While I was walking by table 115, Emami Amirpasha, was just about to sit down. He was returning to the flight, having just fired his second bullet. With a big, sincere smile stretched across his his face, he asked me: “Is this thing rigged or what?”
I tried to be empathetic: “Is this your second re-entry?”
“Second. It’s my sixth!”
Everyone at the table laughed along with him. Then Anderson F. chipped in a bit of hyperbole, “Just six. This is my tenth!”
Emami poked a thumb in Anderson’s direction. “His goal is to bust out during every level of this tournament.”
More laughter.
“There’s 18 levels,” I shrugged. “That’s means he needs to re-enter 8 more times.”
Anderson shook his head as I started to write in my notebook, and Emami rolled his eyes, “Man, I don’t want my mother to read about this.”
