Sometimes the poker table exposes more than ranges and tendencies — sometimes it exposes you.
I wrote this piece for the True Classic Tees x PokerGO contest. I didn’t make the top 15 finalists, but the story still matters to me. It’s about fear, ego, doubt, and the version of ourselves that sits quietly at the table… until we finally decide to face him.
Here it is.
The Guy on My Left
by Art Abrantes
I sat down…
Middle of the day.
Middle stakes.
Middle-aged, honestly.
Seat open to my left. I should’ve taken it.
But the guy that sat—he gave me that look.
You know the one.
Half smirk, half “Who let this dude in here?”
He said,
“So how long you been playin’?”
I said,
“Since 2001.”
He lifted his eyebrows.
“Damn. You been in the game that long, and you’re still grindin’ these stakes?”
I said,
“Hey, man… I don’t always win… but I do specialize in raising… two daughters.”
No laugh.
He just blinked twice and kept staring.
I tried to laugh it off.
But the guy was a bit too smug and my blood started boiling.
I sat up in my chair and straightened my stack.
I said,
“I walked away a while back.
Black Friday… life, job, kids…
then started this comeback…
Played Zoom poker with the boys.
Picked up some Ed Miller… subscribed to wizard and other toys…”
He said,
“Yeah, but still…”
He didn’t even have to finish.
There was venom.
Oh man, if words could kill.
Then he hit me again.
“So wait… this your full-time gig now? This what you do?”
I nodded.
“Yeah. Built my roll and walked away from the 9 to 5 last year.
Not everyone knows it but, yeah.”
I thought about my wife.
She backed this.
She told the kids,
‘Daddy’s chasing something that matters.’
And here I was, ready to run from a bad look and a worse comment?
He leaned in.
“But do you have a bracelet?
Circuit ring?
What’s your Hendon Mob like?
Have I seen you on stream? The Lodge? Hustler?”
I gave him that smile.
The kind that says,
“Keep talkin’ … Maybe we take this outside?”
He kept digging.
“You had the dream, right?
But life didn’t quite pan out the way you thought it would.”
I said,
“Naw, man… I’m living my dream and I have freedom from that 9 to 5.”
He said,
“Freedom?
Sounds like a nice word for broke.”
At that point?
I almost racked up and dipped out.
I almost took my ego and my hoodie off the casino floor.
I almost went home.
Almost.
But I stayed.
He said,
“Remember that time you folded kings with that ace on the flop —
‘cause you didn’t trust yourself?”
I said,
“Wait—what?”
He said,
“Remember when you played scared
after one bad session that turned into ten?
When you stopped trusting your reads
because you couldn’t handle being wrong in front of everybody?”
I stared at him.
Frozen.
Chips in hand.
Head steaming.
He grinned.
He said,
“You remember the job?
The one with the 401, the safety net, the golden handcuffs?
The one you stayed in ‘cause you were scared of your own damn dream?”
I puffed up my chest and asked,
“Who are you?”
He looked at me, real calm.
He said,
“I’m the doubt that shows up whenever the flop doesn’t go your way.
I’m the voice that told you it was too late.
I’m the one that said that you’re too old.
I told you that this dream wasn’t yours to hold.
I’m your bruised ego.
I’m your fear when it’s loud.
I’m your tilt when it’s silent.
I’m the one that’s been sitting on your left since 2001.
…I’m you.”
I leaned back.
No defense.
No bluff to hide behind.
He said,
“You keep thinkin’ you’re battlin’ the regs,
the variance,
the algorithm…
But until you beat me,
none of that matters.”
And then — he was gone.
And it was just me.
At the table.
Stack of chips in the small blind, ready to act.
And for the first time in a long time,
I didn’t feel the need to prove anything.
I just played.
With focus.
With peace.
With all of me finally in the hand.
But I’m here now.
Grinding again.
Still beating the rake…
Thanks for reading.
Whether or not it made a contest finalist list, it’s part of my journey. And that alone makes it worth writing. Who knows, I might head over there and just end up buying in directly.