Why I'm writing a mere four hours after finishing up my first leg of ten recaps for the 2010 WCOOP at PokerStarsBlog is beyond me. Something piqued my interest while getting gas before work and before long I drafted the bestest blog post EVAR!
Yeah, must like my dreams where I'm a stallion in bed listening to Anna Paquin and Jessica Biel scream out my online name and take pots off name branded poker pros half-crocked on Captain and Coke in Bobby's Room at the Belliagio, the post sounded better as the meter on the pump hit north of $40.00 and the cashier who was probably as awake as I, reminded me to pay inside. But, across two islands of gas pumps was a guy in a non-descript car with overalls and a patch with his name on it. It said "Steve" in red stitching as he probably worked in the nearby industrial park specializing in putting things together or repairing them for folks like myself who have a comparable power tool dexterity of a zebra. Steve drove off while I purchased a much needed energy drink after finishing up this morning's Event #13 final table wrap and heading in for a full day at the office with Event #16 awaiting me when I return home in ten hours.
It hit me after seeing Steve as to why I returned to school. More money from a better job sounds a like a cop-out and it is. Money should never been someone's driver for lofty aspirations, unless you're a poker player outside of a friendly home thus money is the only reason you should be sitting down. No, an enlightened bank account didn't get me to go back and learn how to separate partnership's capital accounts with salary and interest when one partner puts up X amount of money and the other puts up Y amount (which is less than X) while Mr. X works 50 hours per week at the business and Mr. Y spends more time at the local rub and tug while claiming to be networking.
Sadly, it was not for my family and friends. As I give ever little ounce of myself to my two kids and wife along with dear friends who's followed my sappy tale of woe here for nearly six years, there a little piece of me that is finishing up quarter two of 11 towards my bachelor's.
I want to be able to do something.
Steve the mechanic can probably hop under a car or machine press and fix the problem because of past knowledge and knowhow. I can tell you in under four seconds how many outs you have with three board cards and if the guy in the nine seat is drunk enough to call you. I can whip up a simple database or fancy spreadsheet, maybe make a few people laugh with attempts of humor and self-pity while having the writing amplitude of a half eaten Pringle. No, I wanted more. And I feel selfish now that it took Steve to make me realize why I'm lugging around those textbooks, staying up late to complete computer lab assignment when my head should be next to my wife's.
I want people to come to me for help, and I want to be able to sit down with a tax return, or ledger and just let the number flow much like my words seem to do in satisfactory ways while writing about poker. Note, I LOVE writing about poker, I LOVE the game and will never lose that, but becoming an Accountant or at the very least having an accounting degree means the world to me. Laugh if you will, accounting is a noble profession in my mind, but it's not going to get the ladies La Perla lacy underthings saturated (I'd plug in "moist panties" here but a good friend of mine says those are the two worst words in the English language). Some people were built to inspire, others to annoy, and me, I just want to do. I want to be Steve, minus the grease, better pay, and some stock options so I can retire before my Viagra years kick in.
Nine quarters from now we'll see if that pocket protector with my name etched in midnight blue is waiting for me.