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DOYLE BRUNSON - MY STORY
MY STORY
by Doyle Brunson
A lot has changed since the publication of the original
Super/System in 1978. I’ll tell you about that shortly. But first
I’d like you to know how I felt back then, at that halfway point
in my poker career. It goes like this…
BEFORE 1978
At some time in our lives, I suppose we all reflect on the good and the
bad that has happened to us and ask ourselves the question, “If
I had it to do all over again, are there things I would change?”
I’m no exception.
There’s no one alive who could have had it much tougher than I had
it in the early years, long before the publication of the first Super/System.
I was in a photo-finish with death. That’s as close as you can get
to the ultimate bad beat.
And accompanying my early poker adventures, I experienced near tragedy
due to the health problems of my wife Louise and my oldest daughter Doyla.
We lost Doyla a few years after Super/System came out. It was the biggest
heartbreak in my life.
I’ve been so broke early in my marriage that I couldn’t afford
bus fare from Las Vegas to my home in Fort Worth. And there were times
I could barely scrape up a dime to call my wife and ask her to send me
money for the ticket.
But there are two sides to the coin that’s been flipping my life
around. I finally got to the point where I got my bankroll up to one hundred
thousand dollars, and I haven’t looked back since. Years before
Super/System was born, my wife and family lived in relative luxury, and
now they’ll never have a hungry day as long as they live.
I’ve made many millions playing poker, and at times early on, lost
most of my bankroll betting on sports and golf. But I’ve always
done my thing, and I’m a happy man because of it. The pleasures
have definitely outweighed the pain.
Through it all, I’ve learned that in life, a man’s not beaten
even though he’s all-in. You can’t count him out until the
fall of the last card. I’ve been tested time and again on many battlefields.
I’ve lost a lot of little skirmishes, but I’ve won the big
ones. That’s what really counts.
The adversity I’ve faced has been a blessing in disguise. It’s
strengthened my character. I’ve had to draw on that strength many
a time at the poker table, and I’ll continue to draw on it for the
rest of my years.
I need that strength, too. You see, I’m a gambler. I’ll always
be one. I couldn’t be anything else. So my life will always be filled
with wins—and losses. I wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s
exciting. There’s almost never a dull moment in my life, and I can’t
imagine anyone having a better life than the one I have right now. I’ve
got just about everything I want.
That Elusive Something
Yes, the deck’s been stacked against me at various times in my life,
but I’ve overcome every cold deck I’ve faced. I’m enough
of a dreamer to realize what got me through might have been that elusive
something a gambler calls luck. But I’m also enough of a realist
to know that, in general, we make our own luck—through knowledge,
skill, and experience. And that goes for the game of poker as well as
the game of life.
In the summer of 1933, I was born in the West Texas town of Longworth,
a spot on the road consisting of a few houses and a general store. I don’t
suppose the population ever exceeded one hundred. We had only two industries
in the area, farming and a U.S. Gypsum plant. My dad worked for Planters
Gin Company, and while he didn’t make much money, there was always
food on the table and a little extra for the kids once in a while. We
lived in a four-room frame house at the time, with an outhouse at the
back. I remember thinking when I was little that, if I ever got any money,
I’d bring the plumbing indoors. It used to get mighty cold on those
prairies during the winter.
There were five of us living at home when I was small: Dad, Mom, my sister
Lavada, my older brother Lloyd, and myself. It was crowded but we didn’t
mind. There was a lot of warmth and a lot of love.
My mother was a religious, God-fearing woman who did her best to raise
us with a sense of moral values. I suppose a good deal of that has remained
with me. She used to tell us that you’ll find good in every man
if you look hard enough. I’ve always tried to remember that and
act accordingly, although sometimes it’s been mighty difficult considering
some of the unsavory characters I’ve come in contact with.
My dad was perhaps the calmest, most even-tempered individual I’ve
ever known. Nothing ruffled him. I can’t remember ever seeing him
get angry. When things went wrong he’d take it in stride, smile,
and say that setbacks are only a temporary thing. Tomorrow would always
be better. Of course we kids would get into a little trouble every once
in a while, as all kids do, and there were times when he surely would
have been justified in whaling the tar out of us. But he never even raised
his voice. Not once. Nor did he ever hit us. He had an ability to make
us know we’d been out of line without raising as much as one finger.
He was a truly remarkable man. When the Good Lord made my dad, he destroyed
the mold.
School Days
I attended grammar school in Longworth where several grades were held
in one room. I recall that my third grade class consisted of only three
kids, two boys and a girl. We got a lot of individual attention, that’s
for sure.
After grammar school and junior high, I entered Sweetwater High School
with D. C. Andrews and Riley Cross, two of my closest friends from Longworth.
We turned out for the basketball team. Before long, we were known as the
Longworth Triple Threat, and the three of us took over the varsity team.
Why not? We were in prime shape. We were always working out, running,
and swimming. D. C., Riley, and I would run non-stop from Longworth to
the swimming hole on the Barclay Ranch, which was about eight miles away.
Sometimes we’d run from Sweetwater back to Longworth after school,
but the coach didn’t take too kindly to that. He gave us a station
wagon so we’d be sure to make the practices on time. Sports were
my whole life in those days. They were everything.
In addition to basketball, I also turned out for the baseball team and,
at the suggestion of my coach, started running track. I was never much
interested in track, but the basketball season was over and I needed something
to do to keep in shape, so I took on the mile run. It seemed like a fair
distance and with all the running I was doing, I felt I could do all right.
I honestly didn’t realize at the time how well I’d actually
do.
