.

Part 5: The Decline and Death of the World Series of Poker

Recall that this series started out with the demise of a long ago forgotten poker tournament called the “Hall of Fame.” It was held at Binion’s Horseshoe every year and folded in September of 2002.
What at one time had been the second-most prestigious poker event in the world faded to a distant memory. To this day, few records survive. The winners are now mostly forgotten. It’s as though the tournament never existed. It’s a ghostly reminder that all glory is fleeting.
The World Series of Poker very nearly had its own obituary and it was close to being scribed in April 2003. Outside of a few people, no one quite realized how dire the situation was at Binion’s Horseshoe when dozens of poker tables were dusted off out of storage, hauled upstairs, and locked into place inside the tournament room known as “Benny’s Bullpen,” an old Bingo Hall that had been converted into the stage of the richest and most prestigious gambling event on the planet.
Leaks to the media made a bad situation worse. Could the 2003 WSOP actually be worse than the year before? Might this be the end road of a legend? Instead of the lead up to the series being one of the most anticipated times of the year for every poker player, the local atmosphere resembled a deathwatch.
The Horseshoe had been hit with millions of dollars in judgements. There was a $2 million debt owed to the Fremont Street Experience. The Horseshoe also ignored its obligation to pay contributions to the employees’ health insurance and pension funds, mandatory under a federal law called the Employees Retirement Income Security Act, which had to do with medical benefits plans. SIDE NOTE: I once went to the doctor and used my company-provided health insurance. Months later, I received a bill for the entire medical procedure because my employer had stiffed on making the insurance payment. Then there were other creditors, too who pretty much were fucked at the end of a long line. Some of them tried to negotiate for pennies on the dollars and still couldn’t get paid.
A dire situation was made worse by the WSOP being housed in a building that was utterly crumbling. One estimate found it would take millions of dollars to tear out the old asbestos from the walls. The air conditioning unit was at least 25-years-old and dated back to the time the main tower was still part of The Mint. The overworked and exhausted water coils struggled desperately to pump cool air into a baking concrete building which broiled for months in the heat of 110-degree afternoons. Even the rooftop pool was closed down because it was too expensive to staff and maintain. Given all it’s massive problems, the only solution seemed to be a wrecking ball and bankruptcy court.
Bankruptcy.
The “B” word frightened the shit out of a lot of people. Especially poker players.
Given all the lawsuits, the judgements, and the distressing financial issues of the Horseshoe, would cash deposits at the Horseshoe be safe? What if a federal marshal stormed in on Day One of the Main Event Championship with a court order and confiscated the estimated $10 million prize pool to pay off creditors? The WSOP wasn’t just sinking. Financially speaking, it had already hit the rocks. And pirates were swarming onto the deck.
On top of all this, the tournament rake was jacked up. The timing of that decision couldn’t have been worse. Players were being asked to pay a higher entry fee for what amounted to the same, or less perks.
There were other troubles, too. In some ways, worse than those with management. Assorted cheating allegations and scandals from the previous year — such as too many chips in play at the end of some tournaments, disappearing large-denomination chips at the end of other tournaments, and a hopeless operation overall to control and police due to lack of proper controls and updated technology badly tainted the WSOP’s prestige.
Matt Savage and Jim Miller were brought in as Co-Tournament Directors that year. They would share the title. Savage pretty much controlled the tournaments (held upstairs in Benny’s Bullpen) while Miller ran the cash game action and satellites held downstairs. Savage (from Bay 101 in San Jose) and Miller (from the Hustler Club in Los Angeles) were both contract employees. But they basically ran everything. Essentially all the decisions having to do with poker were theirs alone. The Behnen’s basically stayed out of the way and let the staff run the show. Which is why — aside from the building falling apart — the tournament and poker games ran reasonably well.
The case of Matt Savage bears bonus commentary. Matt and I had our differences over the years, but back in 2003 we were all a close-knit team. Before the series began, the Behnens decided that this would be Savage’s last WSOP as Tournament Director (he’d worked the same role in 2002). He’d essentially be mothballed out of the WSOP after just two years. Their reasoning was — they didn’t want anyone to acquire too much power. They didn’t want another Eric Drache or Jack McClelland/Jim Albrecht situation where the heads of the tournament got all the fame and glory. So, the powers the be decided (before I joined staff) that the WSOP Tournament Director would serve in a two-year “term.” The talent would be rotated to a new director every few years, supposedly rewarding the best of the best with the most plum assignment in poker.
So Savage come into the series thinking this was his last. Washed up at age 32. As a token of appreciation, Binion’s Horseshoe also decided to create what was to be called the “Tournament Director’s Hall of Fame.” Had this been proposed on my watch, I’d have never gone for such lunacy. But by the start of the WSOP, it had already been announced. Matt Savage was to be the first (and only) inductee into the “Tournament Director’s Hall of Fame.” It was pathetic.
I had to go and get a plaque made, emblazoned with Matt Savage’s name as the only inaugural member. Forget Drache, McClelland, Albrecht, Thompson and all the rest of the pillars of tournament poker. Matt Savage trumped them all and was to be the first inductee. It was a sick joke.
Savage undoubtedly would deserve an honor today. But the cloud of knowing he was about to be set out to pasture after just two years couldn’t have been good for morale. Savage was indeed given his “honor” and introduced to a mostly disinterested half-empty room of poker players as the first pick in the “prestigious” club. It was an embarrassment.
