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  The last day in our village flew by.

  Just before sunset, my father went to our stable, opened the gate, and set our horses free. They took off running. I don’t know where they went or what happened to them. We never saw them again.

  He also opened the gate to the pigpen and tried to force the pigs out. They waddled out to pasture for a bit, then went right back to the small shed my father had built for them.

  I guess they weren’t afraid of the Pathet Lao and North Vietnamese soldiers. Not that I blame them. We treated our pigs well, but in the end we still butchered them. Their fate was the same no matter who fed them.

  Rather than leave our valuables where the soldiers could carry them away, my father sealed them in a cave behind a waterfall at the nearby stream. Even though we didn’t have much, our few treasures had been passed down from generation to generation. By hiding them in this cave, my father was, in effect, telling the villagers he expected to return someday.

  Others followed his lead. By the end of the day, the vault was full. My father even placed his army M-16 there. He knew carrying such a weapon would immediately identify him as a former soldier in Vang Pao’s army, a guaranteed death sentence.

  As afternoon turned into evening, families began gathering in the main part of the village. No one had to announce it was time to leave. The sinking sun did that.

  The older man and his son who had criticized my father so harshly in the meeting the night before didn’t join us. Neither did their families. They stayed behind, just as they’d promised.

  Once it was clear that everyone who planned to leave with us was ready, my father simply said, “Let’s go,” and we headed out. I carried on my back a large bag of rice, as heavy as I could manage. Since I only owned one pair of pants and one shirt, I didn’t have to worry about luggage. I didn’t have any shoes, either, but hardly anyone did.

  The trail out of the village wound between my friends’ houses. As we passed the empty homes, I thought about the good times we’d had there, but soon fear swept away those good thoughts. I wondered if any of us would make it through this alive.

  We also walked past an empty house that the men of our village had built for the schoolteacher, Bee Vang. He’d come from far away and taught the children of our village to read and write, but when the war had drawn too near, he and his wife had gone back to their home village.

  He’d said they would return when things got better. They never had.

  On the very edge of the village sat one last building: my father’s church. He’d served as the pastor for nearly a decade, ever since he’d completed his training with the American missionaries in Vientiane.

  My father paused at the front of the church. “We are all leaving, and we will not come back,” he said to the building. “It’s okay. It is time to go.”

  Even though we are Christians, we are still Hmong, and Hmong tradition says that when you leave a place, part of your spirit stays behind. That’s why my father said what he did. He was telling our spirits that we were leaving and calling them to come with us.

  In that moment the finality of our departure hit me. I wanted to throw up.

  Just past the church building, the trail into the jungle went up a hill. About halfway up, I turned and looked back at our village. I could still see smoke curling up from the houses into the sky as if the people who lived there were cooking their evening meals. Animals milled in pastures, and I expected to see children running by, laughing and kicking a pig bladder.

  From up on the hill, everything looked completely normal, as if life had not changed one bit and never world. I have never forgotten that sight.

  Looking back toward our village, I saw my father’s favorite hunting dog, Lie, running up the trail after us. I loved that dog. He wasn’t just a dog; he was part of our family. Every time my father went hunting, Lie was at his side. He’d chase the deer or whatever my father was after that day. No other dog in our village compared to him. In a sense, Lie put food on our table by leading the hunters to the prey. All of us, including my father, loved that dog.

  When I saw him, I said, “No, Lie, you can’t come with us.”

  My father heard me and turned around. “Go home, Lie,” he shouted. “Go home.”

  Lie stopped, tail wagging.

  “Go, I said!”

  Lie turned around and walked maybe 100 yards toward home. Once my father’s back was turned, though, he reversed direction.

  “No,” my father yelled with a hateful tone that said he meant business.

  He wasn’t being cruel. We didn’t know if we had enough food for the people in our group, much less a dog. Besides, we couldn’t take the risk; Lie’s barking might give us away.

  I watched as Lie turned and trotted back down the hill. It wasn’t long before I saw him bounding up the trail once again. I guess he thought we were off on some great adventure, and he wanted to come along.

  My father didn’t yell this time. “Keep going. I’ll catch up with you in a moment.”

  I can still see Lie standing there, that excitement on his face as if to say, Let’s go hunting!

  That was the last time I saw Lie.

  My father stayed quiet for a long time after he rejoined our group. I couldn’t bring myself to ask right then, but I knew what he had been forced to do.

  Even now, after all these years, I miss that dog.

  As we headed deeper into the jungle, we had to walk almost single file. I didn’t remember the trails being so narrow on the hunting trips I’d taken with my father. Then again, we’d never taken the entire village with us before.

  Two men led the way. One carried a torch made out of strips of bamboo tied together. The other used a machete to clear the undergrowth.

  Night fell. I couldn’t see anything except the fire far in front of my family. I stayed in line by holding on to my brother’s shirt. He held on to my mother, who held on to the person in front of her, and so on, all the way up the line to the man with the torch. Children too small to walk rode on their mothers’ backs in slings called hlaab nyas.

