When to Rob a Bank: ...And 131 More Warped Suggestions and Well-Intended Rants (17 page)

“The Honda Civic hybrid looks like a regular Honda Civic. The Ford Escape hybrid looks like a Ford Escape. And so, our hypothesis is that if the Prius looked like a Toyota Camry or a Toyota Corolla, it wouldn’t be as popular as it is. And so what we set out to do in this paper is to test that empirically.”

The question they really wanted to answer was this: How much value do people who lean green place on being seen leaning green? The Sextons found that the Prius’s “green halo” was quite valuable to its owners—and, the greener the neighborhood, the more valuable the Prius is.

©iStock.com/Mr_Vector

One thing the two of us have in common is we never quite grew up. Levitt still clings to adolescent fantasies of being a professional golfer. Dubner still worships the Pittsburgh Steelers with the intensity of an eleven-year-old. And, somehow, we keep ending up together in Las Vegas.

The main event of the World Series of Poker is just getting under way at the Rio in Las Vegas. Why do I want
Phil Gordon
to win?

It’s not just because he’s such a nice guy, or because he’s so smart, or because of his philanthropic endeavors, or even because he’s so tall.

It has to do with the game of Rock, Paper, Scissors, aka Rochambeau.

Levitt and I were in Vegas recently to do research with a bunch of world-class poker players. Part of that research included
a sixty-four-player Rochambeau charity tournament
that Phil Gordon organized, and which Annie Duke won.

One night, Gordon and his
Full Tilt Poker
pals threw a big party at Pure, the sleek nightclub at Caesars Palace. It was big and noisy and fun, and I had a long and interesting conversation with Phil Gordon about a number of things. In the end, talk turned to Rochambeau. Words were exchanged and suddenly there was a challenge—me against Gordon, head-to-head in Rochambeau, best of nine throws for $100.

Levitt held the money. Then Gordon, who is about eight inches taller than anyone I know, leans over into my face and says, “I’m starting with Rock.”

And he did. I threw Scissors, so he beat me. Score: 1–0.

But I had something up my sleeve. I started the match throwing a Seamstress—i.e., a three-throw gambit of Scissors, then Scissors, then another Scissors. Gordon, after his initial Rock, threw a Paper, then another Paper. I was up 2–1.

Finally, on the fourth throw, Gordon threw a Scissors. But I had thrown my fourth Scissors in a row, which meant we tied on that throw, leaving the score at 2–1. That’s when Gordon leaned into my face again and said, “You do know that you can throw something besides Scissors, right?”

But my four consecutive Scissors throws—let’s call it a SuperSeamstress—seemed to have shaken him. He recovered to tie it up at 2–2 and took the lead briefly at 3–2, but I tied him, then went up 4–3. He managed to tie me at 4–4 but, never in doubt, I threw one more Scissors and beat him, 5–4. He looked pretty stunned. Poor guy. It turned out that he really hates to throw Scissors.

So why do I want him to win the WSOP? Not because I feel sorry for beating him. Now more than ever, I believe that Rochambeau is a game of luck, and I happened to get lucky against a guy who is a really good poker player.

No, the reason I want Gordon to win is simply so I can tell my grandchildren someday that I beat the WSOP champ at something, even if it was something as meaningless as Rock, Paper, Scissors.

A FEW MONTHS LATER
. . .

So Levitt and I were in Las Vegas this weekend, doing some research. (Seriously: it’s for
a
Times
column on Super Bowl gambling
.) We had a little downtime and decided to play blackjack. It was New Year’s Eve, at Caesars Palace, about 9
P.M.
We sat down at an empty table where the dealer, a nice young woman from Michigan, was very patient in teaching
us the various fine points that neither of us knew and which indicated that we were both inexperienced. Keep one hand in your lap; e.g., when you want a card, just flick your cards twice on the felt. When you’re standing, tuck one card under your chip(s). And so on.