Before the WSOP began that fateful year, George Fisher has been deeply involved in just about everything that happened on property. He was the only reason I was working there. But as the days passed, George spent less time in the poker scene. By the end, he had all but disappeared leaving Savage, Miller, McDonald, Schaeffer, and myself in charge. We wouldn’t see George for days, or even weeks.
However, before we leave the understated subject of George Fisher, it bears noting how important this man was to the WSOP as a great visionary. George probably saved the WSOP as we know it. I mean that. He saved the WSOP from ruin. Allow me to explain how.
The Horseshoe poker office was slightly larger than a broom closet. It was nestled beneath a set of iron stairs leading up to the employee cafeteria. It was comprised of two rooms the combined size of an Winnebago. The smaller room had an old desk crowbarred inside. You had to squeeze around the desk and press your ass against the walls to move around. Somehow, George and Steve McDonald (WSOP Administrator) worked side by side in this tiny space.
I said previously that I’d explain how George saved the WSOP. Now, let me explain.
On the wall of that tiny office with the dimensions of a closet, hung a large white board blotted with black marker ink. Written in tiny letters which upon closer inspection filled the entire board were what George called his “satellite stations.” George had come up with the brilliant idea to sign up bars, casinos, cardrooms, private companies, brothels — anyone who would partner with the WSOP and send a player to the Main Event. In exchange, the locale was given the designated title of an official “WSOP Satellite Station.” The response to George’s idea was enormous. He worked the phones and turned on the charm like the master salesman and marketer he was born to be. By early April, the white bulletin board was covered in ink — listing the dozens of locations around the world and number of players coming to play in the WSOP Main Event.
A few lines entries up on that board attracted no special attention. They were online poker sites. One of the “WSOP Satellite Stations” was a relatively new site called “PokerStars.com.” It had been around for about 18 months.
Think about it. Looking back now, imagine how things might have been different had George not come up with the crazy idea to reach out to “competitors.” How might the poker landscape be different today had PokerStars.com not accepted the invitation?
Another hero working behind the scenes was Dan Goldman. At the time Dan served as head of marketing for PokerStars.com. Dan and I later became the best of friends. Some time later I even went to work for him and PokerStars.com. But back then, I barely knew Dan. George Fisher reached across the great divide the separated what at the time were bitter enemies — land-based cardrooms versus online poker sites — and extended his hand in partnership. On the other end of the spectrum, Dan Goldman was there to shake it and create a bond that’s probably the most important alliance the game has ever seen.
Dan Goldman isn’t properly credited for playing a vital role in the history of the game (until now). Had Dan not worked tirelessly to persuade Isai Scheinberg, the owner of PokerStars.com to partner with the WSOP and send players to Las Vegas that spring, the poker landscape might be very different today. Certainly, no one would have ever heard of Chris Moneymaker. SIDE NOTE: For a more thorough account of this story from Dan’s perspective, check out his blog HERE and be sure and scroll the to section about fighting with management to send online players to the WSOP. It’s a terrific read.
One more incident (of so many) bears remembering. This was the first year we used an official photographer. We decided to pay a professional photographer to document the entire series. I’d been close to Eric Harkins from ImageMasters out of St. Louis. We worked together on all the Jack Binion tournaments in Tunica. Eric was the best. He was easy to get along with and had just the right mentality to be able to step into a madhouse like the Horseshoe and make it all work. We agreed on a figure, with the stipulation that Eric would get booked at a hotel room close by.
For some odd reason, George refused to book Eric and his staff in the hotel and instead booked them at a weekly dive down on Industrial. Harkins and company had reservations for four weeks at $159 a week at a motel which shared a common wall with an adult bookstore. When Eric showed up anticipating a nice comfortable hotel room nearby, instead he pulled up to a motel filled with hookers and junkies. Worse, Eric would be walking through infamous “Naked City” at 2 or 3 am, will thousands of dollars in camera equipment in tow. So, Eric opted instead to pay for his own room elsewhere.
The 2003 WSOP began with the $500 buy-in Casino Employees event. We drew a big turnout. Then, the numbers began to decline. By the end of the first week, we were all in a panic.
The Limit Hold’em tourney, normally a huge opener for the WSOP every year took a huge hit. Attendance dropped from 610 down to 422.
Things were just as bad for the Seven-Card Stud event which followed. Participation dropped from 253 to 177.
Then, we all began to think this was the end when the Omaha High-Low Split numbers surfaced. The event declined from 339 to 175, down almost half!
The next few events weren’t much better. By the end of the first week of the 2003 WSOP, our overall attendance was down a whopping 30 percent over the previous year, which had been equally a disappointment.
As I walked through a nearly empty poker room during the $5,000 buy-in Deuce-t0-Seven Lowball championship, trying to keep my head up while staring at rows of empty tables and vacant seats, everyone in the poker universe was raving about the Bellagio. Excitement focused on a new poker attraction called the World Poker Tour, which had begun broadcast on The Travel Channel. We were a horse and buggy up against a race car. The WSOP seemed to represent the past. The WPT was the future.
Binion’s Horseshoe was in rapid decline and the WSOP seemed just about dead.

COMING NEXT: THE CLUSTERFUCK CIRCUS BEHIND CLOSED DOORS (MONEYMAKER SERIES CONTINUES — PART 4)

This has been a good read--Thanks for sharing

I remember how that Becky stole the dealers tips in that WSOP. What a piece of sh*t she was. Benny Binion must have rolled over in his grave when she took charge of the Horseshoe.

02 not exactly the good ole days

great read so far

Thanks for the great read.Brings back a lot of memories for me after my many years of staying & playing poker at Binions during the WSOP events (1986-2003).looking forward to part 4.

[h=1]The 2003 World Series of Poker (Moneymaker Series Continues — Part 4)[/h]
Benny’s Bullpen at Binion’s Horseshoe — site of the WSOP 1998-2004


Writer’s Note: This is the fourth in an extended series of articles about Chris Moneymaker’s victory at the 2003 World Series of Poker and what went on behind the scenes at Binion’s Horseshoe — before, during, and after.

Part 6: Friends of the Family

Hidden within the shadows were the shadiest of characters.
Personalities seemingly fit for a Martin Scorcese movie dotted the landscape, seemingly without purpose. No one — not even full-time staff — knew who they were nor what they did. Flocked in cheap suits, they often appeared half-shaven and wore dark glasses. You’d see these creeps around the casino at any time, day or night. Just standing. Just watching.
Once the WSOP began, we began seeing these shadowy types around the tournament area and poker room with much greater frequency.
They hung out for hours at a time, then disappeared. Then, they came back again, or were replaced by someone else. They never spoke to anyone. Once, I managed to get a name. He curtly identified himself as “Slimer” providing no additional comment. That’s right, his name was Slimer — as in “slime-er.”
You couldn’t make up that name.
At some point, Nick informed me that he liked to use “spotters” inside the casino. They were supposedly hired to spot known cheaters. It was made rather obvious that I wasn’t to ask any more questions. We were given explicit instructions to simply leave them alone and let them conduct their business.
In retrospect, I think Nick really enjoyed the cat and mouse chase game between casino and cheats. He made it a mission to apply a full-court press on the cheaters (or card counters, which were viewed once and the same), and probably had good reason to remain perpetually suspicious. His view seemed to be that everyone was out to cheat the casino and would certainly do so if given the right opportunity. Nick spent enormous amounts of time, energy, and resources trying to catch those suspected of cheating. Extreme measures were taken to identify them. He also perceived the poker scene to be a rat’s nest filled with cheaters and cheating. In fairness, I suppose history proved him at least partially right.
Unfortunately, the spotters were never subtle about their ways. They sulked around, conspicuously making everyone in the room aware of their presence and implied power. Inevitably, this caused some problems.
For instance, late at the WSOP when ESPN’s television cameras were rolling full steam, an exasperated Matt Maranz, executive producer of the broadcast finally got so fed up with the same unidentified bystander blocking every shot, he rushed over to me and demanded, “Who’s that guy in the suit? He’s in every frame! He’s killing the show!”
Trouble was, no one could tell him to move. Those were our instructions.
“Friend of the family,” we would say. And then walk away.
Maranz rolled his eyes. But he certainly got the message.
Nobody fucked with friends of the family.
Of all the absurd ideas related to the WSOP, perhaps the most ridiculous of all was an episode that materialized around the final table area that year.
We were days and a few gold bracelet events into the new series when just prior to the start of another final table one of the Horseshoe’s maintenance workers carted an enormous lazy-boy recliner into the middle of the tournament room. He shoved it off the cart and plopped the chair down right next to the final table. The husky beast of a chair was covered in ugly brown vinyl. It might have came out of someone’s living room during the 1970′s. The hideous eyesore would have fetched perhaps $10 at a garage sale — if the seller was lucky.
“What the fuck is that?” I asked.
“We got an urgent phone call from the family today. They told us to bring a comfortable chair up here and set it next to the final table,” the worker replied.
“A Lazy-Boy? Seriously? A Lazy-Boy?”
“It’s the only comfortable chair we could find,” the worker said.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing and seeing. This was the World Series of Poker — not someone’s den. After a serious investigation, I found out that Nick wanted a special VIP chair set up inside the roped-off area next to the final table. His reasonining was that “Doyle Brunson or somebody important might want to come by and watch the poker action.” [SEE FOOTNOTE BELOW]
I was speechless.
“So, you mean we’re stuck with that giant brown piece of shit the next three weeks?” I asked.
“Yep. That’s what the boss says.”
There was no way in hell Doyle or anyone with a conscious would dare cross the ropes and plop down in a recliner and watch poker. It wouldn’t happen in a million years. No self-respecting person would dare sit in that chair while just a few feet away the most important poker game in the world at the moment was going on. Nobody.
Well, except one person.
Remember “Jabber?”
He was the worthless “sportsbook manager” who leeched a free paycheck and hung out at the Horseshoe. In his way, Jabber was a “friend of the family.”
One night, WSOP photographer Eric Harkins stormed over to me and could hardly contain himself. Apparently, the temptation of that cozy brown chair was way too strong for Jabber. During the middle of final table play, he ducked under the ropes, climbed up into the chair, and proceeded to doze off for several hours completely oblivious to the gold bracelet at stake just an arm’s reach away. Jabber snoozed there and dozed off peacefully, his mouth hanging wide open, drooling over himself while the Seven-Card Stud World Championship went on — totally without interruption.