  We’d walked a short distance into the dark when I stepped on a rock, cutting my foot. A short while later, I tripped over a stick that cut my other foot. More rocks. More sticks. Blood ran out of both my feet. We came upon a dead tree. I climbed up and over it. I didn’t see the thorns lying on the other side until my feet landed on them. I struggled to pull out the thorns with one hand while holding on to my brother with the other.

  Tree frogs’ croaking echoed through the jungle, louder than I’d ever heard. Off in the distance, monkeys howled. Other animals chimed in. The darkness closed in around me. Fear crept down my spine, while pain radiated up from my feet and through my legs.

  Suddenly, the blackness of the night turned neon green as a swarm of fireflies danced around me. The boy in me wanted to catch as many as I could, but I didn’t dare let go of my brother’s shirt or step out of line. I kept on marching.

  We didn’t stop to rest until about midnight.

  My body wanted to sleep, but I didn’t let myself doze off. Oh, my feet hurt so bad.

  “What’s the matter, Xao?” my mother said.

  I showed her my bleeding feet.

  She tore off strips from her dress and wrapped them. “This will make them feel better.”

  She was right. My feet felt a little better, until I started walking.

  My father pulled my brother and me aside right before we took off again. “Xay, Xao, when I say it’s time to get going, you must get right in line. Don’t fall behind. It’s too easy to get lost out here in the dark if you fall behind.”

  My father didn’t have to tell me twice. My older brother and I made a pact. We would never leave camp without each other.

  The first rest stop gave me a hint of what to expect during life on the run. My belly ached, and I could hear my brother’s stomach rumbling. All of us were hungry. My father took one of the bamboo thermoses filled with rice, split off a small portion, an
d handed it to me.

  “Thank you, Father.” The portion of rice was a fraction of what I usually ate for a meal at home, but I didn’t dare say a word.

  My father had already made it clear that we had to make our food last for the entire journey, and no one knew how long that might be. “Drink lots of water,” he said to my brother and me. “You’ll need it to keep your strength up.” Then he smiled and walked away.

  Looking back, I realize he wanted us to drink enough to make the hunger pains go away.

  After a short rest, my father said, “Let’s move on. We have a long way to go before the sun comes up.”

  We marched on through the night.

  From time to time, I grabbed a handful of leaves whenever we passed a plant I knew to be edible. The people in front and behind did the same.

  Up ahead, I heard a baby cry. And cry. And cry.

  “Shut that kid up,” a woman said.

  The baby kept crying.

  “You have to do something about that kid,” another woman chimed in. Then another. And another.

  The men didn’t say anything. In Hmong culture, when women argue with one another, the men stand back and let them go at it.

  “I’m trying to calm him,” the child’s mother said.

  I felt sorry for her. I knew how much my baby brother cried on a normal night, and this night was anything but normal. Other babies had cried throughout the night’s journey, but they’d all quieted quickly. Not this child.

  “Stop trying and do something. You’re going to get us all killed,” a woman said so loudly that any Communist soldier within half a mile would’ve heard her.

  “Give it some opium. That’ll quiet it,” someone else said.

  “Yeah, opium. That’s a great idea,” another said.

  The mother pled, “I can get him to settle down without opium. Just give me a minute.”

  “We don’t have a minute. If you don’t shut that kid up, I will,” a woman said, and to me it sounded like a threat to do more than give the child opium.

  Finally, my father had had enough. “Cut it out. If you women don’t stop arguing, you and your families will have to go your own way. I will not hesitate to split us up just to get away from your constant bickering. You’re worse than any crying child.”

  “But the baby won’t stop.”

  “Give the mother time. She’ll get it quiet. But I’ve had all of this arguing I can stand. It stops now.”

  The women fell silent for a time, but I feared the worst was yet to come.

  Even though my father didn’t approve, many of the parents used opium to keep their children quiet. Some of those children were never the same. Ever.

  Neither were many of the adults from my village. The argument over the crying child frightened me, not because the baby might give away our position but because of what I saw in the people. I was aware that the stakes were life and death. I understood how we could be caught at any moment. Even so, I never expected to see these women, people my parents had taught me to respect, behave with such venom. Here we were, risking our lives to escape soldiers who wouldn’t hesitate to kill us, and yet one crying child pushed some within our own group to the brink of committing murder.

  I now understood that simply surviving the jungle would not be enough. Not if it meant sacrificing what should never be sacrificed.

  7

  Two Tournaments, One Prize

  I had two options for getting into the World Series of Poker main event.

  The first was to build up my bankroll over time until I had the $10,000 to buy a seat. Whenever I finished in the money in any tournament or cash game, I always put half the money in our family’s savings account and the other half into my poker bankroll. My entry fee for my first few tournaments had come out of the 5 percent of my paycheck that I set aside each week. After about six months, I had enough in my bankroll for my poker hobby to support itself. My wife was very happy about that.

  As my bankroll grew, I played in bigger tournaments with larger buy-ins and payouts. By the start of 2007, I’d built up more than $5,000, which meant, theoretically, I was halfway to a seat in the main event.