In 1950, as a senior, I entered the Texas Interscholastic Track Meet as
a mile runner and won it with a time of 4:38. Without really trying, I’d
suddenly become the best high school miler in the state of Texas. In the
meantime, I had also been chosen as one of the five best high school basketball
players in the state, a rather heady experience for a boy of sixteen.
Riding High
After that, the scholarship offers started coming in. All told, there
must have been a hundred or so from various colleges and universities
throughout the country. I finally settled on Hardin-Simmons, a Baptist-affiliated
college in Abilene that was known primarily for turning out teachers and
coaches. At the time, I felt my life’s work would be in one of these
areas.
In my junior year at Hardin-Simmons, I was voted the most valuable player
in the Border Conference, and the pro teams were beginning to show an
interest. The Minneapolis Lakers, now the Los Angeles Lakers, were making
overtures, and I began to set my sights on a career as a professional
basketball player. Dell Basketball magazine picked me as one of the top
ten college players in the country. I was riding high.
In addition to the basketball honors, I had run the mile in
4:18.6, which put me in contention for a spot on the national team. I
often wonder what would have happened if I had trained as hard for track
as I did for basketball. Thinking about it now, I’m sorry I didn’t.
I think I missed my true calling in sports. There’s no doubt in
my mind that a four-minute mile was possible.
The future looked bright indeed. In the summer, I got a job at the U.S.
Gypsum plant. It wasn’t any great shakes as jobs go, but I planned
on saving enough to last me through my senior year. One day, I was unloading
some sheetrock, and as I was hauling the sheets off and stacking them,
suddenly, the pile began to shift. I tried to stop it with my body, jamming
my knee into the lower half of the pile to keep it in place. What a dummy
I was. I couldn’t stop it. Two thousand pounds of sheetrock crashed
on my right leg. It snapped in two places. I remember my first thought
was, “My God, I’ll never play basketball again.” My
leg was in a cast for two years due to complications. The fractures finally
healed, but when the cast came off, my speed and coordination were gone.
So were my hopes for the pros.
My First Poker Game
I’d been playing poker off and on since my high school days. In
fact, I still remember my first game. It was five-card draw, and I ended
up the big winner. I recall thinking at the time what easy money it was.
After I entered Hardin-Simmons, I’d play in the usual Saturday night
games. In general, I seemed to do pretty well. I got caught once or twice
and was disciplined for gambling, but since I was one of the basketball
stars nothing much came of it.
After breaking my leg, basketball was out of the question and I spent
a lot more time playing poker. I began paying more attention to my studies
also. Prior to my injury, I felt that basketball would carry me through
school. But from here on in, I’d have to use my brain. My poker
winnings paid for my expenses, and in 1954 I graduated with a bachelor’s
degree. I stayed on at Hardin-Simmons and earned my master’s degree
in Administrative Education the following year. With these credentials,
I felt sure I’d be offered a job that would lead to a position as
superintendent of schools or at least a principal. It didn’t work
out that way. In fact, the top job offered to me was that of a basketball
coach at Dalhart (Texas) High School at a salary of $4,800 a year.
It didn’t make sense; I was making more than that just playing poker.
I used to travel around to the different colleges in Texas setting up
games and making a fair living by my wits. At that time, however, the
idea of becoming a professional gambler had not occurred to me even though
it was apparent I played better than most.
After graduation, I went to work as a business machines salesman, a profession
that ultimately could have made me some twenty-five or thirty thousand
a year—or so I thought. But it wasn’t in the cards. My first
day on the job, I called on a few prospective accounts. I didn’t
get much further than the front door, and I wound up in a poker game before
the day was out. It was a seven-stud game where I cleared a month’s
salary in less than three hours. “My God,” I thought, “what
am I doing trying to sell machines nobody wants to buy from me when I
can sit down at a poker table and make ten times the money in one-sixth
the time?” It didn’t take me very long to figure out what
to do. I quit the company and began my career as a full-time professional
poker player. I’ve never regretted that decision.
Turning Pro
The first games I played that amounted to anything were down on Exchange
Street in Fort Worth, Texas. I’d be surprised if you could find
a tougher street in the whole world. There were shootings, muggings, robberies,
and just about every kind of violence imaginable. The stuff we see on
TV today is tame compared to what Exchange Street was like almost any
hour of the day. But at the card table, amidst all that violence, everything
was as gentlemanly as could be. They were two different worlds. My buddy
Dwayne Hamilton and I frequented a card room run by a gangster named Tincy
whose main claim to fame was having killed half a dozen people. He ran
an honest game, though, and Dwayne and I did fairly well. No-limit hold’em
was our main game. After we accumulated a good-sized stake we moved uptown
to the three hundred and five hundred buy-in games where we played with
doctors, lawyers, and other professional people.
For the next five or six years we made the Texas circuit, playing bigger
and bigger games throughout the state. Occasionally we’d drop into
the big games in Oklahoma and Louisiana. During this period, I met Amarillo
Slim and Sailor Roberts, a couple of the finest poker hustlers I’ve
ever met. We hit it off from the start and after Dwayne moved back to
Fort Worth, Sailor, Slim, and I decided to go into business together.
We must have hit every town in Texas, relieving the locals of their money.
It was a sight to see, the three of us taking on all comers. And not just
at poker. We got to the point where we were gambling on just about every
game there was—golf, tennis, basketball, pool, sports betting. Just
about everything. As long as we thought we had some sort of an edge, we’d
bet. And we made money. Pretty soon we got to know most everybody in the
games no matter where we played. We kept running into the same guys all
the time—Jack Straus, Johnny Moss, Bob Hooks, and a lot of others.
