Everything's Not Lost Part XII

This weekend should have sucked.

The Mets really looked pretty vulnerable against one of the American League's finest.

The Yankees swept the Pirates, got a decent $1,000,000 out of Roger "I Put up Steve Trachsel Numbers" Clemens, and are, surprise, surprise, 5.5 games out of the Wild Card and right back in the thick of things.

I think since me and AFOMG were called out for "going soft" the Yankees are about 12-2. Salt.

When things don't go well in baseball world, we here at Yankees2000.com are supposed to be pissed. But Sunday was a huge day for one of the Holy Trinity of bloggers here at Y2K.

Bored and fresh off a long, long Saturday at Chase Field, Sip needed some time away from the ballpark. Additionally, Sip is relatively friendless in Arizona as well. My boy Coach is gone for the Summer as his main-hommy Yanni #2, leaving me with my psycho meathead buddy Habes who carries around a portable protein shake maker and gets in brawls in softball games and not a whole lot else.

So when this dude Russell who I know vaguely invited me to Casino Arizona for a poker tournament, I said why not. I blog, who needs $60?

(Note: I stretch $60 a long way these days)

I got there at about 11:30.

It was the most depressing place I had ever seen. Demons were everywhere. People gambling away their salaries at 11:30 on a fucking Sunday in a shady/shoddy/shitty casino in the middle of nowhere. There were no bright lights or flashing signs.

Just out of shape, slightly too-old women packed into a uniform that was not appealing, serving drinks to a lot of Middle-Americans.

For breakfast I ate a sausage and cheese biscuit from the diner. I was sure I had food poisoning.

I never thought I could hit rock bottom until Sunday morning.

The tournament started with no surprises. There were 300 people talking in poker cliches and dressed in poker attire. These people all thought that they were Phil Ivey. I'm pretty sure the guy three seats to the left of me was the really fat guy from Fight Club. His heavy breathing may have been distracting but it sure did help me focus.

Demons everywhere. People telling poker stories, sharing tales of badbeats, calling each other "Donkey," and referring to everything as "Sick." Poker is officially the most cliched thing around.

Fast forward 10 hours and the one "Non-Sick-Donkey" in the room was one of the final 2 men standing. He was about 12 club sodas deep and had even developed a cheering section of crazy senior citizens who claimed that he looked like their grandson.

He had been known previously as a legend of the blogosphere but had quickly made a name for himself in the Disgusting Arizona Casino poker scene. He's young, he's gritty, and yet so polished.

That man was Sippy Momo.

On Friday July 6th, I will be toeing the felt with 10,000 other some odd people at the Rio in Las Vegas in the main event of the World Series of Poker.

If I win it all, AFOMG is getting season tickets on the field level, Cheddar will get some turntables for his rapping and I will finally be able to get my folks out of the projects and buy them their very first house!

More likely, I'll just have a good story. But we here are Mets fans (most of us anyway), so I'm going to go into this dance like we do everyday at Shea.

Ya Gotta Believe!

That's all.

But one more thing. You think Shana Hiatt will change her name to Shana Momo?

Vaya con Dios,
Sip

(Pics courtesy of MLB.com, indiangaming.com, everypoker.com)