On my way back into the Amazon Room last night I found the entrance by the main cage clogged with people. A short balding man with glasses was holding up the line. He had a woman at his side, and they were trying to talk their way into the room, but the security guard wasn’t having any of it. I started to step around the couple—my media badge is like an EZ pass on the highway—when I noticed who it was: Robert Varkonyi and his wife, Olga.
“Yes, I am.”
“Then where’s your wristband.”
“I’m not playing right now.”
“Then you can’t come in.”
All Series long, the top pros have enjoyed unfettered access inside the Amazon Room. They can go anywhere they want whenever they want. Uninvited, Phil Hellmuth stepped onto the stage at the final table of the $10,000 Pot-Limit Omaha event to wish Doyle Brunson good luck in his attempt to win his record-tying eleventh gold bracelet. Scotty Nguyen, Phil Laak, and Humberto Brenes seemed to pop their heads into the Media Room on a regular basis. Now a former world champion was being prevented from simply walking the aisles and watching his peers play from the rail.
I had to say something. “He’s a friggin’ world champion,” I told the security guard. “For christ’s sakes, let him in.”
The security guard looked Varkonyi over once again, not quite believing what he’d just heard. This was no Phil Hellmuth standing before him, no brash tall loud showman. This was no Doyle Brunson, no famous old Texas road gambler. This wasn’t even a Chris Moneymaker, who the security guard would probably have recognized instantly. This was a short balding guy with glasses and an unassuming personality.
Emboldened by his frustration, Varkonyi finally stepped past the security guard into the room and pointed at the twenty-foot-tall picture of himself hanging above the security guard’s head. “See,” he said to the guard. “There I am. Now can I come in?”
A little embarrassed, the security guard nodded and returned to his post at the door.
