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They met as a bunch of dads coaching their kids’ teams. The girls and boys have grown into young women and men, while the dads have grown into card sharks. In their minds, anyway… Go inside their game to see the bond these dads nurture with bad food and genuine friendship.
By Frank Scandale
Nobody sitting at the table was going to be mistaken for poker sharks Daniel Negreanu or Phil Ivey.
Scott “The Deuce” Gilroy, Shawn “The Doctor” Emery and Ron “Full House” Bergamini seemed more like dolphins — smart, quick and, like Flipper, there when you need them. But they’d be chum in the shark-infested waters of Las Vegas poker tables.
Occasionally, one of them will have an out-of-body experience, pulling an inside straight after going “all in” — a move that has a 17 percent probability of winning the hand — to stake their claim to greatness. More often that not, they spend the evening trying to remember who the bet is to and whether they were in or out.
With vintage rock from the ’60s, ’70s and ’80s — the soundtrack to our earlier lives — grooving in the background, as many as a dozen guys north of 50 years have been gathering since circa 2000 ostensibly to play poker. But to just leave it at that would be short-changing the totality of what is going on here.
Name-calling, local politics, job kvetching and general taunting about the things men of a certain age are vulnerable about, not to mention the rare, but not unheard of, pretzel lobbing into an open adult beverage, routinely dominate the evening. Held about every three months in an undisclosed location among the hundreds of suburban towns that comprise the heart of New Jersey, the game is little more than an excuse for a bunch of dads to catch up, catch a breath and relax in the company of friends.
This is a casserole of friendship, bonding, nostalgia and celebration served with a side of pride. And a chance to eat food equivalent to the federal government’s “Do Not Fly” list.
The Founding Fathers
Originally launched by six fathers of their eldest children who started playing tee-ball and other sports together, the group has swelled to as many as “lucky 13.” Five of the original dads — Bergamini, Emery, Gilroy, Kurt Rypkema and Kevin Sheehan — are still pushing in the chips on a Friday night after a long week of work, commuting and assorted nonsense from the world. The original site of the game was the break room of a car wash owned by Rypkema. It was eventually moved to a room in the headquarters of the local ambulance squad. “The Doctor” buys the food — mostly stuff our wives and daughters wouldn’t let us eat even with a physician’s note.
Apparently, there used to be a rotation on who brought the food, but “that didn’t go so well,” says Gilroy.
Other things are more sacrosanct; everyone brings his beverage of choice.
When we moved to town from Colorado, our daughter Kate was just seven years old and knew nobody here. Then the doorbell rang and Shawn’s wife, Debbie, appeared with their older daughter, Carley, to invite Kate to do something. Who remembers what it was? We were just thrilled that Kate wanted to join the outing. It was such a simple gesture, but we were grateful for the introduction that launched a friendship with Shawn and Deb and, of course, set the stage for late-night poker years later.
I got invited into the gang a few years ago, but found every reason to avoid a night of poker, banned food and cold beer with a pack of likable guys. My daughter played softball many years with many of the girls who belonged to these dads, so I had a calling card of sorts.
The girls are all grown now. Scattered here and there, some working, some still in grad school mode, some living at home, some just a phone call away from moving back in. But none are kids anymore. Just 30 minutes ago, we were on the sidelines teaching them how to turn a double play. Now they are monitoring our eating habits and showing us how to not embarrass ourselves on social media.Many of our parents are now gone. Some have even lost siblings, inching us closer to the inevitable; while not on a front burner of conversation, its heat licks the edges and serves as a catalyst to enjoy these interludes for what they are — opportunities to tighten friendships, help with job searches (an all–too-regular occurrence these days), tell some jokes, share health advice for a variety of ailments, reminisce about concerts past and report on the our favorite septuagenarian rockers who still play arenas for guys like us.
GAME NIGHT
Then we sit. In my early days with this poker gang, I just plopped down anywhere. Nobody said anything, but back then my tires were always flat when I left the game. Not that anyone is superstitious, of course… Since learned to take my rightful place among the unofficially assigned seats, I have never again had to make another late-night call to AAA.
“We started on a folding table, evolved to an old conference room table, then an eight-person poker octagonal table, to today’s multiple-folding-tables-next-
We rotate the deal, each player possessing a certain unique style. With a table the length of a runaway at Newark Liberty, sailing cards to the opposite end requires the skill of a Canadian curling team. Kurt apparently does not possess such a skill, choosing to walk around the table twice like a sommelier at a fundraiser to deliver hole cards. His delivery takes about 30 minutes.
A typical night features three rounds of Texas Hold ’em. Apparently the game started with “dealer’s choice”, allowing for some crazy wildcard games like “7 Card, Glen Rock Progressive,” but as the gang grew, it evolved to Texas Hold ’em, which allows all to play with one deck at one table.
It’s a $30 buy-in per round, with an option to buy back in if you find yourself — unsuccessfully — trying to bet against an aggressive Bergamini, even if you are holding four kings (there is a story in this, but not for mixed company).
In almost 20 years of playing, inflation has crept into the game. Where guys formerly played with quarters and the bets were .25/.50/$1, today’s game has grown to chips and bets of .50/$1/$2.
Still, you can’t win enough to get you mugged in the parking lot. And you can’t lose enough to have to explain to your wife why you there will be no food in the fridge for the next week. One night I got pretty hot, though, and took in close to what I made weekly in my first newspaper job. Keep in mind, however, that most reporters at that time were also eligible for the federal cheese giveaway program. (Click the link, kids)
Yeah, I felt pretty giddy that night. Arteries clogged just enough, Eric Clapton tune buzzing in my brain, wallet a little fatter than when I started the day. Lost a few close hands, too, which only adds to the ribbing and fun because you want everyone to win. I left the cash on the kitchen counter.
I hit the pillow with a smile that night, replaying the jokes, the songs and the good feeling the guys create without trying. I hope we play until we can’t remember our names, but never forget to order the fried chicken.
Frank Scandale is a Pulitzer-winning journalist and doting dad. He’s still not sure when to hold ’em or when to fold ’em.