Making a Name for Ourselves
As our reputations grew, we were invited to more and more games in private
clubs and homes. For the most part, these games were for rich oil men
and cattlemen who had a hankering to take on young professionals like
us. It was safer playing in these games than playing in back rooms where
you took a risk every time you won a fair amount. I’ve been hijacked
a few times, and I can tell you it’s not a pleasant experience to
be looking down at the business end of a shotgun.
Sailor, Slim, and I stuck together for six years or so, and we had some
mighty fine times. Once in a while we were down, but we managed to hold
our own better than most. Our partnership finally broke up after our first
big trip to Las Vegas. We lost our entire bankroll—close to six
figures—and believe me, there’s nothing more cantankerous
than three broke gamblers. We went our separate ways after that but have
remained close friends to this day.
In 1960, I met my wife, Louise. She was a pharmacist in San Angelo, Texas,
and I courted her for about two years. She was something worth winning,
you see, and I can tell you I had an uphill fight persuading my sweetheart
that I was her one and only. She was convinced I was married, and it took
a heap of testimonials to convince her that I was single and available.
I worked harder for our first date than anything I’ve ever done
in my life. After I asked her to marry me, she had to think twice about
permanently hitching up with a professional gambler. She had a lot of
doubts. It wasn’t what most girls were doing at the time. I finally
convinced her and we were married in August of 1962.
About four months after we were married, I woke up one morning with a
sore throat and thought I was coming down with a bad cold. There was a
little knot on the side of my neck about the size of a pea. Louise insisted
I go to a doctor, and so for about three weeks I was taking heavy doses
of antibiotics every day. That didn’t help, and the knot grew to
the size of a hen’s egg. By that time, I was plenty worried. My
brother Lloyd had died of cancer a short while before, and I couldn’t
keep that off my mind. We consulted a cancer specialist in Fort Worth.
He took one look at me and scheduled me for surgery the following Monday.
He didn’t think the tumor was malignant, but said it would have
to come out.
Something Awfully Wrong
I went into the operating room at 6:30 a.m. When I woke up in the recovery
room, it was dark. Even though I was very groggy, I could tell things
weren’t going too well for me. Not only were my head and back in
bandages, but my entire chest was wrapped in gauze and completely covered
with tape. I remember thinking, “Doyle, there’s something
awfully wrong.” Louise was there at my side telling me everything
was going to be all right, but I knew she was trying to hide something.
I was in a lot of pain, and the drugs they kept feeding me kept me fairly
stupified for the next few days.
I remained in the hospital for quite a while. My relatives and friends
were always coming by to see how I was doing. That was a comfort.
Still, nobody had the courage to tell me what the real situation was.
The only thing I knew was that I was going to be taken for further study
to the Cancer Center at M. D. Anderson Hospital in Houston. What I had
not been told was that when the doctors opened me up, they found massive
cancer spread throughout my body. It had reached close to the base of
my brain, and my chest and stomach area were riddled with it. Four surgeons
had been called in and they all agreed that it was useless to proceed.
The cancer had attacked so much of my body that it was only a matter time
before I died. I was a big dog to live longer than four months.
They Came to Say Goodbye
While I suspected the worst, it wasn’t until I was taken home for
one day, prior to flying to Houston, that I really knew I was going to
die. Over two hundred people from all over the country came to our house
that day. I was really surprised. I didn’t think I had that many
close friends. From the way everybody was acting it was obvious they’d
come to say goodbye. My friend Dwayne Hamilton just broke down and cried.
Louise was pregnant at the time, and I thought to myself how sad it was
that I’d probably never get to see my baby. By all rights, I’d
be dead and gone before it arrived.
Louise was thinking the same thing and had made the arrangements for further
surgery at M. D. Anderson. Though the doctors had told her there was no
hope of my living, they said there might be a slight chance of prolonging
my life a few more months through radical neck surgery. With that operation,
there was a possibility that I’d be able to live long enough to
see my baby before the cancer reached my brain.
We flew to Houston the next day. For the next two-and-a-half weeks, I
rested in the hospital to build myself up for the surgery to come. I went
into the operating room at 10:30 a.m. I spent eight hours under the knife
and at 6:30 p.m., they gave Louise the news. I was going to make it. It
had been touch and go.
The Impossible Had Happened
At one point during the operation, my blood pressure dropped to zero,
but they pulled me through. What was truly incredible was that there was
no longer any trace of cancer in my system. The doctors couldn’t
believe it. The impossible had happened.
The odds against merely surviving the operation itself were very high.
A month earlier the black corruption of melanoma had been visible to the
naked eye. That the cancer had disappeared was incomprehensible to the
staff at the hospital. Five doctors had unanimously agreed that it was
a medical impossibility for me to live longer than a few more months,
with or without the operation.
For the next two weeks, Louise and Sailor took turns watching me twenty-four
hours a day, since we couldn’t afford a private nurse. I had to
be observed closely. The tubes that led to my body had to be checked constantly,
and my vital signs had to be monitored continuously. I don’t know
when Louise and Sailor got any sleep.
After leaving the hospital, I recuperated at my sister’s. When my
strength returned, I reported back to the hospital in Fort Worth for a
checkup. The doctor who had first operated on me was at a complete loss
for an explanation. The only thing he could say was that occasionally,
spontaneous remissions occur, but in my case he could only believe a miracle
had happened.
