WHAT WOULD “JESUS” DO?

by John
Vorhaus

I'm sitting in a red chip hold'em game at the venerable Horseshoe Casino in venerable downtown Las Vegas, and by venerable in the former case I mean respected and in the latter just old, and I find my mind wandering to things other than poker, such as, for example, the various meanings of the word venerable. This is, of course, no way to play Killer Poker or perfect poker or even garden-variety venerable poker, but the mind does wander when you're in the nth hour of a poker game, where n = four or five hours more than n should equal, if you catch my drift. 

Among other random stimuli vying for my attention, I notice that the Horseshoe has issued a set of commemorative five-dollar chips featuring the faces of each and every winner of The Big One to date.  I am given to understand that there are thirtysomething chips in the set, and this is problematic for an obsessive collector like me, because thirtysomething times five is a hundred and something dollars, and that's a tough self-indulgent expense to justify, even for an obsessive collector like me.  So I have compromised thus:  I won't go out of my way to buy the entire set -- that is, I won't go to the casino cage and lay my money down -- but I will scoop up any chip from the set that comes my way in the normal course of play.

I didn't need anyone to tell me that I was distracted, dazed and confused and that my lusting after souvenir chips was doing nothing but harming my focus on, and performance in, the game.  I was telling that very thing to myself; a little voice inside my head kept nattering away, saying, “Man, JV, will you stop thinking about these damn stupid collectible chips and pay attention to the game?”  This voice, needless to say, I almost completely and totally ignored.

Just then, though, a certain commemorative chip came my way, and I found myself staring at the hirsute visage of 2000 World Series of Poker champion Chris “Jesus” Ferguson.  Have you seen those bumper stickers with the acronym, WWJD – “What would Jesus do?”  They're talking about the other Jesus, of course, but just then, in that poker context, I found myself wondering, “If poker’s Jesus were playing the cards I'm playing, how would he make his moves?”

Okay, first of all, we know that if Chris were where I was, he wouldn't be there, not that late, not that tired and not that mentally wayward.  If, though, by some strange parallel-universe machination he found himself sitting in my seat, I imagine that he'd bring his strengths with him to the game.  He would have a great grasp of the math of every situation; he'd study the other players till he knew them inside out; he would retain his unflappable tranquility no matter what the outcomes.  He would be, as I see it, what he is: a peaceful warrior of poker. 

And so I got the bright idea to ask myself in every subsequent betting situation, “What would ‘Jesus’ do?”  Would he call three bets cold with T-7 suited?  I don't think so.  Would he raise under the gun with 2-3, just because he's bored or tilty or tired of being bullied off his hands?  Not hardly.  Would he call on the river when he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that he was beaten by the bettor and other players yet to act?  Not in this eternal lifetime. 

After awhile I really got into it.  I was no longer even me playing poker.  First I was me thinking about Chris.  Then I was me emulating Chris.  Then I was me channeling Chris.  Finally, in my dangerously addled mental state, I became Chris.  I was the peaceful warrior, and boy did my game get good.  I was totally focused, locked into the flow and texture of the game.  I had good reads on my foes, knew when I could squeeze out an extra bet and knew when to run away scared (or no, not scared; prudent.  The peaceful warrior is always prudent but never scared.)  I was a much better player playing Chris than I'd been being me.  After about an hour of torrid success, I found myself asking myself, “What would ‘Jesus’ do now?”  He’d cash out big winners and split, so I did.

I relate this tale of hallucinotropic behavior because it recalls the Buddhist concept of “right action, right mind,” a basic wisdom of the so-called Noble Eight-fold Path.  According to the principle of right action, right mind, if there's something you don't believe in or can't commit to, but you'd like to believe in it or commit to it, simply act as if you did believe and, after taking the right action long enough, you'll eventually acquire the right mind to go along with it.  In other words, even if you know you're no Chris Ferguson, pretend you are for a while, and some of his skills and strengths will rub right off on you.

Try it and see.  Choose ‘Jesus,’ or choose any poker player whose skills or approach you admire.  Do what s/he does, even if you don't believe you can pull it off.  Get deep enough into the fantasy and, I promise, you'll find yourself playing in a new and different way with new and different strengths you can ultimately integrate into your game. 

For my part, I can't wait to play “Jesus” again, or T.J. or Phil Hellmuth.  There are all sorts of playing styles I have yet to explore, and I feel I've found a new and powerful way to try them on for size.  In the meantime, if you know of anyone who needs thirtysomething commemorative red chips from the venerable Horseshoe Casino, please let me know.  It turns out I bought the whole set.