Seven tables-seven arenas of high tension.
Not just anywhere-no, in Spielbank Berlin, that glittering poker palace at Potsdamer Platz, where the lights are so bright they can even hide the ugliest bluffs.
The dealers, cold as judges in black robes, dealt the cards. And right in the middle: Bob Hanning, the Füchse boss, with a grin that said, “I’ve already won before the first card flies.”
The players:
- Dejan Milosavljev, who usually blocks balls like a berserker, trembled before every all-in like a deer in the headlights.
- Lasse Bredekjaer Andersson, Danish killer instinct in person, counted chips like goals-and won them just as mercilessly.
- Nils Lichtlein, the youngest, called “Bluff!” every other hand and would have lost his shirt if it had been for real.
Around midnight, the last three survivors of the poker round stared at each other like wolves in a snowstorm. Not for money-no, they played for prizes. And in Berlin, even that was a fight to the death. And then there was a man who played as if every chip was a move in the Champions League final. And won. Of course.
In the end, it was more than “just” a poker tournament: handballers turned into gamblers, and the casino at Potsdamer Platz became their personal Colosseum.