Later we found out that during the operation several friends had spoken
to their church pastors about my case and entire congregations were praying
for my recovery. Those prayers surely must have been answered.
A Higher Power
Louise had always been a religious woman, but this experience and two
others in our lives reinforced her conviction that there’s a higher
power that watches over us.
Shortly after my recovery, Louise developed a uterine tumor. That normally
requires extensive surgery and removal of the female organs. She was scheduled
for surgery, but before the procedure, it was discovered that her tumor
had disappeared. Another miracle.
In 1975, when my daughter Doyla was twelve years old she was found to
have idiopathic scoliosis, a debilitating spinal disorder. That affliction
causes extensive curvature of the spine or permanent crippling. Specialists
were consulted and radical procedures were recommended, including implantation
of a steel rod in her spine or a full body brace. None of that was necessary.
Louise organized a marathon prayer session for Doyla that included radio
broadcasts and correspondence with the late Katherine Kuhlman, the famous
faith healer. Within three months, Doyla’s spine had straightened
completely. The doctors acknowledged that hers was one of only three known
cases where the curvature was corrected without surgical assistance. The
third miracle in our family.
Since that time, Louise has been extremely active in Christian ministry
and heavily involved in work with foreign missions. She spends as much
or more time as a servant of the Lord as she does in taking care of our
family. She’s said time and again: “It’s so exciting
to be a Christian. It’s by far the most exciting part of living.”
And I know she believes that as strongly as any person on earth.
Fortunately, money was not a problem when the mountains of medical bills
came pouring in for Louise and Doyla. I did very well at the poker table
during all those years. When I left the hospital after my operation, I
recuperated for a while and then I returned to the poker circuit with
a zest and appreciation for life that I had never had before. Each day
when I woke up the sky was bluer and the grass was greener. The world
was as bright as could be. I was alive. From the first session I started
playing again, I won fifty-four times in a row. I never booked a loser
until the fifty-fifth session I played. Never before, or since, have I
had such a streak. I won enough to completely clear my immense doctor
and hospital bills and had plenty left over to keep my family comfortable
for several years.
Everything Seemed to Click
Before the surgery, I would have classified myself as a slightly better
than average player. However, after that ordeal, something happened. Everything
seemed to click, and I was playing better than I had ever played in my
life. My playing became almost instinctive. I was reading my competitors
more accurately, and I felt a self-assurance I had never experienced.
My brush with death had apparently triggered innate abilities that had
never surfaced before.
The most important thing of all was that I discovered my true vocation.
I had finally dispelled any doubts about what my profession in life was
going to be. Because of pressure from my family and friends, I had thought
about returning to “legitimate” work. But now I knew I never
would. I was never going to be a working stiff, nor was I ever going to
have a boss. I was going to make my way through life my way.
During the next few years, I shuttled between Fort Worth and Las Vegas,
where more and more of the action was developing. I was still doing most
of my playing in Texas, but it was getting difficult to find the really
big games there. I was beating them so regularly that they were finally
saying, “We can do without Doyle.” The action, for me, was
really beginning to dry-up.
Also, in 1970 Congress passed legislation making it even more difficult
for a poker professional to make a living. The law that directly affected
me made it a federal offense to run a large scale poker game from which
five or more players derived an income, except, of course, in states where
such gambling was legal. The handwriting was on the wall.
So in 1973, I moved my family—Louise; Doyla, 10; Pamela, 9; and
my little boy Todd, who had his fourth birthday on the road—to Las
Vegas where we established our home. It’s a good place to live:
good weather, good action, and good people.
Competitive by Nature
I’m known as a professional gambler rather than just a professional
poker player, and I have to admit that I am. I’ve been known to
bet on just about anything. And because of that, I’ve surely had
my share of losers. If I had stuck to poker, I’d probably be a far
wealthier man today. But old habits are hard to break, and I just like
to gamble.
However, it’s more than just liking to gamble. I’m very competitive
by nature. As long as there’s a contest—any kind of contest,
even if it’s a marble shooting contest—I want to be a part
of it. If I can’t be an active participant as I am at poker and
golf—and therefore betting on myself—I have to bet on one
side or the other, be it a football game, a prizefight, or whatever.
My competitive nature is one of the reasons I feel I’ve been so
successful playing poker. You’ve got to play hard to be a consistent
winner at poker, and I’m able to do that instinctively. I was a
very fierce competitor as an athlete in high school and college. That
competitive spirit remains with me. I’m sure it has a lot to do
with my success at the poker table. I’ve never lost the feeling
of exhilaration that comes when you’re doing the best you can and
gambling real high. There’s no feeling quite like it.
Next to poker, golf is my favorite game, and I’m considered a pretty
good player—probably a little better than the next guy. Unfortunately,
quite a few of those next guys have played a shade better than me when
we got to betting on the course. I remember going back east one year with
my best friend Jack Binion and ending up playing golf with a millionaire.
We kept raising the stakes until finally we had $180,000 riding on one
hole. He putted out for a par to my bogey and all that money just flew
away. And that’s just one of several such stories I could tell you.
Now, the title of the first Super/System was originally How I Made over
$1,000,000 Playing Poker. The title of my next one is going to be How
I Lost over $1,000,000 Playing Golf. There’s definitely a moral
in there somewhere.
A lot has been written about my winning the 1976 and 1977 World Series
of Poker for a total of some $560,000. You may have read some of the many
stories. They were tough games against tough competitors. The best players
in the world sat at those tables and the pace was grueling. That kind
of playing is not something I would care to do every day, but for a sheer
gut-level contest, it can’t be beat. There’s a certain pride
you take from knowing that you’ve taken on the best and come out
on the top. But with this pride also comes the realization that you can
never afford to become complacent. In both the 1976 and 1977 Series, I
made a full house only when the final card was played. And perhaps there’s
a moral in that, too. As I noted, in poker as in life, you can’t
count a man out until the last card falls.
