During a recent WSOP circuit event at the Horseshoe Southern Indiana, the fellers were all gathering for a $550 single-table when a horse of a totally different color strutted up. It was a filly entry, the newcomer was, and a frilly filly at that. Had she just come from Philadelphia, you could almost hear W.C. Fields dubbing her the “Frilly Philly Filly.” Of course, turns out, she wasn’t from Philly at all. But, then, maybe I’m getting ahead of myself.

Going back to that “frilly” part, our filly was decked to the nines: High-society digs, diamonds galore, full-metal heels, blonde on top, manners out both yin and yang… the works. Think Zsa Zsa Gabor pre-slapping, and you’ve got the picture. Well, up sauntered Daddy Carl, who hasn’t missed a day at the Horseshoe since it opened 10 years ago – the very picture of a leather@$$ – and boy did he bite:

“You look like one of those Churchill Downs socialites,” he offered to the alluring, out-of-place-looking stranger. “Are you in for the Derby?”

The stranger just smiled her most Bambi-like smile and innocently batted her big baby blues.

Within minutes the satellite was off to a blistering start, and before long the field thinned to – wouldn’t you know it – Daddy Carl and the filly. They were heads-up, racing toward a seat in the upcoming 5K Main Event and coming into the final stretch about neck-and-neck in chips.

Soon, Daddy Carl raised pre-flop, and the filly was crying calls. The flop came A-9-8 rainbows, Daddy Carl fired and the filly insta-called. It seemed she was acting fake-strong to be read for weak – “A good move for the repertoire,” I thought.

When the turn paired the 9, Daddy Carl fired again. The filly made another deliberate call, and the river came junk, 3 off. Wouldn’t you know it, Daddy Carl unloaded once more, and this time, the filly answered with an insta-moved all-in, over the top. Daddy Carl – who was, at that point, doing the best damned Snidely Whiplash impression I’ve ever seen – shoved in kind.

Then, the filly showed pocket aces for aces-full.

“Boat,” she said, and immediately Carl’s facial expression changed to one of pure horror.

“Where’d you learn that from?!” he asked weakly.

“The Churchill Downs Socialite Club,” she replied. “Nice to meet you. I’m Nancy Todd Tyner.”

Holy secretariat, you should have been there; hearing that from the perfectly proper-looking stranger, the dealer – who’s normally more than a little jaded to such proceedings – literally fell out of his chair! Nancy Todd Tyner, Las Vegas’s own “Queen of Diamonds,” had sent him into a near-epileptic laughing fit with her beautiful gambit and absolutely rocking repartee.

As the dust settled, Daddy Carl complimented the Queen on her play profusely, and for the rest of the week, he was excessively polite and respectful .

“How are you today, Nancy?” he’d say in his best Southern-gentleman drawl. “Nice to see you again.”

It doesn’t take a stepper like Daddy Carl long to wise up. But, then, we all have to learn our lessons now and again.

As for me, when the exacta for the single-table went up on the tote that day, “Queen of Diamonds over Daddy Carl” – with the rest of the players finishing up the track – I reflected on how dear Ms. Tyner had pulled one of the best sandbag moves seen around these parts since Fast Eddie Felson traveled through for the Derby some 50 years ago, acting like he couldn’t spell “billiards.” Seems anymore, though, it’s getting more and more treacherous out there, sports fans. We’d all do best to mind a horse of a different color ‘cause, likely as not, she ain’t what you put her on in the starting gate.


By: Dave Cinch
dave.cinch@acehoyle.com

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