  However, I would never in a million years spend $10,000 to enter a single tournament. I am a businessman, and from a business perspective, it makes no sense to risk $10,000 in a tournament with over 6,000 entrants from around the world. In a tournament where fewer than 10 percent cash out, you have to be very lucky to win no matter how good you may be. Even if I had $100,000 in my bankroll, I would never risk $10,000 on one tournament.

  That left me with only one option in my quest to make it to the World Series of Poker main event: I had to play my way in.

  I entered my first qualifying tournament on the last Saturday of January of 2007 at the Pechanga Resort & Casino. I knew the place well. I’d played my first tournament there. Since then, I had become a regular at its Saturday tournaments, especially those with low buy-ins. The World Series of Poker qualifier had a $225 buy-in, which was nine times the entry fee to my first tourney in 2005. In my first attempt to make it to the main event, I didn’t do well.

  In February, I went back to Pechanga and tried again. I fared a little better, making it all the way to the final table, but that was as far as I got.

  In March, I finished second, which gave me hope for April. Unfortunately, in April I busted out early.

  That left May as my last chance to win a seat.

  Saturday, May 26, 2007, Memorial Day weekend, was the last Saturday World Series of Poker qualifying tournament of the season. I left the house early to make sure I got a spot.

  I decided not to drive the three or four blocks to the casino where I’d tried and lost four times already. To be completely honest, I’d spent so much there already trying to qualify that I didn’t really want to have to lay down another $225.

  Another nearby casino, Lake Elsinore Hotel & Casino, also featured a main event qualifying tournament with a buy-in of only $110. As I said, I’m a businessman. If I can save $100 and still win a seat to the World Series of Poker, I will make that deal every time.

  At Lake Elsinore I’d played many Saturday tournaments and knew many of the players. This time I also saw a few new faces. Players came from all over Southern California with the same dream as mine: Vegas.

  I knew this was my absolute last chance for the year to make it to the World Series of Poker, and I had to play my best. Stay focused; be disciplined; do not lose your patience, I kept telling myself. Don’t beat yourself! Wait for a good hand; then pounce.

  About half an hour into the first round, my first chance came. I drew pocket jacks. I made a modest raise before the flop, one just large enough to determine whether someone had a larger pair than mine. Anyone holding pocket kings or aces or even queens would have raised.

  All but one player folded, and he merely called.

  Very good. Slow play these jacks, and let the pot build.

  The flop made my hand look even better. No queens. No kings. No aces. I don’t remember all the cards, but I do remember that the dealer turned a nine. Even if someone paired the nine, I had this hand won.

  In poker, the sooner you push other players out of a hand, the better. If you have a chance to take a pot before the flop, you do it. More cards on the table represent more chances for someone to get lucky. I didn’t want to take that chance.

  The first to act, I said, “I’m all in.”

  The other player in the hand had a chip lead on me but not one so large that he would risk his tournament with nothing higher than a nine on the table. I knew he would fold.

  “I call,” he said.

  The moment he turned his cards, I felt sick. He held pocket nines, with a nine on the board. Three nines always beat two jacks.

  I had to get lucky on the turn or the river and draw to stay alive. The dealer didn’t waste any time laying the turn and river on the table. The jack didn’t come.

  Not only had I not won a seat to the World Series of
Poker, but I was one of the first players to bust out.

  I stood, took off my glasses, and shook the player’s hand. “Good luck to you, my friend.” I said it with a smile, though inside I felt absolutely ill. I am not a patient man when it comes to meeting my goals. Baseball fans may say, “There’s always next year,” but I didn’t want to wait another year. I walked outside, disappointed and more than a little mad at myself.

  When I got to the car, I looked at my watch. That’s when it hit me: If I don’t hit any traffic, I actually have time to get to Pechanga before their tournament starts.

  I normally don’t play more than one event in a day.

  I decided to make an exception.

  Thankfully, traffic was light on Interstate 15 that Saturday morning. I exited onto Highway 79, which was also the exit for my home. As soon as I pulled off the freeway, I started having second thoughts. Do I really want to risk another $225? I’ve already lost over $100 today. That’s enough.

  Up ahead was the traffic light where I had to make the difficult decision. I could go straight through the light to get home. But if I don’t turn right on Pechanga Parkway, I thought, I’ll have to wait a whole year for my shot at the main event.

  I turned right.

  I made it to Pechanga with a few minutes to spare. Including me, 188 players entered. Of the $225 entry fee, $25 went to the casino and the rest went into the prize pool, giving us a total payout of over $37,000.

  Since only those who make the final table cash out, making it there would make this a profitable day for those who wanted to merely finish in the money. I was not one of those people.

  After falling flat earlier in the morning at Lake Elsinore, I played the first few hands at Pechanga tight. A tournament this size demands patience, not reckless aggression. Although I always play to win, I knew gaining the chip lead right out of the blocks wouldn’t guarantee anything. In Texas Hold ’Em, you can go from the chip leader to busted flat in a matter of only one or two hands. I knew it from experience.