A passion for poker and cigars with brothers

STEVE SMITH

The type of ad that makes me laugh is the one that reads, “We’ll

treat you like family!” All I can think of when I see one of those

is, “Please don’t.”

In separate conversations with our two kids, I’ve expressed to

them the importance of family. “Your friends may come and go, but

you’ll always have your family,” I said. Perhaps I should have

changed it to “ ... but you’ll always be stuck with your family.”

There is no rule that family members have to get along. It’s nice

when they do, but after a few years, most parents realize that it’s

not something to be expected and not something one can force. It

becomes the icing on the cake.

Many of us have siblings with whom we did not get along when we

were teens. Then we grow up to find the company of our brothers and

sisters to be enjoyable. That happens once those strange early years

pass, and we discover that it is not really all about us, and we

begin to tolerate the views of others.

That is unless you are a radio talk show host. Then it becomes

your job to act like a child and disagree with everyone.

Brad Harris, Fred Szkolnik, Larry Gold, Terry Ickowicz, Mark

Berman and Nate Adlen are not family members of mine, but they may as

well be.

I’ve known each of them for at least 30 years. Nate, Terry and I

go back almost 40 years, back to Laurel Elementary School in Los

Angeles. I did not know Terry well in elementary school, but Nate and

I became inseparable.

Nate and I ate lunch together, walked home from school together,

talking all the way. Then when we each got home, we’d talk some more

on the phone. I knew what girls Nate liked and he knew which ones I

liked. And, fortunately, there was no competition.

We spent countless weekends and summer days swimming in Nate’s

pool and playing basketball in his grandmother’s backyard. We were

more brothers than most brothers, and we treated each other like

family.

After junior high school, Nate moved away. Not far by adult

standards but for teens who don’t drive, he may as well have been on

the moon. The soap opera years followed, and we rarely saw each

other. But I thought of him every May 13, his birthday, and spent too

many years with my hand on the phone, ready to call him on that day.

But I didn’t.

Now I’m seeing Nate again. Not often, just twice a year, but it’s

something. The semiannual event is a poker game, held now at Terry’s

house on top of the mountains that separate the Los Angeles basin

from the San Fernando Valley.

At this point, I must explain something about Terry. Terry is not

his real name. His real name is The Catman. He got the name more than

30 years ago, something, I recall, having to do with his ability to

scamper up to the roof of his house, but it doesn’t matter. Nicknames

have to be earned, not distributed, and The Catman earned his.

My poker brothers and I have all endured, through kids, marriages,

divorces, disease and countless highs and lows. We’ve come out OK on

the other end and have learned not to carry our baggage around,

except in the company of family members; in the company, for example,

of our poker brothers. The brothers want to know.

We don’t play too much poker on those nights. We eat some, we

drink just a little, and we talk a lot. When we do play, we usually

have too many wild cards and stipulations such as in the game

“baseball.” In baseball, threes and nines are wild. A “four” of any

suit gets you an extra card but only if you pay a quarter. And the

person with the highest spade “in the hole” (that being the cards

facing down) splits the pot with the person holding the best hand.

Confused? We are too, and we’ve been playing that darn game for 30

years. And if you think baseball is confusing, ask me some time about

“anaconda.” That one is so bad we don’t play it anymore.

Brad, “Bop” to his poker brothers, a guy who flies in from out of

town for poker nights, prefers those “high-low” games that are

understood only by those of a higher intelligence. And in case there

was any doubt about into which category I fall, I’m usually the one

asking three times for instructions.

At The Catman’s house, I can smoke a cigar in the living room.

It’s just twice a year. But the games have lasted most of our

lives, proof that not all friends come and go. And even though we see

each other only twice a year and even though I’ve never said it, my

friends all know that if they ever need me, I’ll come running.

That’s what family members do.

* STEVE SMITH is a Costa Mesa resident and a freelance writer.

Readers may leave a message for him on the Daily Pilot hotline at

(949) 642-6086.