Foxwoods WPT: The Hand, Kenny Chanthamala, and the Final TV Table
4/27/2006 12:00:00 AM
If the public is getting too complacent with televised poker, it’s probably because most people never get a chance to witness the drama when people’s lives are changed forever, or their spirits are absolutely crushed, all on the turn of a single plastic card.
Those moments never happen at the final table, which is the only part of the tournament that the viewers see, because everybody who makes the final 6 (at a WPT event) is assured of a fat paycheck.
The horror and the majesty happen earlier. Long before the lights are set up, the cameras are turned on, and everyone settles in for the big TV moment.
Come along with me and travel to a big tournament and I will try to give you a taste of the true experience.
If you’ve never been to Foxwoods, the appearance of the place can be startling. The watchword in Ledyard, Connecticut is “rural,” so when you round that last corner and see the Grand Pequot Tower looming above the surrounding forest it looks like the squatting mother ship from the planet Pastel.
I skipped the offer of valet parking and took my chances in one of the self-park garages hidden under the megalith.
It took me 45 minutes to find my car at the end of the first day, so I lived to regret my earlier parsimonious decision.
Stepping into the elevator, I found that my only travel companion was an elderly lady who had thoughtfully pushed the button for the casino level.
When she realized we were both headed for the casino she prattled:
“Ooh, you’re going to spend all of your money…”
If I had realized how rare opportunities to make small talk would be on this trip, I would have made an effort to engage her, but my first impulse was to tell her the truth. “Actually, I’m not here to gamble.”
She looked at me for a split second, probably wondering just what I was there for, then an expression of hurt washed over her face, she looked down, muttered, “oh,” and that was that. I thought about her while I searched for someone who could direct me to the poker tournament.
She took offense because she was at Foxwoods to gamble and I had unintentionally criticized her for it. It’s a good thing we were alone in that elevator; if it were crowded, I would probably have been in for a beating.
I made a mental note to be more careful, but I didn’t really need to. Once I was issued my press credential, and had hung it around my neck, no passersby ever spoke to me again. Even when I tried hard to start a conversation.
It only took me a few minutes to get completely lost.
After walking for about 10 minutes through a shopping area and past a couple of nightclubs, I finally found someone working at an information kiosk who told me to walk back the way I had come until I saw signs for an elevator that would dump me out directly in front of the tournament room.
Perfect! I told her that I wasn’t very confident of ever finding my car again.
She asked me where I parked, which amused me since if I could answer that question I probably wouldn’t need her advice in the first place. I said “On level P5 in a garage near the Pequot Tower.”
“Oh, that’s easy,” she responded, “When you come back through here, just look for where the color palette changes. The Pequot is lavender and orange.”
I told her I was color-blind (my first and only lie of the weekend…told just for laughs) and she gave up and told me just to ask someone. I’ll bet they find a decomposing color-blind person every couple of weeks at Foxwoods.
I toured as much of the casino as I could, and to label Foxwoods a mere casino is a mistake.
It’s an aggressive metropolis—a loud, crowded, gaudy assault on your senses, and only once before had I ever experienced anything like it.
That was when I had been trapped in the airport in Charlotte, North Carolina as a blizzard rolled across the Great Lakes headed for the northeast.
It was all rain that far south but the place was a madhouse because many arriving flights had been grounded at places like Chicago and Detroit, so there weren’t many aircraft available in Charlotte to take people like me home.
All the monitors were flashing as more and more flights were cancelled. Babies cried, men argued, baggage cart drivers beeped as they threatened to run down the throngs of panicked travelers, and through the plate glass windows, you could see the driving rain.
It was like a scene from Blade Runner, and Foxwoods on a weekend has a lot of the same hysteria. I was happy to note a quieting as I approached the WPT event.
The minute I entered the tournament area I noticed a drastic difference in the feel of the place. Outside was a casino; inside was a church. The members of the congregation appeared reverent and conversed in hushed voices, not wanting to interfere with the weighty concentration of the players. No jangling jackpots or rotating lights.
I checked in with a staff member who escorted me to Foxwoods’ tournament director Mike Ward, who went out of his way to make me feel welcome.
He detailed one of his floor managers to see to my press credential, and promised that he’d make time for an interview whenever I asked.
If only all aspects of my life went this smoothly.