1978 AND BEYOND
Life is always changing, never constant. You really can’t count
on anything staying the same. Late in 1977, I added the finishing touches
to the original Super/System, and its publication would change poker for
me forever in ways I hadn’t anticipated.
The people closest to me, both my friends and my poker opponents, continued
to see me in pretty much the same light. But it was the people and the
players I’d never met before who began treating me differently.
For the most part, they treated me with more reverence, and that was flattering.
Nobody ever sat in a poker game anymore who didn’t know who I was.
And so many strangers had read my book in the first months after its publication
that I never knew when I was playing a student of my game plan, who was
expecting me to play poker precisely as I had described and eager to take
advantage.
Forging Ahead
Although I had to adjust my strategy a little to keep these players confused,
I was able to pretty much stick to my game plan and play just as I had
written. It worked, because the strategy was so powerful that you could
almost tell your opponents what you’re going to do—how you’re
going to bet, how often you’re going to bluff—and there wouldn’t
be much they could do about it. I had devised a proven world-class game
plan for winning. And when you have a world-class game plan for winning…well,
you just win. Hardly anything else can happen, and I wasn’t about
to change my style of play dramatically, just because I’d shared
my secrets with the world.
Strangers could take my secrets and beat almost everyone with them, but
I was determined that they weren’t going to use them to beat me.
And they didn’t.
But things changed some. Poker changed. More and more, a new type of player
was coming on the scene—more literate, more refined. Old gamblers
were true gamblers, ready to put all their money on the table anytime,
anywhere. Most of them had no other option as a livelihood, either. Poker
was a path out of poverty. Many old gamblers were uneducated. Today, players
often have degrees and treat poker as a business rather than a pure form
of gambling. Modern players are growing up in a world of the Internet,
and many even play poker online, something that would have been beyond
anyone’s wildest imagination when the first copy of Super/System
was purchased.
And poker has grown so vastly in recent years. So vastly. The old ways—those
seedy games in the back of pool halls, in taverns, those private home
games and the ones held by fraternal organizations like the Elks and the
VFW—are quickly fading. It was so much more difficult to get good
back then. You had to do it the hard way.
Today, you can take a shortcut to winning just by reading what the experts
and proven players have contributed, rather than having to develop poker
talents through trial and error.
Big Money
After 1977, I started accumulating big money. The regular games were good,
and the side games at the World Series of Poker were excellent. But this
golden age for poker profits didn’t last.
Did you know that satellites ruined the cash games at the tournaments?
The players who previously came to town eager to risk their bankrolls
against the top pros in side games suddenly discovered they could get
their adrenaline rush by playing in these one-table shootouts, trying
to win entries into the tournaments just by beating everyone at a single
table. It was addictive for them. And it worked perfectly to increase
the number of entrants in the tournaments. But it didn’t work well
for those of us who had previously benefited when these inexperienced
players bumped heads against us during those tournaments. Satellites had
arrived, and that kind of easy profit was gone. A few adventurous players
still sought us out, wanting the challenge. But mostly, the opportunities
for super-soft side games at tournaments were gone.
Despite this, my poker bankroll continued to grow. It was almost all smooth
sailing, almost all success. Everything went straight up.
It was a time when the Gamblers Invitational Golf Tournament, hosted by
Jack Binion, brought all the gamblers together and boasted some of the
biggest golf games in the history of the sport. Those who think that there’s
big money of the PGA tour have no idea what goes on when a bunch of golf-crazed
gamblers get together. And it didn’t matter how well or how poorly
you played the game, if you had a bankroll and a set of clubs, we’d
figure out a way to make it a fair gamble.
Dubious Reputations
I made a load of money golfing, partly because I had a reputation for
giving action. You’ve got to give action to get action. I used sheer
mental toughness and competitiveness, as well as a God-given gift for
athletics, to come out on top. There were million dollar days.
Back then, not everyone we wagered with at golf belonged in the “reputable
gambler” category. Take Jimmy Chagra, a convicted drug dealer who
was later revealed to be one of the biggest suppliers in the United States.
We’re talking boatloads from Columbia. Well, that was the “successful”
side of Chagra. On the less successful side, he had his golf game vastly
overrated. He was so wrong about his ability that he demanded to play
$100,000 Nassaus with automatic presses anytime someone got two holes
down.
Nobody else could easily afford to play that high, so I decided take the
challenge and also to stake the legendary poker player Puggy Pearson from
Nashville and Jerry Irwin from Indianapolis, both participants in Jack’s
tournament. Now Puggy had a dubious reputation for taking advantages that
were, well, let’s just say they approached the gray area on a scale
of golfing propriety. All three of us beat Chagra the first two holes
and, on the third, the automatic press started.
Next hole. Puggy and I are on the green in two, while Chagra finds himself
in a sand trap. There’s a meaningless spot of sun-dried grass in
front of Puggy’s ball, a blemish on the green path to the hole,
but not a hindrance to his putt in any way. For some reason I’ll
never live long enough to understand, Puggy moved his ball a few inches
away from the sunspot, to no advantage. Maybe it’s just Pug’s
nature.
Chagra had his bodyguard riding in the cart with him.
“Jimmy, Puggy moved his ball,” the bodyguard announced.
