Let me backtrack a little bit and walk you through the process. Federal Court, so I’m “on call”, which means I didn’t have a set day that I definitely had to show up, instead I had to call in every night for a two-week period in which a recording would tell me whether I had to show up at 8 a.m. the next morning.

As luck would have it, I didn’t have to wait very long, and got called in on Day 2.

I also was selected in the first group of potential jurors to go in for jury selection on the court’s first case of the day. Everyone is so stoned-face at first…keeping their cards close to their chest. The lawyers - to the judges, to themselves, to the defendants and to us - are stoic as can be.

Anyway, at the end of the process, both the prosecution and defense gave me a somewhat disappointing “accept”, and the rest is history. Just call me juror #5. Actually, you can call me Foreman, since that’s what the other jurors decided.

This trial gave me a taste of how lawyers act toward you…and it was SO much like judging a competitor across the poker table. They know what they’re holding, and you both know they know what they’re holding…but their job is still to make you believe one way or another, or at the early stages just not reveal anything at all.

Then there was the unique angle of the prosecution acting as his own laywer. So, he had a tougher job of being directly connected to the event in question, and thus had to work even hard to convey a certain emotion or make a certain point. In other words, he couldn’t really “check raise” the same as the other professional lawyers could.

Then you come to the judge. The judge has not only a vested interest in wearing his best poker face throughout the proceedings, but he has a legal duty to do so. He can’t be seen or heard siding with either the prosecution or defense in terms of emotion or personal opinion…so he needs to keep his cards held tight to his black robe…hell he even has to play blind sometimes.

The court system does a very good job of holding your hand as a juror, knowing you probably haven’t been through any of this before and are quite impressionable…and most of this instruction comes from the judge. So if he at any point believes one side is holding a winning hand — and then through a gesture or passing comment or even a facial expression lets you as the jury know it — it would pretty much be a horrid breakdown of our judicial system as we know it.

Needless to say, this veteran judge was a master as keeping us in the dark as to what he was thinking. He was not only reserved in manner, but he was extremely patient, as well. Another key talent of a winning poker player, and something that can be harder to teach than betting, reading people or anything else.

I would not want to be facing the judge in a no-limit hold ‘em tournament. Either he’d clean me out or I’d win and end up going to jail. Either way, not so preferable.

And finally, I felt an obligation as a juror to wear my best poker face throughout the trial, as well. (Although it was difficult to hide my boredom during some of the more tedious parts). First, you don’t want something you say or your body language to affect how other jurors perceive the case thus far — it’s almost the same principle of not discussing the facts of the case until you’re actually in the deliberation room. Second, as a juror, you end up wanting to keep your feelings secret until the very end…it’s just the way it’s done.

I really found a strong connection between a courtroom and a poker table. The entire judicial process was new and interesting to me, but the similarity between a game of cards and a civil suit made me shake my head in absolute amazement.

Surely one can still have fun at the table while putting in the “work” to make sure they’re capitalizing on every advantage afforded to them. Surely they’re up to the challenge of taking their opponents’ money?

Yeah, yeah, it’s all true. But I’ll be honest. Sometimes I’m just too lazy to do any of that stuff. I won’t say it reaches th same level of apathetic play as going in blind over and over again - why would anyone do that? - but playing “lazy” can be just as bad, and almost like an amateur player at a blackjack table, can end up screwing things up for everyone else in the process.

Still, though, I admit to the practice. I mean, sometimes it’s just easier, especially if you’ve had a few drinks, to throw caution to the wind and play like you just don’t care. Here are some examples of what I’m talking about.

1.) Avoiding eye contact: I wouldn’t think that reading people or identifying tells would be as prevalent in home games as it would in a casino, especially not as much as something like identifying a playing pattern, but it can be a useful tool nontheless, particularly if the game is in a Hold ‘Em tournament format. And, of course, to read someone, you generally want to be looking at them. But if you’re lazy, it’s easier just to slump down in your seat, glare at your own cards or fixate on the pot for a few moments, and then start playing with your chips. I can’t do that cool one-handed chip shuffle thing they do on TV, but I do like making the annoying clacking sound with a stack. As much as this may unintentionally rattle your opponents into a rage-induced mistake, it’s usually not my main goal.

2.) Forgetting about bluffing: Bluffing is a key tool to keeping your opponents honest themselves. It’s kinda like a game of basketball, in that you’ll always be guarded tight at the three point line if them other team knows you can’t drive. So, like in basketball, you have to throw your opponents a curve, and in poker that curve is, of course, a bluff. Sometimes you need to bluff (especially in a new game where the other players don’t know you or your game) just to show them that you will, in fact, bluff from time to time. For this type of bluff, whether you win or lose the hand is largely irrelevant.

