Lee Davy spins a yarn from his time playing in the $1,500 Extended Levels No-Limit Hold’em Event. The cast includes Clifford, The Devil, and a man who likes to butt fuck catfish.

Clifford – not his real name, but the one my deceased grandfather bore – must be in his sixties. Very few people acknowledged him when he sat down. I did. I have done so ever since I wrote The Ghosts of the WSOP. I always greet them by their first name, I always thank them, and I even told one of them that her hair was lovely the other day. I think it makes them feel human.

There is a hierarchical system within poker. It’s subtle. I’m not sure everyone sees it. I see it, although I often question its existence when I start believing I created the order because I feel like I am being categorized in it.

The poker players are at the top of the food chain. Most of them make it blatantly obvious, some less so, and others don’t pay attention to such nonsense. The live reporters are shadows. They barely get an acknowledgment, although relationships do form, and banter flows, albeit infrequently.