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| Victoria Coren
writes the Guardian Poker Column |
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Victoria Coren's everyday tale of poker folk
You don't
often see a bunch of gamblers in tears. One maybe, after a particularly cruel
spin of the wheel. Not a whole bunch at once, though. Not right in the middle
of a big poker tournament. And not poker players, whose faces are supposed to
be as unreadable as an Amy Jenkins novel.
But one month ago, right in
the middle of filming Late Night Poker on Channel 4, just before New York blew
up, the popular and successful British poker player Hemish Shah died of a heart
attack. He was 33.
Hemish wasn't at the filming because he hadn't been
well. He developed stomach cramps during the $5,000 Limit Hold'Em event at the
Poker World Series in Vegas earlier this year. During breaks in the game, while
his rival finalists supped drinks and planned strategy, Hemish was doubled up
in a chair as friends tried to find him a doctor. But Hemish limped back to the
table, outplayed the Americans, won the title, collected his enviable winner's
bracelet, pocketed his $312,340 prize, then caught an early flight back to
London and went home to bed. He was the only Brit to win 'a bracelet' at this
year's championship, our only world-title holder of 2001. The stomach ache
wouldn't go away. Hemish had tests in hospital for three months, then had a
cardiac arrest on 5 September. They never found out what was wrong with him.
Walk into a casino any night now, and you'll find a room full of people shaking
their heads and saying, you know, for a gambler Hemish had such a healthy
lifestyle. In a world of B&H, Jack Daniels, all-nighters and steak, Hemish
didn't smoke, didn't drink, talked clean, ate vegetarian, lived with his
mother, honoured his religion. Just goes to show.
Being a stockbroker
as well as a poker player meant he was into all sorts of gambling.
The
mood turned black as news spread across the Late Night Poker studio in Cardiff.
A gold-embossed Get Well card, that had been lying on a table and covered in
friendly messages, was quietly disposed of. Shocked postings started appearing
on gambling websites. Players removed their TV microphones, because they knew
they might cry in the middle of a hand. When they hit lucky, they looked up and
whispered, 'Thanks, Hemish.' Hemish himself was the most superstitious of men,
especially smitten with the colour red and the number seven. When I sent him
flowers in hospital I was warned, 'No green in the flowers! Green is unlucky!'.
'It's tricky,' I said, 'to find flowers which don't have green leaves.'
Hemish drew strength from these superstitions. I once saw him play a
tournament during which, as the clock ticked past midnight, he suddenly moved
up a gear to win the final and a large cash prize. It turned out that when
midnight came it had become Hemish's birthday: the seventh of
April.
Hemish's funeral was scheduled for the day after his death,
according to Hindu tradition. It clashed directly with the Late Night Poker
final. Presentable Productions were running to a tight schedule with no money
for extending the filming days. But the 'hard men' in the studio didn't care
about losing the £1,500 they'd paid to play, or the £100,000 prize
money on offer. They were going to London to pay their respects. It was a
stalemate. Presentable was looking at a poker tournament with no
final.
But anything's possible, the saying goes, as long as you've got a
chip and a chair. And Presentable were fond of Hemish too: he played in the
fourth series, filmed earlier this year. (It starts broadcasting this Thursday;
tune in on 18 October and you can watch our late world champion at his best.)
So Presentable shoved their chips all-in: played an emergency semi-final at 7
o'clock in the morning, flew the players down to London by helicopter, and flew
them back for a final which was played silently through the night.
Being
a good Hindu family, Hemish's relatives did not speak of his gambling during
the funeral service. They concentrated on his childhood, his professional
success in the City, and his devotion as a son and brother. Indian prayers were
spoken and haunting songs sung. But at the back of the room stood 50 silent men
in dark glasses and extravagant jewelled watches, all thinking of the man who
brought a 2001 World Series bracelet home to Britain. There is no bigger
achievement in poker. The most superstitious among them said that Hemish sensed
the clock was ticking, and made sure to win a world title before he threw in
his cards. Then they hugged each other.
I guess poker players are kind
of like New Yorkers. They rush around all tough and buzzy, emotions hidden and
sharp wits on show, and look somehow harder than 'normal' people. But then
something bad happens and they realise they're one big family after all.A
pretty dysfunctional and sprawling family - but one which, in a crisis, can
snap together like a fresh deck of cards.
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