The Gambler
By Michael Kelman Portney
There’s a moment when you’re riding high, chip stack looking like a skyline, every bet you make folding the table like a cheap lawn chair. You’re the sheriff, the outlaw, and the house all at once. The cards love you. The river bends to your will. Every bluff gets bought, every read rings true. You ain’t just winning—you’re commanding.
And then, just like that, it happens.
You peel the cards, feel the weight of a solid pocket pair, maybe cowboys, maybe the ladies. The dealer flips the flop, and it's singing a song only you know the words to. You slow-play it like an old hand nursing a bourbon, dragging the pot like a dusty trail behind your horse. But then, across the felt, you see it—that gleam.
Not the nervous twitch of a greenhorn running on hope, not the empty bravado of a busted gutshot praying to the gods of variance. No, this gleam is different. It’s the look of a player who’s holding a rattlesnake behind their back, waiting for you to reach just a little too far.
But you’re pot-committed now. You’ve built the stage, stacked the chips, and written the story up to this point. Can’t fold, not yet. So you push. Big bet. Strong. Make ‘em fold or make ‘em pay.
They don’t fold.
The turn comes. Safe card. Nothing scary. The kind of card that shouldn’t change the landscape, but somehow, you feel it shift anyway. That gleam across the table turns into a knowing smirk, the kind that makes your stomach do the same trick. But it’s too late now. You’re in deep.
You shove. The pot’s big enough to make a man pray. And they snap-call like they’ve been waiting their whole life for this moment.
The river falls.
And you see it before they even turn over their hand. You lost. You overplayed your hand.
That’s poker. That’s life. One minute, you’re dealing heat, owning the table, stacking chips so high they block the sun. The next, you’re staring at a busted hand and an empty seat, watching someone else rake in your empire.
Some folks call it luck. Some call it fate. But the real gamblers know the truth: You’ve got to know when to hold em, know when to fold em, know when to walk away, know when to run.
