"THE ONLY TIME POKER PLAYERS LIE IS WHEN THEIR LIPS MOVE."
I confess I crave risk. Early on it is enough to swing out over the Sioux from the limb of a cottonwood and to let go of the rope. But, swimming with a snapping turtle pales by 14 or so. Not the turtle’s fault but mine. I go from swimming in the river to skating at night when I can hear the current shift the ice. I go from line drive third base to pick up hockey, from fishing streams near timberline to skiing the windswept bowls above; and later, in paradise, from sail boats to motor cycles. Flying down the Pine Valley grade brings me closer to the bar than I have ever wished to be. But, I do it and more than once. I ramp the hazard up and up; the sense of unlimited possibility up and up. I don’t know why. Perhaps I have an unquenchable zest for life (cool, huh?) or, maybe, a self-destructive personality (definitely not cool) or, more simply, a deep curiosity about what happens if... I crave risk, and I drink too much, or I did until I found what I have been looking for, sunset off a cliff—poker. I am Christopher, once Kit, now Kid Golly, a rounder with no fixed camp. I have much to tell you.
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