At one point, Levitt kind of gasped. He had had twenty-one but somehow had asked for another card. The last card was a two. It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to play, or count; he was just distracted—talking to me, he’d later claim—and the dealer had seen him do something, or fail to do something else, that indicated he wanted another card. So here he was with four cards: a face card, a four, a seven, and a two. The dealer looked sympathetic. I vouched for Levitt, told her he wasn’t an idiot and surely wouldn’t have hit on twenty-one intentionally. She seemed to believe us. She said she’d call over her supervisor to see what could be done.

She called the supervisor’s name over her shoulder. I could see the supervisor, and I could see that he couldn’t hear her. Remember, this is a casino on New Year’s Eve; it was pretty noisy. She keeps calling, and I keep seeing that he’s not hearing her, but she won’t turn around to call him. That would mean turning her back on her table full of chips and, even if Levitt was dumb enough to hit on twenty-one, he presumably was smart enough to grab a bunch of chips and run. (Or maybe, she was thinking, he’s actually dumb like a fox and used this hitting-on-twenty-one trick all the time, to get the dealer to turn her back on the table.)

Finally I went and got the supervisor. When he came over, the dealer explained the situation. He seemed to accept Levitt’s explanation.

Then he looked at me. “Did you want the card?” he asked, meaning the two that Levitt drew.

“Well, now that I see it, sure I want it,” I said. I had seventeen; I certainly wouldn’t have hit on seventeen, but a two would give me a lovely nineteen.

“Here,” he said, and gave me the two. “Happy New Year.”

Then the dealer took a card and busted.

I don’t know much about gambling, but I do know that the next time I’m in Vegas and feel compelled to play some blackjack, I’m going to Caesars.

And just so you don’t think that Levitt really is a complete gambling idiot: the next day, we sat down at the sports book and he grabbed a
Daily Racing Form
and studied it for about ten minutes and then went up and placed a bet. He found a horse, going off at 7–2, that had never run a race. But he saw something that he liked. He bet the horse to win and win only. And then we watched the race on one of the jumbo screens. It took a good sixty seconds for his horse to settle into the gate—we thought it would be scratched—but then it got in and the gates opened and his horse led wire to wire. It was a good bit more impressive than his blackjack.

A FEW MONTHS LATER
. . .

I recently went to Vegas to play in my first World Series of Poker event. The game was no-limit hold ’em. Each player started with five thousand chips.

So what record did I tie? The record for the least number of pots won by a player in a WSOP event: zero. I played for almost two hours and did not win a single hand. I didn’t even manage to steal the blinds once. Despite promising
Phil Gordon
seconds before the tournament that I would not let ace-queen be my undoing, I lost two big pots with those hole cards. (Both times an ace came up on the flop; neither time did the opponent have an ace; both times I still lost.) I probably played them wrong both times.

The beauty of the WSOP is that there is always another event the next day. Maybe I’ll give it another try tomorrow—there’s nowhere to go but up.

THE NEXT DAY
. . .

What a difference a day makes.

I
blogged yesterday
about my first foray into World Series
of Poker action. It started and ended very badly, with me failing to win a single hand.

Who knows why I signed up for another day of punishment at the hands of the poker pros the very next day. The structure of this tournament was different: a shootout. That means that the ten players at a table play until one has all the chips. Then that player moves on to the next round. After two rounds of this, the field of nine hundred is whittled down to nine players who make the final table.

My pessimism was only enhanced when I discovered that
David “the Dragon” Pham
had been seated next to me. He has won over $5 million in poker tournaments, has two WSOP bracelets, and was the defending champion in this very event! My table of ten had at least five full-time poker professionals.

Amazingly, after some good luck, I emerged the winner five hours later.