Well, Chagra went ballistic, screaming, bellowing, threatening, “I’m
gonna blow all you blankety-blanks away!”
I figure Puggy cost me $2 million in future earnings that day, maybe more,
and I’ve never let him forget it. While I personally had success
against Chagra after that, Puggy never got another chance. He was banished
forever from our group.
My Saddest Hour
Life is like poker sometimes. Just when things are going so good that
you think you’re supposed to win every pot, you get a monster hand
cracked, and it spells the beginning of a dizzying downward spiral. That’s
how it was when Doyla died at eighteen.
She’d been attending UNLV. We knew she had a valve problem with
her heart, but it wasn’t supposed to be serious. They say it was
too much potassium that took her from us. It was so unexpected, like being
kicked in the gut so hard you don’t think you can ever stand up
again, breathe again.
You know how each of us sometimes searches for the meaning of life? Losing
Doyla started my search in earnest. Doyla was a devout Christian, as is
her mother, Louise. To be sure, I had Christian beliefs, too. But I wasn’t
really practicing them. I guess I had strayed about as far away from God
as you can and still be a believer. Thinking back, I was too caught up
in myself and my quest for success, my desire to be rich and famous and
such.
I sunk into a long depression. During this time I studied the Bible and
other Christian literature. It awakened me. Gradually, so gradually over
the next year, my strength returned, and with it my resolve and my spirit.
I came to realize that God allows us to have a free will and do as we
please. And so, Doyla had used her free will when she took too much potassium,
the event that put her system out of balance and stopped her heart. It
must not have seemed like a big thing to her, such a small mistake. But
sometimes choices we make have consequences beyond what we could ever
imagine. I remember Doyla every day, and the shock and the sadness of
losing her will never end. But I’m at peace with God. Had I not
come to accept that peace, I could never have returned successfully to
poker.
I finally came to understand that Doyla’s and Louise’s Christian
beliefs were right for me. And I was ready to revisit poker with a new
vigor.
I moved to California and found very soft action at the poker tables.
At the Bicycle Club, I won over a $1 million very quickly. I was back.
Essex, England
I’ve become more reflective about life as I’ve continued to
mature. It’s strange to realize that a man can get to be fifty,
sixty, and now seventy and still find himself maturing. But that’s
what happens.
About twenty years ago, I took an interest in genealogy, wondering how
I came to be. I learned that Roger Brunson, the first historically recorded
Brunson in America, could be traced to Connecticut in 1625. And you can
trace my lineage back to Essex, England in the 1500s.
Actually, the early surnames in my family weren’t all Brunson. They
were Brownson, meaning son of Braun, and Bronson. But these were all related,
all from the same family tree. I discovered that, except for Native Americans,
no families can trace their roots to this continent further back than
the Brunsons.
Sometimes I wonder if any of the Brunsons who preceded me had gambling
in their natures. Were they great risk takers? Did they overcome adversity
or get buried by it? What anguish did they face that involved their families?
What victories made them proudest? History doesn’t provide me enough
detail. Still, I wonder.
As for me, life’s path has been peppered with pretty panorama and
disastrous detours. Maybe everyone’s life is a little like that.
Maybe things that happen to you just seem magnified and out of proportion
when compared to events that happen to others.
Thinking Back
The events that I most remember play out in my mind like sound bites.
Occasionally I can’t recall details or events until one of these
monumental moments in memory gets me started, and then that trigger leads
me to the next remembrance and the next.
Like my children leaving the nest. Like when my closest friends and some
of my family began to die off—Sailor, D.C., Mom, three aunts, and
four uncles—all within two years. And this, once again, got me to
wondering about the meaning of life. What’s it all about? But this
time, my newly discovered faith brought me through.
Then there were those bad investments—television stations, mining
ventures, you name it. Despite my advanced education in business, I just
couldn’t seem to get it right. Maybe the Lord intended for me to
be a poker player. Maybe poker is my path to greater awareness. Maybe
whenever I stray from that poker path, the Lord decides to yank me around
a little and remind me to stay on course, doing what I do best. It sure
seems that way.
And I’ve noticed this in other great poker players as well. They
yearn to take a shot at something beyond poker, and as likely as not,
whenever they do it, they end up getting yanked around, too.
Enter the World Poker Tour, the tremendously successful televised series
that’s helped to popularize our game as much as anything else in
poker history. When Lyle Berman, founder of the WPT offered me a chance
to buy in, I was so gun-shy from failed investments that I turned it down.
Life’s strange. Here I am, all my life, taking shots at shaky investments
having nothing to do with poker. Many of those shots are doomed from the
get-go, and here’s one with the right people behind it, with the
right vision, at the right time, involving the right game—my game—and
I turn it down. Yeah, life’s strange and so are the choices that
people make in life. You never know what the next deal brings. Sometimes
you play hands and wish you hadn’t. And sometimes you throw away
hands, only to see a perfect flop, and you wished you’d stuck around
to enjoy it.
More Twists and Turns
My best friend over the past thirty years has been Jack Binion, who took
over as principal owner of the Horseshoe after his legendary father, Benny
Binion, died. Maybe you’ve heard about the family dispute that pitted
Jack against his sister, Becky. It was highly publicized. Naturally, my
friendship dictated that I side with Jack, and when he left the Horseshoe
in his sister’s charge and opened casinos down South, I deserted
the World Series of Poker for four years.
It was a hard thing to do, because I was the leading money winner lifetime
at the tournament, and I knew that with ever-growing tournaments and bigger
prize money, other players would likely be passing me as I sat on the
sidelines. Yet even today I remain in a tie with Johnny Chan and Phil
Hellmuth for total first-place bracelets won. We’ve each won nine.
