@inversorBetico Aparte del dinero ilimitado.
Si llegará a un casino un millonario tampoco podria apostar millones.
Cada casino tiene sus límites pero no son muy altos, para que entre otras cosas no se pueda hacer la martingala.
Pablo Iglesias: “los papás que llevan a sus hijos a colegios privados es porque no quieren que se junten con niños gitanos, ni con hijos de inmigrantes marroquís ni hijos de ecuatorianos, ni con niños de clase obrera”
Por eso él ha matriculado a sus hijos en un cole privado 😂😂
Poker was different when we were kids than it is now that we have kids.
In our twenties, if Andrew @Amo4sho or I made a final table, a group text would go out and within an hour, our friends would show up to the casino rail with beers in hand. Once, when I made an FT at Venetian, Andrew torpedoed his stack in a tournament at Planet Hollywood so he could be there. He’d rather bust than miss cheering me on. I didn’t say it then, but I felt how much we belonged to each other back then. We’d scream, cheer, and flag down the cocktail waitress for celebratory shots.
And no matter what place we finished, we’d celebrate—usually with an overpriced bottle of liquor at some club, trying to act like we mattered because we could afford a couch by the DJ booth. Then, Andrew and I would stumble back to our place hand in hand, kick our shoes off—letting them land with a thud at the door—then fall into bed in a tangle of limbs, drunk on tequila and adrenaline, and talk about every hand until we passed out. Not a care in the world. Not a damn thing to do the next day.
Now, it’s different.
After the long stretch of the World Series of Poker this summer when we didn’t see much of Andrew, we were finally back in rhythm as a family at home in Austin. Maya said “Dada” for the first time. Miles started waking up early just to build monster truck arenas with Andrew before breakfast. After weeks of distance, we’d all reconnected. But soon enough, it was time for another trip—Andrew was flying to Northern California to play the $2,700 Main Event at Rolling Thunder.
We drove him to the airport and kissed him goodbye. Maya waved, and Miles yelled, “Run good, play good!” from his car seat. Before walking through the sliding doors, he turned back for a moment and we caught eyes. I smiled and waved. He smiled back, but we both knew that our smiles were hiding something. Andrew loves being a poker player. It’s his passion, and his passion supports our family financially. I love being home with the kids. It’s given my life meaning. And yet, as he left, I think we both felt sadness.
Our smiles were the kind you give when you’re pretending it’s all okay. Mine covered a flicker of envy. Maybe I missed my identity as a poker player, when I wasn’t just a mom. His covered guilt. Maybe he felt bad leaving again. Or maybe it was the other way around. Maybe he wished he could stay home. Maybe I was worried about not contributing by working. I think we both sometimes wonder, are we doing the right thing?
Andrew’s flight ended up canceled. Then rebooked. Then delayed. He was upset. I’m away from you guys for this? He ended up missing the first starting day entirely. He only had one shot: Day 1B. And he crushed it.
With around 80 players left, Andrew had a big stack. Then he got into a hand—check-raised the flop, barreled the turn and river, then faced a shove. He tanked, then folded a flush. His opponent proudly tabled a bluff. Andrew admitted what he folded. Another player at the table, who’d been running well, looked at him over her huge stack and said, in a condescending tone, “Oh honey, you can’t fold a flush there,” as if Andrew was some washed-up has-been and she was the new sheriff.
He said it felt like the table relished in watching the big bad pro stumble. Like they’d been waiting all day to see him get it wrong. The version of Andrew in his 20s might’ve shot back with a jab. Or melted under the pressure and tried to force the next big play, trying to prove himself. Because back then, Andrew always wondered if he’d just gotten lucky, and that any minute, everyone would find out he wasn’t as good as he seemed. But the version of Andrew in his 40s took a deep breath. He knew, from experience, that folding the best hand isn’t always weakness. Sometimes it’s wisdom. If you never fold the winning hand, you’re calling too much. The bigger test is whether you can fold the best hand and still play well after.
Andrew looked down at his now-short stack and said to himself: Okay. Let’s see what we’re made of.
And he climbed back. Slowly. Quietly. Until he made the final table as chip leader. At the dinner break, he FaceTimed us. I told Miles, “Daddy is trying to win a trophy.”
Andrew rubbed his forehead and said, “Yeah, buddy. But it’s been really hard.”
Miles jumped up, put Grave Digger in front of the camera and said, “Take a monster truck and smash everybody!” We laughed. Then Miles repeated something I say to him often: “You know you can do hard things, Dada.”
Andrew smiled. “That’s great advice, buddy.”
Sometime around 10:30 PM in California—12:30 AM for me—I was in bed, Miles’ foot lodged in my back, Maya latched and half-asleep on my chest, scrolling in the dark, refreshing updates with one hand, until I read the final one.
Andrew Moreno is the Main Event Champion. $200,000.
No cheering rail. No shots. No victory lap. I wished I could have been there with him. To hug him. To sit on his lap for a winner’s picture. To go for steak and eggs and talk about every hand. I felt that familiar swell in my heart, the butterflies in my stomach, just now in a silent room.
When we were kids, poker was about proving we mattered. Maybe part of it still is. But now, with kids, it also feels like something deeper. Something more meaningful. Maybe to belong. Maybe to provide. Maybe to become the humans we want our kids to learn from. I thought about this as I read the updates while listening to Miles’ little stuffy nose whistle.
Then Andrew texted: We did it.
The phone glowed as I read it. I smiled. That’s what he always says now, when he wins a tournament. We did it. Not “I.” And that small word—we—reminds me that we, from the time we were kids to now, are still in this together.
I texted back: I’m so proud of you.
Andrew: It was really hard today
Me: Good thing Miles gave you some good advice
Andrew: He really did
I pulled the kids closer and closed my eyes, knowing, for the first time, that the "we" Andrew was talking about… was all of us.
(if you've made it this far, thank you! And I have a substack now- check link below)
🔴 HILO
Como cada semana, volvemos a analizar los acuerdos, reales decretos, nombramientos y demás reparto de dinero público que hace el Consejo de Ministros.
¿Han visto a @sanchezcastejon en su rueda de prensa?
Pues ahora verán la verdad…
⚠️AVISO ROJO | Lluvias torrenciales en la provincia de Almería.
Posibles desbordamientos de cauces e inundaciones. ¡El peligro es extremo! ¡No viaje salvo que sea estrictamente necesario!
En otras zonas del Mediterráneo persiste el aviso naranja: peligro importante.
Thank you for pushing me to the very limit so many times in our rivalry that has impacted me the most as a player. Your passion for representing Spain has always been remarkable. I wish you best possible farewell in Malaga with Davis Cup team of Spain. I will be there in person to pay respect to your stellar career 🙌💪👏