Folly?

 

I’ve been on a bad run at poker for the last month. So bad, actually, that it nearly wiped out my profits from a terrific September and October, and prompted me to take a break. In part, it’s just poker. The swings have always been an element of the game. But it reminds me that poker in New York isn’t what it once was. It’s tougher to consistently beat the game and make money at it. It isn’t as much fun. It’s more dangerous but less exciting.

I don’t know if I should take this as some kind of omen, but tonight Alice and I were coming home from a party, riding in a cab along West Houston Street, and as we were going along, she said, “Oh, look, that’s new. The Folly.”

I looked out the cab window. Big red script letters spelled out “The Folly” over a blacked-out window.

“Holy shit,” I said. “That used to be the Genoa Club!”

“That was it?” said Alice, who had only been able to imagine where I was on all those absent nights. “Really?”

I nodded sadly. “Now it’s The Folly.”

“Hmm,” she said.

Maybe I should be reading something into this. Maybe poker has always been something of a folly, however much I might have loved it. Or maybe that’s just what it’s become. Because once upon a time I had really loved it, and I had especially loved the little hole-in-the-wall social club a couple of steps up off the street with the little brass plaque that said “Genoa Football Club.” The action was always nuts there, an assortment of crazy-assed gamblers from all walks of life, just waiting to hand over their usually not-so-hard-earned money to those of us who knew how to extract it. Artie, the bent-nose owner; Elias, his badass Syrian partner, who reminded me of the cheerful white-haired spy who helps James Bond sight a rifle in From Russia with Love. And Ricardo, the chef, who made the meanest bowl of spaghetti with red sauce in all of New York, and who one night slashed Edgar’s arm with a butcher knife after an angry dealer flipped over a table and got into a wrestling match with Elias on the beer-soaked floor.

It was a real place, with character and characters to spare. But it’s long gone now. Shut down in the crackdown after Frank DeSena’s murder. Now poker in New York is like a fifth generation xerox of itself, all the sharpness and character gone, a sorry imitation of what it once was, just a big red sign telling me it’s a Folly.

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About Peter Alson

Peter Alson is a writer and editor. Among his published books are the memoirs Confessions of an Ivy League Bookie and Take Me to the River. He's also co-authored (with Nolan Dalla) One of a Kind, a biography of poker champion Stuey Ungar, and Atlas, the autobiography of boxing trainer and commentator Teddy Atlas. His articles have appeared in many national magazines, including Esquire, Playboy and The New York Times. He has worked as a writer for People magazine, and as an editor for Playboy and for Hachette Publications. He has written screenplays for Paramount and various independent producers, and his TV pilot, Nicky’s Game, starring John Ventimiglia and Burt Young, appeared in the New York Television Festival and the Vail Film Festival. As a poker player he has finished in the money numerous times in the World Series of Poker and other events. He lives in New York with his wife, Alice, and their daughter, Eden.
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2 Responses to Folly?

  1. Stephen Mailer says:

    Ain’t that the truth?

    Like

  2. Arthur Reber says:

    Sounds like I got out at the right time. Bailed out for the PNW in ’05. We have a mini-Genoa club here with a decor that was jerked out of the ’60s. Plastic table tops, pool tables, fake leather seats in rickety booths. Alas the game only runs on odd evenings and is low stakes. The owner is a riot. Nick Kiniski, one-time professional wrestler and son of one of the all-time greats Mean Gene Kiniski (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gene_Kiniski). Gene was one of life’s great raconteurs and one awful poker player. Nick’s pretty good — both in the tall tale department and movin’ chips.
    Might just write all this up one day…
    Thanks for the story Peter.

    Like

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