That family dispute has blown over, and maybe I’ll be able to add
more bracelets in the years ahead, although with the number of entrants
per event often approaching 1,000 nowadays and surpassing 2,600 for the
2004 main event, that becomes a much tougher challenge.
Nightmare
I remember the last year I played in the WSOP before my boycott. I finished
first, second, and third during the series of events. But on the negative
side, I was robbed at gunpoint, beaten, and hit over the head. But the
night it happened taught me just how saintly and brave Louise really was.
I’d always known it in my heart, but this time she proved it in
a way that will always haunt me.
You’d think I’d know better than to carry large amounts of
money, and I do know better. Being held up and hijacked, rolled and robbed
from my earliest poker days in Texas has taught me caution. But, apparently
not enough caution. It wasn’t cash I was carrying six years ago,
just chips from the poker games at the WSOP. Big chips. Lots of them.
And I got home with them safely. Almost.
One of the worst nightmares, not only for a poker player, but for any
citizen, is a home invasion. It was midnight. As I left my car, heading
for my door, I was confronted by two men, one with a gun. They wanted
the keys. I flung them far into the bushes, but not far enough. One of
the men retrieved them. I decided I simply wasn’t going inside the
house. No way. So, I faked a heart attack. It was a convincing act, and
they bought into it. But that didn’t send them scurrying into the
night. They simply unlocked the door and dragged me through it.
Naturally, we have all sorts of security features, as most high-stakes
players do. One of those was a delayed alarm, which had been set by Louise,
who was upstairs sleeping. When I didn’t deactivate it, the alarm
sounded, just as I’d hoped.
They demanded to know how to turn it off. I kept feigning semi-consciousness
and giving them the wrong combinations, asking them to call the paramedics.
Sympathy from them was not forthcoming, however. I was pistol-whipped
and they broke my nose in the process. My face was badly cut up when Louise
came downstairs to investigate the commotion.
The phone rang.
“That’s the alarm company,” one of the men growled.
“Tell them everything’s all right, or we’ll kill you
right now!”
It was, indeed, the security company, responding to a standard alert.
In order to determine whether this was a false alarm, they asked for a
password that would let them know everything was okay. Louise took the
call and had the presence of mind to give the wrong password, just as
I had given the wrong codes. But instead of picking up on the clue that
something was terribly amiss at the Brunsons’ residence, the woman
on the other end admonished Louise, saying she had been given the wrong
password.
“Yes, I know,” Louise confirmed politely, hoping the intruders
wouldn’t divine the direction of the phone conversation. She again
repeated the invalid code and hung up. Now, you’d think that was
enough to send help on its way. But no. The phone rang again. And again
it was the security company. This time one of the robbers answered and
tried, pathetically, to sound like a woman. He was told that the code
previously given is invalid. Belatedly, the agent got suspicious and figured
it out. Finally, she hung up and called the police.
Slamming the phone down, the robber lost his cool, charged back into the
room where the other bandit had a gun to my head.
“Don’t kill him, kill me!” It was my dear Louise’s
voice. When the man had stepped back from me, she had jumped between me
and the gun.
The robbers seemed flabbergasted. They threatened us again, then took
chips and some money from my pockets. They didn’t search the house,
and they wouldn’t have found any cash there, anyway. I don’t
keep cash at home, mostly because it could endanger my family. They sensed
they were running out of time, and so they fled.
Even through the pain, one thought struck home. It was my astonishment
at just how courageous Louise is. I’d always known she was like
that, but that night set a new standard.
By the way, I’d learned that heart attack trick from another legendary
gambler, Titanic Thompson. It was in his book. But he would take it a
step further, coming out with a hidden pistol. They say he killed five
guys that tried to rob him.
A Reunion
My life has been a long chain of adventures. And when I think back, I
realize that the things you experience are your gifts to remember. Permanent
gifts, like diamonds. They sparkle in your head, and they are yours forever.
And I journey back to my college years at Hardin-Simmons. It’s as
if I can remember it all, the games, the glory, the shots I made, the
shots I missed. It all plays out again, like brand new, on a basketball
court in my mind. Everyone’s there. My friends. My teammates. The
crowds.
It had been like that for many years, those vivid memories. And so, I
invited my whole team to a reunion. Surprisingly, all but two were still
alive—twenty-five of them. Would you believe that twenty-two showed
up at my home, more than fifty years after we’d had our championship
season in the Border Conference? Our conference included big time schools
such as Arizona, Arizona State, New Mexico, Texas Tech, and UTEP, then
known as Texas Western. Our Hardin-Simmons team was one of sixteen elite
teams that comprised the NCAA basketball tournament at that time.
My old teammates had become educators and preachers and businessmen. None
was a poker player. I was the black sheep of the university. Hardin-Simmons
has strong religious roots, and I’m betting I was the only one who
turned out to be a professional gambler in the history of the school.
No wonder I’ve been passed up for my college’s Hall of Fame,
despite my accomplishments in track and basketball there. But the reunion
made up for it, and it turned out to be one of the fondest experiences
of my life.
We all reminisced about that championship year, and time stood still.
And for a brief, whimsical, magical moment, I believed—maybe we
all believed—we could still do it. We could do it again.
Heartbreak and Peace
And so my time on earth so far has been a journey. Along the way, I’ve
faced heartbreak and found peace. I’ve struggled but ultimately
conquered. And now, having completed my seventh decade on earth, I reflect.