I needed to win one more table to make it to the final table, which would provide me bragging rights for life. I was lucky to have lunch with
Phil Gordon
, probably the best poker teacher in the world. He explained something to me over lunch that is fundamental to good poker, and probably somewhat obvious, but I had never understood it. (It’s too valuable an insight to give away for free here; you’ll have to buy
one of Phil’s books.
)

The combination of that insight and a lot of good cards had me rolling at the second table. Unfortunately, I had to knock out my friend
Brandon Adams
, one of the very best
poker players in the world and
a great writer
as well. Brandon is a classic example of opportunity cost . . . he makes so much money playing poker that he will likely never finish his economics Ph.D. at Harvard.

I found myself with a chip lead as the table was reduced to just me and one opponent,
Thomas Fuller
. I built my lead up to about 2–1 after forty-five minutes. Then I lost a bunch when I had ace-king suited and probably played it completely wrong. That made our chip stacks about even.

Not long after was the hand that undid me. Fuller made a standard raise pre-flop. I called with king-seven. The flop came king-queen-eight, all of different suits. I bet 7,200 chips and he called. The turn card was a seven. There were now two clubs on the board. I checked, hoping he would raise me and then I could re-raise him. That is exactly what happened. He bet eight thousand and I re-raised.

Much to my surprise, he then re-raised me. What could he have? I was hoping he had a queen. But maybe he had K10, KJ, K8, AK, or even two pair. Still, I forged ahead. I re-raised him again. Then he pushed all-in! I figured I was beaten, but I called his all-in raise. I was stunned when he turned over a six and a nine. All he had was a straight draw. He was bluffing. There were only eight cards in the deck that would make him a winner. I had an 82 percent chance of winning that hand. If I won that hand, I had over 90 percent of the chips, and was virtually certain to make the final table. A five came on the river, he hit his
straight, and the Cinderella story had come to an end. I was out.

I have to say, though, that even as antisocial as I am, I really enjoyed the ride. It was one of the best gambling experiences I’ve ever had. The morning after, however, I feel like I have a terrible hangover, despite the fact that I didn’t have a drop of alcohol. I know myself well enough to know exactly what that hangover is all about. Like any “good” gambler, I don’t care very much whether I win or lose, as long as there is more gambling action on the horizon. But when the gambling is over, the crash comes.

Today is the crash for me. No more WSOP. No more gambling for a while. “Just” a family trip to the Hoover Dam and a long plane ride back to Chicago.

And maybe a little teeny pick-six ticket at Hollywood Park.

I’ve mentioned in the past that I love backgammon. A reader recently wrote to ask whether Levitt and I ever play and, more important, why a game as great as backgammon isn’t more popular.

Sadly, Levitt and I have never played. But it’s the second part of the question that got me thinking. Why not indeed? Off the top of my head, I’d say:

•     Well, it’s not
so
unpopular
, and there are those who say a renaissance is
perhaps under way
. My friend
James Altucher
and I have a running game (101-point matches) that we usually play in diners or restaurants, and almost inevitably a small crowd (or at least the server) will hang out to watch and talk about the game . . .

•     That said, yes, it’s a fringe game. Why? I’d say it’s because too many people play it without gambling, or at least without using the doubling cube. Without the cube, a game that can be intricate and strategic can too easily become a boring dice race. Once you use the cube, especially with dollars attached to points, the game changes completely because the most exciting and difficult decisions have to do more with cube play than with checker play.

•     Why is the game itself too often uninteresting? Don’t get me wrong: I love playing backgammon. But the fact is that the choice set of moves is in fact quite small. That is, for many rolls, there’s clearly one optimal move, or perhaps two that are nearly equal. So once you know those moves, the game is limited, and you need some stakes to make it interesting. Unlike, say, chess, where the options and strategies are far more diverse.

This last point, if arguable, got me to wondering: In what percent of backgammon turns would there seem to be clearly one optimal move—versus, for comparison, chess?

Since James is a superb chess player and also an excellent backgammon player (and a
smart guy
in general), I asked him. His answer is well worth sharing: