WPTs, Richard Ivey, and What We “Must” Do

There is more to life than increasing its speed.

-Mahatma Ghandi

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For the first time since August, I’ve traveled to play a poker tournament. I’m writing from Montreal, where the first WPT event in Canada drew 451 players on a Friday(!) and should get well over 1000 by the time Day 1(B) closes tomorrow. I think the tournament will be really good and it’s been a while since I’ve played live, so it’s good to be back on the circuit and see friends.

The last time I played a WPT (which I *ahem* final tabled) I wasn’t in such good spirits and definitely wasn’t capable of bringing my A-game. I had just started treatment for my anxiety and depression and was coming off the most anxious few months of my life. I had also just finished an emotional roller-coaster, qualifying for the biggest tournament of my life (the $125,000 buy-in Premier League, which, thanks to a string of qualifiers, I was playing for the paltry cost of $500) and then losing in spectacular and brutal fashion. To top off that cocktail of stress, I had taken physically ill, running a low-grade fever and sleeping poorly. I was guzzling 8 glasses of juice a day at the breakfast bar just to try and keep some semblance of hydration but was, by and large, a wreck.

Looking back on these two tournaments, I’m not happy with my play (which was not bad, but not my A-game, and certainly not good enough for the field a $125,000 tournament attracts), but the biggest mistake I made wasn’t one I made playing cards. The biggest mistake I made was my decision to go.

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The last time I had felt as bad as I did in Vienna (where the Premier League and WPT took place) was the first week of school in 2008. My classmates will recognize the date as Orientation Week at Ivey, the highly ranked and highly competitive undergraduate business school I attended. O-week was supposed to be a fun week of bonding exercises and an introduction to what was expected of us over the next two years (spoiler alert: it was lots). It wasn’t any of those things for me.

For me, it was the week my grandfather died.

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My grandfather was something of a hero to me. He survived two wars where he was surrounded on all sides by people who wanted to obliterate his race from the earth. He started over with nothing in a new country after both of them, taking his family first to Israel, and then to Canada, where he raised my mother and her brother. He was a fighter in the truest sense of the word. He taught me to play chess, which he played (against anyone who wasn’t his grandson) with the same intensity he fought wars with. I never saw him lose.

The week before O-week, I watched him fight one last time. He lost.

He was fighting cancer.

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He was emaciated that week, unshaven and unkempt. He could barely speak or walk. He needed the help of several of us to get him to and from his bed to the bathroom.

I remember, clear as crystal, him pushing two of us away only steps from his bed so he could get there on his own. He barely made it. He had been a strong man all his life. He didn’t just lose his life to the fight, he lost his dignity and his pride to it.

I lost something, too, watching one of my heroes suffer the indignity and helplessness of his last days of fighting.

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The school spent O-week hammering into us that we were about to have our mettle tested. We were expected to treat our academics like a work environment, and the workload was going to be more than we had ever experienced or anticipated. We were not to leave the classroom during classtime (I remember this being mentioned several times). We were given business cases to prepare for in between the weeks’ activities.

On our first full day of classes, Friday morning, I received a call from my dad in the middle of class. I hung up. He called back. I hung up and texted him asking if it was important. My phone vibrated in my pocket a third time.

I think I had known as soon as I got the first call that my grandfather was gone.

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I had never lost a loved one before my grandfather died. I didn’t really know how to deal with it. At the funeral, I tried to be stoic, tried not to shed any tears. I thought it was a time for me to support my mother and my three little cousins (you’ll always be my little cousins even though you’re all at university and beyond now, J. N. and D.). I didn’t think I had time or energy for my own emotions, didn’t think that was how men behaved at these things. I had a little scotch with my uncle at the wake.

For the next month, I was non-functional.

I would open my casebooks at night and read the same paragraph over for an hour and a half. Then I would close my book and forget what I read. I would eat and go to the gym, but it was more habitual than willful. I was anti-social. I skipped mandatory study sessions. I got to know few of my classmates, got close with none of them.

By the time I picked myself up off the mat, I was so far behind in my classes and had so little willpower left, I all but gave up on catching up.

I didn’t want to be where I was. And I was stuck there.

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That feeling, that “stuck”ness, is something I’ve encountered in basically everyone I know who I’ve talked to about their depression. They all feel that they are not in control of their own lives, that they are beaten about like a sheet in the wind. So they dig in their heels, like they’ve been taught all strong people do during tough times. They keep trudging along, shouldering their burden, because perseverance and hard work are the values we’re taught to cherish in ourselves. They do what they are supposed to do, like I did. Also like me, they don’t end up where they want to be.

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So what’s the takeaway in all of this? What do poker tournaments in Vienna have to do with business schools in London, Ontario, or abusive relationships have to do with the loss of an idolized grandfather?

There’s a lot of common threads to tie together here. The first, and most obvious to me, is this: because I wasn’t at my best, I wasn’t able to give my best, and because I wasn’t able to give my best, I wasn’t able to get back the best I could have gotten. I feel cheated, at times, from my experience at Ivey. Although I connected to some of my classmates in later years, I don’t think I made many truly close friends in my first year. I don’t think I could have, either, the way I was. And although I got my degree, I feel like I only developed a fraction of the skills I could have in a fully invested two years.

Was some of that my fault? Definitely. Especially in second year, after I started playing poker, I could have put more energy into my school. That, as they say, is a story for another day.

The other thing that jumps out at me is that if I had spent my time and energy healing first, I would’ve gotten more out of both pursuits later. We’re so well-trained to throw hard work at all our problems that, when a problem comes up that can’t be solved by working harder, we work hard through it anyway. I could have taken a year off when it became clear I wasn’t going to be able to engage myself in my studies. I graduated at 20 instead of 21. Was I any better off at 21 because of it? What about at 24?

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If you need help, get it. If you need time, take it. Take care of yourself. It is only the phenomenally stupid and the phenomenally arrogant that believe they have no limits. It takes no strength and less cunning to keep doing the same things regardless of your condition.

The peaks will be there for you to summit when you get back. Forcing yourself to push forward regardless of the weather is how people die on the side of Mt. Everest.

As always, you can donate to my Movember page here. Moustache pictures are coming soon, I promise.

I Have Laughed At Ghosts

For Saba

I have laughed at ghosts who shake their chains
in the dark-lit places of my brain,
and rolled my eyes at the shrill screams,
of the phantoms that haunt my dreams.

I have spurned the ghosts who said to me,
“One day, you, too, shall not be free,”
and chuckled to myself, without a care,
at cries of, “Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.”

I have ignored the desperate wails
of those who would warn me with their tales
of how they once stood in my shoes,
and how, I, too, shall come to lose

strength, and looks, and charmed tongue,
and wit, and hope, and the passion of the young,
till all that’s left of my human form,
is a plot of earth, with stones adorned.

But the ghost who begged me with his eyes
(for he had no strength left in his tongue)
to take his hand and lift him up,
and walk with him once more in the sun,

to live with him for just one day,
and share with him a wisp of youth,
that ghost from whom I turned away,
knowing there was nothing that I could do,

that ghost who tried to hide his pain,
and to be flesh and blood for my sake,
I cannot laugh that ghost away;
that ghost I will never shake.

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2 thoughts on “WPTs, Richard Ivey, and What We “Must” Do

  1. My darling son, you have moved me to tears. You have a wonderful ability to put into words heartfelt emotions. You were able to convey your inner world in a beautiful way. I am very, very proud of you, and I love you very much.

  2. You are a truly gifted writer. Love this blog entry 🙂
    On a less serious note, how was your WPT Montreal?
    I didn’t play but I was railing my fellow quebecois at the final table!

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