Winning at Poker Can Be Costly

As a teenager growing up in Brooklyn, the summers were times of sun, fun, and lots of poker. On a good week, my friends and I would grab the Coney Island Avenue bus at least five of the seven days and head to Bay 8 at Brighton Beach, where a poker game would always be part of the agenda. We also played two nights of the week at someone’s house. Needless to say, I became pretty good at poker; I figured I made more at this endeavor than I would if I had a summer job. (At least I convinced my parents of that.)

There were two distinct age groups that hung out at “Marty’s,” the local malt shop. Mine was the younger group (about 15-years-old): Tom Lillis, Bill Perry, J.J. McGlynn, Frank Falcone, and Gene Koprowicz were some of the locals who were my grammar school buddies. My two best high school buddies, Lou Fusaro and Andy Rotolo often joined in the action, too. The older, more “grizzled” group at Marty’s (about 17-years-old) had their own poker game. And being older and, therefore, cooler, they played for higher stakes. We were nickel and dime betters – they played for quarters. They also had some buddies you wouldn’t want to mess with and never wanted to piss off.  (If this is starting to sound like "Happy Days," Richie Cunningham and The Fonz, it’s not by design -- that’s just the way it was.)

Usually, the older guys didn’t have too much to do with us, as this wouldn’t be cool. One night, however, I was invited to play in their game with a couple of my buddies. They must have been looking for some easy pickings, but for us it was a rush of excitement. It was validation that we had climbed one more rung in Brooklyn society. Along with the rush came some trepidation. The higher stakes were part of it, but sitting across the table from guys who, when they rolled up their t-shirts to hold their packs of Marlboros displayed much larger biceps, also entered the picture.

That summer I was “going steady” with the love of my life, Carol Halverson

The night of the poker party, Carol and I were supposed to have a date. This was especially important because she was leaving Brooklyn the next day for vacation with her family. A week or two of separation from your guy at this age was practically overwhelming. Carol and I were supposed to meet at 8 p.m. at Marty’s (of course). The poker game was to begin at an older guy’s house at 7:30. I couldn’t pass on this, so I went and left word for Carol that I would be back by 10 so we could say a proper goodbye and pledge our undying love until her return from vacation. 

The Game Begins

From the get-go I have one of those magical nights that poker inveterates only dream about. I win hands early and often. I fill inside straights routinely. Flushes and full houses become almost expected. After an hour, I’m up about $25. After two hours, I’m closer to $50 ahead. For teenagers in the 1950s, this is not chump change. The fact is not lost on me, and it certainly is not lost on my increasingly unsmiling hosts.

If I’m going to make my date with Carol, it’s getting about time to leave. One of life’s rules, however, is that you do not enter a poker game, stay a few hours, win all the money, and politely excuse yourself. You especially would not do that with this group, for fear of broken appendages. The game finally broke up a few hours later by mutual consent. Even these guys had curfews! Of course, by then Carol was long gone. We did eventually patch things up after her return. Good thing, because otherwise it would have been only the beach and card games for the rest of the summer.