From Poker Grinder to Bitcoin DCA: Choosing Discipline Over Chaos

If You Can’t Spot the Sucker

“If you can't spot the sucker in your first half hour at the table, then you are the sucker.” - Matt Damon (Mike McDermott), Rounders

I wasn’t the sucker. By 2006, I had lived in the poker world for years. I had instincts. Reading people came naturally. But the swings were always there. Big games. Small games. The swings never left.

The higher the limits, the harder they hit. And I needed that. The fear of losing it all. The rush of winning it all back. That cycle became almost predictable.

Holiday Tables and Pennies in the Pot

My first poker games weren’t in casinos. They were at family holidays on my mom’s side, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter, played for pennies around the kitchen table.

What made them special wasn’t the money. It was the people. There were men from different generations : fathers, grandfathers, and great-uncles, collectively, they fought in every American conflict since WWI.

They were men who had seen the world at its toughest, and yet here they were, sitting around a table with cards and coins, laughing, teasing, and teaching. Those moments weren’t just about poker. They were about patience, reading people, and knowing when to act.

Most of them have passed now, but those lessons stayed.

The stakes were small, but the lessons were real. Poker was timing. Poker was control. Poker was learning to sit still long enough to see the truth in someone’s hesitation. I learned those lessons early. I just didn’t know how to live them.

Tucson and the Retirees

By 1999 I was in casinos. In Tucson, that meant Casino Del Sol and Desert Diamond. Both were owned and operated by Native American tribes. The retirees filled the rooms, playing 2-4 limit. Sometimes 3-6 if we were lucky. We always made sure we were there for the Saturday night 6-12 game, when easy money thought losing more money made them better players.

Limit hold’em forced you to think. You couldn’t shove all in and buy a pot. Every bet had to be earned. I came over the top with weaker hands, forcing players to fold, winning the battle before the river ever came.

The retirees were grinders. Quiet. Patient. Methodical. They remind me of the patriarchs of my family, but also the early Bitcoin adopters, the ones who studied quietly, built conviction, and never needed attention. And the Saturday night crowd, the fish, remind me of the people chasing memecoins now, convinced that chaos will make them rich.

The Midnight Walkout

In 2003, I was 20, playing at Casino Arizona with three friends. That was the night Arizona raised the gambling age from 18 to 21.

The rule took effect at midnight. The floor staff knew who we were. As soon as the clock turned, they checked IDs. Within minutes, we were tapped on the shoulder and walked out.

One minute I was in the game. The next, I was in the parking lot.

At the time, it felt like the end of the world. We didn’t do anything wrong. The rules just changed.

Now I see it for what it was, one of the biggest lessons of my life. The rules always change, and if you can’t adapt, you don’t last. That night taught me that control is an illusion, and how you respond is what defines you.

The Boom and Flow

When I turned 21, I went straight back to the tables. This time I focused on the bigger rooms: Casino Arizona in Phoenix, Commerce in Los Angeles, the Mirage and Bellagio in Vegas, and the Borgata in Atlantic City.

The poker boom was everywhere. ESPN was broadcasting the World Series of Poker, and players like Sammy Farha and Howard Lederer were becoming household names. I found myself sitting at tables with both of them at different times, surrounded by grinders and professionals from around the world. Some played for fame, some for the money, and others simply for the mental challenge.

Poker had gone mainstream. Chris Moneymaker’s 2003 win made everyone believe they could turn a small buy-in into millions. Every room was packed with new players chasing the same dream.

I had already put in years. The new players stood out. Limping into every hand. Chasing hopeless draws. Treating poker like slots.

But this was when I first felt flow. Flow was when the noise disappeared. Cards, players, timing, psychology, everything clicked. In that state, the swings still came, but I could ride them.

It was the same energy I see today when crypto starts pumping. The rush. The chase. The belief that this time will be different.

The Weekend That Stuck

By 2006, I was deep into the grind. That weekend in Phoenix still plays like a movie in my head.

We drove up from Tucson to Casino Arizona. The room was alive. NFL playoff games blared from TVs. Every table was full.

Friday bled into Saturday. The first pot I won, my hands shook. They always did. That never changed.

By Saturday night, my friends had gone back to Tucson. I stayed. Tried to sleep in a chair. It didn’t work. Sunday morning, I was down thousands.

Then something shifted. I locked in. I came over the top with weaker hands, forcing folds. Hand after hand, I clawed back.

By Sunday night, I walked out after an all-time high weekend.

That ride reminds me of memecoin chasers today. They pump, they believe, they think it won’t end. And then it ends. Back then, I chose the swings in poker. Today, people make the same choice in crypto.

The Truth About Poker

Looking back, I see it clearly. I had talent. And I knew the lessons. Patience. Discipline. Observation. They were there from the start. But knowing is not the same as living.

The swings followed me everywhere because I never fully implemented what I already knew. Some nights I found discipline. Other nights I didn’t. This story was one of the nights I did. But it never stuck long enough to change the bigger picture.

Poker is patience. It is psychology. It is pressure. But it is also long stretches where nothing goes your way. You can play perfectly and still lose. That was what hooked me. I thought if I stayed long enough, I could bend the chaos to my will.

But discipline never became consistent. That lesson came later.

The Same Storm in a Different Form

Crypto was familiar the moment I saw it. The same highs. The same lows. The same chaos.

And the same split in people. Some chase memecoins the way I chased poker, addicted to swings. Others grind steadily, like those retirees in Tucson.

I see both groups. And I know which one I want to be.

Choosing the Quiet Road

Back then, walking out ahead felt like winning. But even wins cost me health, balance, and time with people I loved.

Now I choose differently. I’m done making the mistakes that led me here. The same kind of mistakes I made back then, just in different forms.

I don’t chase quick wins. I don’t gamble on hype. I don’t live in the storm.

I DCA into Bitcoin every single day. Dollar-cost averaging removes the stress of timing the market. It makes investing less emotional and steadier over time.

Psychologist Daniel Crosby, Ph.D., wrote in The Behavioral Investor (2018, Harriman House) that “DCA works not because it maximizes returns but because it minimizes regret.” The real benefit of DCA is psychological. It builds consistency and keeps people from making destructive choices.

That’s the difference. DCA gives me peace. Consistency. Discipline.

I always knew the lessons. I just never knew how to live them. Today, I do.

The older generations taught me poker at holiday tables. Now I learn from younger generations in crypto. Different times. Different voices. Same truths.

In 2019, Hossein Ensan won the World Series of Poker Main Event at age 55. He took home ten million dollars. Proof that time doesn’t run out.

And there’s another lesson too. It doesn’t matter what generation you come from. You can learn from anyone, no matter their age or experience.

I may not have had early wins in crypto like some people. But I’m not late to the game.

There’s still plenty of time for me to become one of the best.

And that’s the plan. Nothing less.