The floor manager, a very serious fellow named Todd Pezzolesi, and I walked to a security station (through a frosted glass door marked “employees only” and down an escalator to a guard station deep within the colossus) for an ID check.
Minutes later, I was sporting a press pass and prowling the premises in search of an interesting story about the Foxwoods WPT Classic.
This was the third day of the tournament and the original 431 contestants in this $10,000 buy-in event had been whittled down to 22. John Juanda, who among the really household names in tournament poker had lasted longest, had been eliminated late the previous evening in 31st place.
The remaining players were an interesting mix of ages and appearances. There were a few baseball caps and wrap-around sunglasses, but not nearly enough to suit me. In a way, I was disappointed that it wasn’t more of a caricature freak show.
Play was quietly proceeding, and I watched while a couple of players were eliminated.
Tournament director Ward halted the action so that the remaining players could be arranged at the final 2 tables. Play would continue this day until only 6 players remained. Those 6 would return on Sunday and the final table would be contested on a TV set erected in a ballroom located some distance away from the room in which the tournament was currently running.
The crowd was smaller than I expected it to be. After all, this was a full-fledged WPT tour stop and the winner of the Main Event would pocket a tidy $1.33 million.
There were seldom more than 150 fans watching, and half of those had a personal rooting interest in one player or another.
Perhaps poker fans have become jaded by the hole card cameras and color commentators.
In person, you have to rely on the tournament director’s reporting of the board cards (except during the occasional “all-in” hand) and there isn’t any more emotion on the part of the players than at a chess match.
In poker there seems not to be the equivalent of the NFL touchdown celebration, which is probably a good thing…there would likely be frequent killings in card rooms if winners were prone to the goalpost shuffle.
Most of the players were satisfied to stay in their seats and concentrate on their opponents’ actions when not an active participant in a hand, chin cupped in hands, eyes focused on the felt except when furtively scanning faces.
A couple of players seemed to affect nonchalance when out of a hand. They’d lean back, or even shove their chairs away from the table, and fold their arms. But they paid strict attention. They just didn’t want to appear too interested.
There was one player who didn’t fit the mold, however. His name was Kenny Chanthamala, and not only was he the most fun to watch, he was at ground zero during the most dramatic hand I have ever seen live or online.
Many times Kenny would look at his cards, toss them toward the dealer, and then immediately get up and walk away from the table.
He’d walk the few feet to where his attractive female companion was sitting, and with his back to the table would chat in a low voice.
Or he’d make contact with another witness and discuss his wristwatch or make a joke.
He acted as if the whole WPT experience were the same as playing in a home game and didn’t have to worry about one of his friends cadging chips from his stack while he was distracted.
His frequent sojourns into the gallery were just the least bit distracting to the other players at his table. They may have been annoyed, but I liked his apparent lack of respect for the gravity of the situation. Little did I know then how truly tested his pose would be.
According to Mike Ward, the 65 dealers who operated the tables at the Foxwoods WPT were chosen from among the hundreds who work at the casino based on a combination of talent, performance, and willingness (the implication being that not every dealer was willing to sacrifice income in order to work the WPT).
One tournament dealer, Michael Carroll, described it this way. “I’m happy about dealing the tournament. I consider it a reward.
I don’t make as much money here as I do out in the card room, but it’s good duty and a nice change of pace. When you’re chosen for this kind of thing you’re being recognized as someone who is on top of his game.”
Mike Ward echoed Carroll’s thoughts. “These dealers are the best we have.
The deciding factor is their ability to concentrate.
These dealers are able to block out the whole world except what’s happening at their table.
You have to be really good at that because we can’t afford any mistakes.”
When asked to compare the tournament to his regular shifts at the Hold’em tables, Carroll said:
“The players in this tournament are different. They have much more experience than some of the players who play in the cash games, and their attitude about the game is on a different level, too. Here, nobody ever blames the dealer for the cards and out there [in the card room] every now and then that happens.”
For about 2 hours, I watched the action, the players, the fans, and the Foxwoods staff. I was struck by just how machine-like everything was.
There seemed to be precious little humor, and no passion displayed at all. It was as if 200 people had met here to watch the History Channel. I was beginning to think I would never have anything to write about.
I was wrong. Things were about to get very interesting.
Part II coming soon...