I finally figured out why I do so well playing poker in Florida. The reason? I AM FLORIDA MAN.
It has taken some time to admit and embrace this. You know the “Florida Man” from the headlines, right? He’s the punchline of every joke, the guy making “questionable life choices” in the humidity of the swamp. If he sees an alligator on his sidewalk, he doesn’t call animal control—he just casually steps over it on his way to check the mail.
Think that’s an exaggeration? It literally happened to me. The gator was lounging on the sidewalk behind my house, having wandered over from the prehistoric depths of Paynes Prairie across the street. Full disclosure: I gave it a wide berth, so maybe I’m not 100% “purebred” Florida Man. But the fact that I wasn’t even surprised by its presence qualifies me.
I’ve been here my whole life. I’ve visited Urgent Care to get stitches at least half a dozen times (ask my mother; she has the receipts and the stories to prove it). I prefer grits for breakfast, collard greens for dinner, and I know that Sonny Tillman wasn’t just a logo on a BBQ joint—he was a real dude whose first restaurant was just two miles down the street from my house.
95 degrees and 100% humidity? That’s not a weather warning; that’s just a delightful summer afternoon here.
I have a genuine love for monster truck rallies and frog legs. I own exactly zero cans of bug spray and zero umbrellas. No self-respecting Florida Man would. It rains every day in the summer—you’ll dry out, trust me. As for the mosquitoes? After a few decades, you stop noticing them. Don’t worry; you’ll still have enough blood left to finish the day.
But here’s the secret to why I almost always win at poker down here: My opponents are all Florida Man. And I know everything about him, because I am him.
Don’t think for a minute that I’m disrespecting him. Plenty of fine people identify as Florida Man. They work hard, love their families, and love their country. But I am always one step ahead of the field.
I’m the guy who eats gas station boiled peanuts while coding poker bots.
When I’m in a high-stakes pot, I don’t feel the pressure. Why would I? I’m used to crawling through a 120-degree attic to drop wiring for a new outlet. A check-raise on the river is nothing compared to North Florida attic heat.
Outsiders come here and complain that the games are tough. That’s just a tribute to the tenacity of Florida Man. We trace our roots back to the scrappy individuals who tamed this swamp when the rest of the world thought it was uninhabitable.
Me? I know how Florida Man thinks, and I know how he acts. I am him. I’ve just trained harder. I’ve upgraded his operating system.
