His voice, flat and procedural, announced to the room: "Seat 4, Table 7 is eliminated." Fifth hand of the night. I'd driven three hours to play, paid the $250 buy-in, and lasted about twelve minutes. My pocket aces, the hand every poker player dreams of, the nuts, the absolute tippy-top of the starting hand hierarchy, had just been cracked by ten-deuce offsuit. Doyle Brunson's hand, they call it, because the godfather of poker won back-to-back World Series championships with that garbage holding in the late seventies. Doyle can have it. I never want to see those cards again.