That’s one of the two things I do most nowadays. Reflect. And play
poker.
I don’t play in a lot of tournaments outside of Nevada these days,
but because the WPT has grown so popular, there’s a sudden interest
in poker. I’ve been invited regularly to appear on TV shows, the
interviews for major publications have become commonplace, and a movie
script about my life has just been completed.
Poker is hot. And I’m proud of my part in it, honored by every award
that ties me to our great game of poker—Poker Hall of Fame, Seniors
Hall of Fame, Texas Hall of Fame, Tropicana Casino Legends Hall of Fame.
As I sat writing this section, I had the honor of being interrupted by
an invitation from the Commerce Casino near Los Angeles, the biggest poker
palace in the world. I was one of three “players” to be inducted
into their new Poker Walk of Fame, along with actor James Garner, who
played Maverick on the most popular TV series in its day, and Gus Hanson,
who won three major televised tournaments last year. That’s an amazing
feat, especially in light of the increased number of competitors per event.
This surge in poker popularity means more players to beat, and you can
go a long, long time before winning just one major tournament, no matter
how skillful you are. Winning three in a season is remarkable.
And to show the importance of all this exposure, not many would have named
Gus as a top contender until that. Today, if you play well and get on
a streak, you’ll be in the spotlight and can stay there for a long
time. Gus will. People’s impressions of those televised victories
linger and are long remembered.
Gus’s performance is the most extraordinary feat since Johnny Chan
won two WSOP main events back-to-back in the same twelve months that he
won the two prestigious Hall of Fame main events and then finished second
at the WSOP the following year. With the dramatically increased number
of entrants, a performance like that will surely never be repeated.
Changes
My life has evolved radically since the days that Slim and Sailor and
I traveled Texas and the South in an old Fairlane Ford. Things have changed
so much.
I still play poker regularly. But often I decide to escape, even though
it means sacrificing some profit. Then I stay at my place on Flathead
Lake in Montana, out of the Las Vegas heat, relaxing. At those times,
life is passing me by, and I feel renewed. And there, as everywhere, I
reflect. Reflecting on my life, and life in general, has become almost
an obsession with me in recent years.
What good is life, you know, if you can only live it once? You own your
experiences. They are yours to keep. You should think about that as you
go through life. What you do now will become a permanent part of you.
The good things and the bad things. I can’t tell you that the cards
you’re dealt will be the ones you want, but whatever they turn out
to be, play them wisely. That’s the secret.
It all goes by so quickly, life. My son Todd and my daughters Pam and
Cheryl were just kids yesterday. Now they’re grown. And I’ve
watched Todd quit college to follow in his father’s footsteps in
the poker arena. He’s impressed me greatly, ever since he triumphed
in one of his first tournaments at the Bicycle Club. Many world-class
players have told me that Todd is one of the best young players today.
So, don’t just go by what I say. I could be biased. Todd has proven
himself to the poker world, and that’s why he’s in this book.
I think back on why I liked poker in the first place. It was the freedom,
I think. You’re as free as a cloud floating in the sky. That’s
the most beautiful part of being a gambler.
Middle It at 120
As you probably know, I’ve been very heavy most of my adult life.
People kept warning me of the health problems that go along with carrying
around those extra pounds. But it didn’t really hit home with me
because I was able to move about swiftly, golf with a low handicap, and
stay active.
But recently I sat down and chatted with myself. Things were not as they
had been. I was over seventy. In recent years, like a classic car, my
chassis wasn’t in good shape. My legs weren’t carrying me
well and my shoulder ached. But my heart was healthy, like a great-working,
tireless carburetor. Maybe that’s because blood has flowed very
fast through my veins during the pressure situations at poker. Maybe that
cleansed me.
Two different doctors have told me that my body must be programmed to
live 120 years, as badly as I’ve treated it. One said 130, one said
110, so I middled it at 120.
Then I decided that I may as well plan for a lot more hands of poker,
and I had gastric bypass surgery to reduce my weight. I did that six months
ago, and I feel a lot healthier now.
But what happens after those 120 years? I’ll be gone and perhaps
some aspiring players will read this book and new poker stars will be
created. They’ll keep poker’s flame flickering, and if the
Lord allows, I’ll observe from above and share their adventures.
As for now, I’m looking forward to the next fifty years. And while
that may not be exactly realistic and may not happen, in life and in poker,
the best you can do is try. And I’ll be trying.
Crandell Addington
Some of my fondest memories of the old days include Crandell Addington.
We met over forty years ago when we were both single and adventuresome.
We played poker in backrooms, sawdust joints, and high stakes games throughout
Texas, Alabama, Oklahoma, Louisiana, and other southern states. We survived
numerous robberies, arrests and other situations that would rival the
action scenes you see on the movie screens today.
Crandell, myself, and a half dozen other high stakes players from Texas
introduced no-limit Texas hold ‘em to Nevada in the late 1960’s.
Then later on in 1985, at the request of Benny Binion, Crandell and Jack
Strauss went on a month-long tour of Great Britain to show their gamblers
how to play the game.
Crandell was an original participant and the winner of the 1969 Texas
Gamblers Convention held in Reno, the professional poker tournament that
became the World Series of Poker in 1970. Crandell then played in the
WSOP the next nine years at Binion’s Horseshoe Casino in downtown
Las Vegas. He compiled an outstanding record in the WSOP, including two
second place finishes.
Now retired from poker, Crandell runs his oil exploration company, along
with his precious metals and pharmaceutical companies. He remains one
of the most colorful and greatest players in poker history.
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