Mark Downes is convinced that Andy Black will “love him soon enough.”
Around the time he made that announcement he coined one of the most dubious aphorisms ever uttered: “What happens in Dublin stays in Dublin.”
Downes might have gotten off on the wrong foot with Black, his lefthand tablemate, we couldn’t say for sure. But speculation is allowed, nay encouraged, in the cardrooms of Ireland. So we might just do that.
While Downes was trying to warm up Mr Black, the man best seated to intervene in steal attempts originating from his cutoff — sound chat up strategy, that — he was simultaneously torturing David Lappin across the table.
“Do you not follow any sports then?” Downes asked Black, between sips of his Bulmers.
“Curling and mogul skiing,” Black replied, steering the conversation into a cul-de-sac.
Meanwhile Lappin raised the pot to 5,000. William Fitzpatrick flat called on the button and Downes squeezed his cards, then the pot. 15,000 was the size of it.
Only Lappin called and in so doing found the power of position. Would it be enough?
The flop was 6d 5h 3h. Downes took his time and bet 20,000. Lappin called, looking comfortable in a rather oversized hoodie cum coat.
The Kc came on the turn and transformed this pot into something worth your interest.
“All-in.”
Fleshpots of Egypt! Lappin had a sit back, suddenly dwelling in one of the worst places a poker player might find themselves. A potential exile from the tournament confronted him. Three big mouths at the table, and not a word heard, Lappin was a portrait of the artist as a middle-aged man — fur coat and no bright ideas. He folded.
We have it on good authority the source of his consternation was in his hands… he had let go of two queens. Was it heroism or self-preservation? Only Downes knows.
