James Obst: Did a London bar manager see greatness in a bunch of no hopers?

It was Season 6 of the eu Poker Tour and we were in London, which was then a typical stop at the EPT. Over within the convention centre of the Hilton hotel on Edgware Road, Aaron Gustavson was building a stack to overcome Peter Eastgate heads up and win the primary major title of his career.

But our action takes us clear of the poker tables and to the midweek streets of London's Soho. It was a motley crew: three veteran poker reporters, two PokerStars employees, a Team PokerStars Pro from Argentina and a tender Australian player, barely 19 years old. All were thirsty, nevertheless it was past midnight and bars were closing their doors.

The duties of entertaining the group had fallen that night to 2 of the veteran reporters, either one of whom typically spell "colour" with a "u" and "centre" with an "re". We--sorry, they--had each lived in London for years and, you may think, could no less than find somewhere to slake a thirst.

The PokerStars employees were a married couple from Costa Rica, who could always be trusted to maintain the booze flowing in the course of the night. The third reporter knew bars in his home town--a small place in South Carolina--that would pour into the early hours. But here all of them were in a city of 8 million people, with two guides unable to seek out them a drink.

Approaching desperation point, they went for the last resort: a god-awful low-rent joint known to cater for tourists, mid-level marketing managers and the desperate. It was, however, usually open until 1am so ticked precisely one of the crucial boxes. Just like the start of a long-winded joke, the 2 Brits, the American, the Argentinian, the 2 Costa Ricans and the Australian walked right into a bar.

One thing was quite obvious. The room was empty. However the gaggle took a seat in a dingy corner anyhow and probably the most reporters headed to the bar. He talked to the bartender who explained what would was obvious to anyone however the parched and stubborn: where was closed. There could be no drinks.

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The reporter isn't usually an argumentative man, particularly not with people in positions of authority. (THERE IS NOT ANY one with such a lot authority as a bartender.) But this was beyond the pale. It was simply unacceptable to guide a bunch of disparate vagabonds in the course of the London streets at the hours of darkness and never find them a watering hole. The reporter demanded to look the manager.

The manager appeared. He was a friendly guy. He glanced quickly in the course of the darkened room on the wastrels, but said his establishment was closed. The reporter tried to reason with him, making claims that it was his right to have a drink. But having struck out with reason, the reporter took a punt. He tried to run a bluff. With none real hope of having this one through, he stood on his tip-toes, leant over the bar and whispered to the chief: "HAVE YOU EVER seen who I HAVE with me here?"

The strength of this ploy is in how utterly hopeless it's. There has been precisely nobody within the group who was famous beyond their very own immediate family--some unknown even within that. But maybe it was a trick of the sunshine; maybe one of the most stragglers smiled on the right time; maybe the bar manager thought that this man was actually Salma Hayek or something. He looked over the reporter's shoulder, his eyes widened, and he said, "Oh. Wow. Sorry. Yes. After all I'll get you guys a drink."

I genuinely do not know how this worked. It was nothing greater than a fantastic stab within the dark, some more or less vague implication that we were within the presence of greatness. However the manager bought it hook, line and sinker. It got us a drink and we went happily on our way: the reporter was redeemed, having somehow pulled off the most efficient bluff of his career.

But now, seven years later, maybe all of it is smart. Maybe that bar manager saw a future world champion within the gaggle. That's the only time I've ever been for a drink with James Obst, that young, naive Australian.

But I'll have another if he wins $8 million in a couple of months time.

WSOP photos by PokerPhotoArchive.com.

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