And most remarkable of all — no one seemed to care. Such lunacy had become normal at the Horseshoe. From a pawnbroker stationed next to the hotel front desk to a senile old man dozing like a baby next to a final table, nothing — and I mean nothing at all — fazed the players.
Binion’s Horseshoe tried a new experiment that year. The idea caught on and has been a staple of coverage every year since then. But at the time, a genuinely good idea was doomed to fail from the start simply due to lack of planning.
Given the growing interest in final table action and quicker reporting of results, a pay-per-view simulcast of every gold bracelet event final table was set up. Remember, this was long before all the great live coverage provided by Poker News, Poker Listings, Card Player and the rest that we’re used to today. No one had ever heard of Twitter. Back in those days, unless you were physically at the final table watching the action, the only way to get updates was waiting for someone who had come from the tournament to later got to a computer and post results at a community forum — such as rec.gambling.poker. Most of the time, that person posting the results many would see for the first time was me. We’re talking stone age here.
And so the live coverage idea had some merit. Trouble was, the concept wasn’t marketed at all. No one knew about it. I walked in the first day of the tournament and was stunned to see tech people setting up microphones and wires. I figured some ESPN crew were testing equipment. I quickly came to find out the family has partnered with a local video company in order to set up coverage, stream it live over the Internet, and charge for the service.
Packages ranged from $15 for one final table to $30 for a package plan. And to my surprise I eventually came to learn that I’d be in charge of it.
The concept was burdened with problems that were insurmountable. First, the video cameras were in a fixed position. They didn’t move. One camera was suspended above the final table. Then, another camera to the side provided a panoramic view of the table and some of the players, provided they remained with the frame. The cameras were of such poor quality, viewers couldn’t identify cards or see any of the faces. Of course, hole card cams weren’t part of the broadcast.
Even worse, there were no commentary. Just the whispers of players barely audible over the muffled sounds of shuffling cards and chips.
It was like watching the 24-hour-a day camera affixed to the NASA space station. Or, a television test pattern. Mind-blowing dull. You wouldn;t watch it for free, let alone pay $15.
The subscribers consisted of family members and perhaps a few friends. One week into our coverage, the subscription numbers rolled in and Nick went through the roof. The simulcast was becoming a total disaster. And so Nick instructed me to go into the booth and do final table broadcasts myself. At the very least, if I couldn’t call the action (which was the case most of the time), I was instructed to have someone — anyone — commentating at all times. Perhaps that might keep the audience awake.
Over the next three weeks I pulled anyone who could speak English onto the broadcast — and even some who could not.
The caliber of commentators ranged from hysterically funny to so awfully bad, they were actually pretty damn good. It was like watching and listening to train wreck theater. The commentary you heard was often far more entertaining than the actual final table. Sometimes we had people on the air who had no reservations about sharing their opinions and openly ridiculing players when they saw questionable plays.
The awkwardness of the experience was made considerably worse by the close quarters and there being no sound barrier. Commentators were stationed on a wooden platform behind a carpeted wall, perhaps 15-20 feet from the final table. But they couldn’t see much because of the wall. So, they relied on the shitty monitors. Worse, many of the voices and commentary carried to the table and could be heard by the players.
T.J. Cloutier was commentating once, and he openly hollered into the microphone — “There’s no way he can make this call….he’d be a complete idiot to call here.” Everybody at the final table plus the audience heard T.J. in his unmistakable voice. The player facing an all-in decision mucked his hand prompting Eli Balas to shout back, “Shut up, T.J.!” A few commentators were yanked off the air nearly in mid-sentence because at least one of the final table participants raised objections.
However, some of those who sat in as guests were wildly entertaining. One of the very best was the late John Bonetti, a no-nonsense barrel of opinion who resembled a comedy act. The most entertaining of all was Irishman Padraig Parkinson, who was wildly funny even though hardly anyone could understand him much of the time We stuck Padraig on the air late one night when we were desperate for anyone to take over the duty, which I recall was some dreadful event to cover like Seven-Card Stud High-Low Split. Padraig warned me that he’d had about ten pints of Guinness beforehand, plus one in his hand and another on the way. We didn’t care. He was better than way. Even though no one could make out what a sober Padraig often said, a boozy Parkinson was a firecracker. Someone posted something in a chat room over in Ireland about Padraig being on the air, subscriptions went through the roof. The show was a riot.
But our cavalcade of uncompensated talent hit a few snags along the way. One guest commentator went0 on air. He should have caused no problem. But a few minutes into the live coverage I received a frantic call from Nick. In the interest of protecting this well-known player’s identity, I’ll simply call him “John Smith.”