All the same in a game where the other players DO know your game. If you’re just not bluffing, or folding on every opening bet, pretty soon they’ll catch on that they can bleed you dry, and when that big bet from your stack does come, it’ll just scare everyone off before you have a chance to make your money. With blinds increasing at timed intervals, this is a great way to achieve that “lazy” slow death.

3.) Just call: Similar to avoiding the bluff, calling everything or folding is a trademark of the “lazy” player. He won’t raise back, won’t attempt to engage anyone in a betting war, content to either keep the pot at lower levels, or if he has a sure-win hand, content to claim whatever the pot makes through other’s raises. Sounds stupid, right? Sure, but who said being lazy went hand in hand with making perfect sense. When laziness creeps in, so does the effort it takes to think these things through sometimes. You really, literally, just don’t want to put forth the effort to care.

So, you’re definitely asking again, if you’re going to just go through the motions and be lazy, why even bother playing? Well, that’s a great question. It used to be I just didn’t have anyting else better to do. But now…..well…..eh….I’ll answer that some other time.

We abused the poor thing, my fraternity brothers and I. But it was all done with love. Every spilled beer was a big, warm hug. Every cigarette burn on the wood was a heart-felt kiss. Good ol’ Pokey (seriously, though, we didn’t name it) withstood two strong years of late-night, poker tournament abuse and never asked for anything.

Except not to be trashed…which, unfortunately, we had no choice but to do anyway.

OK, flashing back…let’s see….10 years. We’d always played cards in our fraternity house, as I’m sure everyone else did at every other house throughout the world. We played on the kitchen folding tables, we played on the TV area coffee table, and we played on the beds in each other’s rooms. Hell, I’m even guilty of playing on the floor in our upstairs hallway…until the sun came up.

At one point, my buddy Evan and I, who had just taken a liking to midday trips out to local flea markets, decided the focus of this trip would be….well, there was never a focus. We didn’t even know where we were ending up half the time.

I’ll set the scene for you. Missouri isn’t the most urban of places this fine country has to offer. Outside of the somewhat entertaining college town of Columbia (which is smack in the middle of the state), you run into a lot of towns with signs boasting “Population: 51″ and “Population: 33.”

Yeah, those kind of towns. I went to a Chili Fest in one of those towns once and came back with a cow skull. That, however, is a different story.

The flea markets are scattered throughout the state. They’re indoors, and usually just long rows of shelves in a big room with all sorts of middle America crap staring you depressingly in the face. All varieties of signs and mirrors are hanging from the ceiling. You can find anything from 8-tracks to baby clothes to dining room furniture. Shelves lined with 25-year-old shot glasses and thimbles are not out of ordinary, either.

The shops tended to go hand-in-hand with a pawn shop nearby, too. Or a gas station that sold 45 different types of chewing tobacco.

But they do have their charm. I suppose.

Anyway, one afternoon in April or May, the two of us ventured out in search of cheap crap to add to our increasingly tacky rooms. I think we actually went into three different flea markets. (Classes weren’t that much of a concern to either of us at that point…..or perhaps any point.) The largest one had all sorts of trashy treasures for our enjoyment. I mean, half the fun was just sifting through all this junk. It still amazes me what collects in these places.

In a side room, after pushing aside a collection of old-fashioned baby carriages (and not old-fashioned in the nostalgic, classy sense), Evan found a Budweiser, plug-in sign that would’ve looked handsome perched above the entrance to the toilets in any dive bar across the nation. I can’t remember, but I’m sure he bought it.

As I turned around to escape the dark, moldy walls and cold, cement floor, a little piece of heaven starred back at me from behind two 6-foot mirrors.

It was one of those moments you have at the Humane Society when you know you’ve found the dog that’s gonna be your new best friend.

An eight-edged, light wood-colored, green….uh….plastic-topped beauty.

The price, you ask? Believe it or not I remember. A reasonable and sexy $38.

Sold.

That night, I tell you, we played like kings.

Granted each 3-hour gaming session would leave you with 3-5 splinters and some green rub-off on your wrists…it was all worth the sacrifice to have such a necessary piece of furniture in our basement.

You know, a typical fraternity basement. Ping pong table, folding chairs, poker table, and…..that’s about it. Then there was the closet with the pool balls, but that, too, is a completely different story.

Whether it was coersing little drunken, rushing high schoolers or duking it out with the house experts, I could sit at that table for days and days and never miss a thing.

I won my fair share of cash at that table, not to mention a couch and some textbooks at the end of a semester (hey, when it’s all profit, they’re worth their weight in gold).

Too sad that Ol’ Pokey died before his time. And it’s always a tragedy when the father outlives the child.

That’s right, Ol’ Pokey was my child.

One day I’ll own another dedicated poker table. It’ll be fancier, with real green felt and cupholders that don’t warp from the condensation on the beer cans. It’ll serve it’s purpose, for sure, but it’ll never hold a candle to Ol’ Pokey.

I miss that poker table.