“Get that fucking deadbeat off the air right now!” Nick shouted.
“What? What are you talking about, Nick?”
“You’ve got John Smith on the broadcast right now. Get him off the fucking stage! In fact, I want to it down face to face with him in the coffee shop in 15 minutes. Get him down here! Now!”
“But what should I do? I can’t just yank him out of the broadcast booth and leave dead air.”
“I don’t fucking care what you do. He’s not going to stand there and do an official broadcast from the Horseshoe when that deadbeat owes me $100,000. Take him off the air, now!”
“But Nick, we”re not paying him anything. He’s working for free.”
“Coffee shop. Fifteen minutes.”
Click.
The next few moments were uncomfortable to say the least. I had the unenviable task of not only telling John Smith he was about to be plucked off the air. His willingness to help us out with the broadcast had actually triggered a sit down meeting with Nick Behnen. Of course, I added my appreciation for helping us out.
Partially to act as a buffer and also to provide some assurances that he’d come back alive in one piece, I escorted John Smith to the same type of sit down encounter I’d once been through. Let’s just say there was some shouting. Some argument about the actual figure owed. It wasn’t pretty.
We burned though anyone and everyone we could find. A few times, we were so desperate for any voice, I’d announce to subscribers: “And now as a special treat to all of our loyal listeners in Estonia, for the first time in history we’re going to do the next hour of the broadcast in the Estonian language (Note: There were no Estonian players at the final table). Some poor schmuck who spoken broken English who’d never attended the WSOP before was asked to do an hour of poker commentary in his native language — which a few foreign visitors were absolutely thrilled to do. We did it in Estonian, Portuguese, Vietnamese, and a few other languages.
This didn’t sit well with the actual listeners, who were paying $15-30 to follow to a WSOP final table. Some of these customers were relatives of the players. Imagine the shock of getting down to the last few players of a WSOP gold bracelet event, only to have the coverage interrupted by a change of commentators, and the language suddenly shifting from English to Estonian.
The term is “a perfect storm.”
It’s come to mean more than a weather reference. A perfect storm has to with everything lining up just right and creating ideal conditions for a colossal event.
That’s precisely what happened at the 2003 World Series of Poker.
We ended up with the perfect winner, with the perfect personality, with the perfect back story, with the perfect last name — all in front of the watchful eye of ESPN cameras recording the moment for tens of millions of viewers in prime time television during the slowest sports time of the year.
How perfect is that?
But no one could possibly have sensed this approaching storm of perfection on the night before the Main Event Championship was to begin.
We were scurrying around doing our prep work for the series when I ran into the poker office for something. Problem was, I couldn’t get inside the door. The office was jammed with people signing up. There were poker players lined up out the door. Many were wearing black shirts and hats with the same logo. There were about 40 of them.
They were from an online site called PokerStars.com.
It’s almost inconceivable to contemplate this today, in the modern poker era when many of the most skilled players in the world are 23-years-old. But ten years ago, online poker players were openly ridiculed. They weren’t even thought of as “real” poker players. They were pretenders. Crusty live action poker players who had grown up at real poker tables with real dealers and cards and chips and money — players who had mastered their craft on the green felt over decades — had little regard for this new generation of players starting to come into the game. They were pretty much held in contempt. A common line was, spoken openly, “he’s an Internet player,” which had the taint of calling out the target as an idiot.
That was the prevailing attitude back in 2003. The real poker players — mostly players in the 50′s and 60′s — were presumed to enjoy enormous advantages over these untested newcomers. They didn’t stand a chance. And so, they were welcome. At least their entry fees were welcome.
The revolution that was about to come was even more pronounced since these new players were so easy to identify. PokerStars.com required all of their qualifiers to wear golf shirts and hats with the company logo. Some players protested and didn’t want to wear the gear, since showing up dressed that way pretty much identified the newbie as something less of a “real poker player.
They were mocked, disrespected, and ridiculed. Sometimes right at the tables.
Perhaps all the angst was really self-doubt, a collective undercurrent of fear that the game was about to change in a very big way. And some people were about to get left behind. There might have been only 40 or so of them in 2003. But a year later, there were would ten times as many. A few years later, there would be 30 times as many. And the day would eventually come when poker websites had 100,000 players linked together at poker tables at once, while the very largest land-based cardroom in the world had perhaps 3 percent of that total number.
The storm that was coming was more of a typhoon. And the early raindrops were a three dozen or so, mostly young, completely anonymous, amateur poker players who were lined up early that night on the second floor at Binion’s Horseshoe preparing to buy-in to their first-ever WSOP Main Event.
One of those players dressed in the black golf shirt was a restaurant accountant from Nashville, Tennessee. He didn’t know anyone else. And no one knew him.
He was about to play the first live poker tournament of his life.
Of course, he didn’t stand a chance.
COMING NEXT: I Know It Says ‘Moneymaker,’ but What’s His Real Name?

[FOOTNOTE: Doyle Brunson, Chip Reese, Billy Baxter, and others finally decided to end their boycott of Binion's Horseshoe. This was largely thanks to Linda Johnson, who persuaded Nick Behnen to lift the ban on Paul Phillips, Richard Tatalovich, and others who had been barred during 2002.]

So far everything written is true...can't make this stuff up....

vd did you know some of these characters?

The term is “a perfect storm.”
It’s come to mean more than a weather reference. A perfect storm has to with everything lining up just right and creating ideal conditions for a colossal event.
That’s precisely what happened at the 2003 World Series of Poker.
We ended up with the perfect winner, with the perfect personality, with the perfect back story, with the perfect last name — all in front of the watchful eye of ESPN cameras recording the moment for tens of millions of viewers in prime time television during the slowest sports time of the year.
How perfect is that?
But no one could possibly have sensed this approaching storm of perfection on the night before the Main Event Championship was to begin.



Are you implying what i think you are here??


I've have watched the 2003 WSOP over 20 some times and still do not believe some of the extremely well timed play and FLAT OUT GOOD LUCK that befell "MR. Moneymaker"

i am very very intrigued
Please tell us more...............................................

Akillies said:

vd did you know some of these characters?

Click to expand...

Knew most of them....some real desparados....

remember having my picture taken next to the million bucks in the glass case near the side door mid to late 80's...as a teenager then, that seemed like all the $ in the world to me