A player named Kostya invited members from our international forum to share the unusual places and circumstances in which they'd played poker.
I remember running through the options in my mind.
Over 15 years of a career of some sort, I'd accumulated quite a few stories, including some quite extreme ones. But I certainly couldn't have imagined that my strangest poker experience (by far) was still to come.
11:00 PM
The stack is pretty decent. I've knocked out a couple of players. The chips are cool, EPT-quality. I wanted to buy a set like this with Frequent Player Points on Stars years ago, but I never got around to it.
The tournament has been going for four hours now, and the reentry period is over. There are about 40 players in the game, 18 of whom will make it into the money. The important stage is beginning, I think.
My phone already contains several pages of notes about what I saw and heard this evening. My opponents and the staff, of course, don't know that I came to the sports poker club on Vasilyevsky Island with an assignment (one I'd devised myself)
I was there to try to figure out what's going on, why everyone is competing for "no money," and why.
What I saw impressed me.
At the beginning of this year, sports poker clubs suddenly started popping up in major Russian cities like mushrooms after a rain. Moscow and St. Petersburg, Yekaterinburg and Krasnoyarsk, Kazan and Rostov-on-Don—and many, many more. It was as if someone had suddenly given the go-ahead—and everyone rushed to open them.
It quickly became clear that this was a very large-scale and in-demand opportunity. Online, you can see where clubs are located in your city, what they look like, and what tournament schedules they offer. The map in Moscow, for example, looks like this at the time of writing:
Judging by the rate at which this movement is spreading, by the end of the year, there will be twice as many (or more) circles on the map. What a brave new world.
Back to 6:50 PM
I walk into the club. I registered for the tournament the day before on Telegram. The maximum number of players is 60, and the day before the start, I was number thirty-something.
The first thing the administrator asked me to do was sign a form indicating I understood the game would not be for real money. I signed and, a few seconds later, paid the 1,000 rubles buy-in.
The first 15 players to arrive received extra chips added to their stacks. At GGPoker, I believe, this is called Early Bird. I didn't make it, arriving 23rd.
– "Here you go, here are your chips. Go to the third table."
– "Which seat?"
– "Yes, choose any seat you like."
Convenient. I head to the third table, of which there are seven in the room. I place my chips, greet the dealer and a couple of my opponents. The game hasn't started yet, so I return to the reception desk.
— "This is my first time. Please tell me, what are we playing for here?"
— "You'll earn points throughout the month for placing in the money and for knocking out players. Then, the top 27 players will compete in the final tournament at a camp outside the city. There'll be a sauna, barbecue, and everything on us. The winner gets a cup."
— "Uh. So, if I came for the first time on May 28th, I have no chance at prizes?"
— "Well, why not? If you win the tournament, you'll receive your choice of prize: either a business-class taxi home or free entry to the next tournament."
A business-class taxi to my house at night will cost about 2,000 rubles. Worth fighting for.
7:30 PM
We're sitting, playing cards, and I'm eyeing my opponents with interest. Almost everyone looks young and intelligent, as if I'm attending a university exam.
In the first box, there's a local regular, Vlad, a nice guy with glasses. He looks like me, only about 10 years younger. He announced right away that this tournament was one of his last chances to compete for the May leaderboard, so he was going to "go as hard as he could." He limped under the gun in the first hand.
His girlfriend, Ksenia, was nearby. She was clearly not new to the game, but she wasn't very familiar with poker—she asked for a card with a list of hand combinations. The abundance of young women was literally the first thing I noticed. Unusual. But it didn't seem to be a miracle—as far as I could tell, everyone was with a date.
I was sitting in the third seat, all curious, looking around, and wearing a GipsyTeam hoodie. During one of the first hands, I got distracted (by notes on my phone, which eventually became this article) and messed up, not posting my blind on time. After that, Ksenia spent the next couple of hours telling me when to post blinds or antes. A kind girl! They were clearly used to newbies there, overall.
Soon, a cheerful man named Nikolai, clearly older than the others and wearing expensive glasses, arrived at the ninth seat. He shook hands with everyone. He was playing poker for what seemed like his first or second time, and he also asked for a hand ranking card. Ksenia was sitting a bit far away from him, so the dealer helped him navigate.
The dealer's name was Denis, a positive, outgoing guy. Honestly, it wasn't until a few hands in, that I noticed something surprising: Denis was dealing cards to himself, too. I noticed it the moment he flopped me.
— "Wow, you play too? I've seen all sorts of things in poker, but the dealer has never led into me before."
— "Yes, all our dealers are players."
— "How so?"
— "I also bought in, just like you. And now I'm dealing."
— "Why do you need this?"
— "We get free reentries for this. If I don't use it, I'll get a free buy-in to the next tournament."
It felt awkward to ask further questions. I decided to catch Denis during a break and try to find out more. It was hard to believe that every day (tournaments are held seven times a week) there are several people in the club who not only know how to deal, but are also willing to work essentially for free.
It boggled my mind.
While waiting for the break, I started watching Denis's hand. He dealt confidently, but it quickly became clear he'd never been a professional dealer. He didn't take the ante to the center at the start of the hand, didn't know the difference between a bet and a raise—those kinds of little things.
Oh, and during the tournament (even at the final table), all players take turns shuffling the second deck while the cards are being dealt. Then the dealer takes that deck from you and gives the other deck to the next player, shuffles it slightly (no shuffling really), and begins dealing. And so on, round after round. Teamwork!
So, it's all true; dealers at the club are indeed unpaid. Frankly, I had a hard time understanding this information.
9:00 PM
Volunteer dealers are increasingly announcing all-ins at all tables, and the blinds have risen considerably. There are over 40 players in the game.
Regular bursts of laughter erupt, then someone's voice (always male, of course) cheerfully proclaims, "Need a rebuy!" One of the organizers is immediately nearby: a bank card, a terminal—and EPT chips are back on the tables. Rebuys are pouring in. I haven't seen a single tournament participant lose a stack, get up, and leave before they could re-enter.
More shouts and laughter from the next table. "I finally got lucky," a man in a cap exclaims, raking up his chips. "Bring the rebuy!" the opponent who lost to him all-in cheerfully rejoices.
Before the break (after which the lay-up ends), I study the tournament information screen: judging by the number of chips in play (over 4 million, starting stack 30k), there were 134 entries. That's roughly three for each player.
Then there were add-ons—either everyone, or almost everyone (including me) made them. The cost was still the same: a thousand rubles (a little under $14). In fact, it seems that this is the base for such clubs now. Everything costs a thousand rubles everywhere.
I wonder how quickly someone will figure out how to take two. Even more interesting is how soon after that everyone will start taking two.
The final phantom prize pool, by my estimates, was around 180,000 rubles (around $2,450). And this wasn't even a weekend, just a regular Thursday.
Break Time
I find a cooler with ready-to-eat food in the corner (a familiar brand, they cook pretty well). I ordered a carbonara and took it up to the bar to pay. "Can I help you heat it up?" The bartender is friendly and chatty. We introduce ourselves—Marcel has been there since it opened (that is, for two and a half months now).
— "So, how are you enjoying your stay with us?"
— "Nice. Are there always so many people?"
— "Are you kidding? Is that too many? We opened with five tables at first, but so many people wanted to play that we quickly had to set up two more. On special occasions, we bring out an eighth. There it is, folded up against the wall."
— "Wow, this game is popular?"
— "Yes, we sometimes have 70 people signed up for a tournament, and another 20 on the waiting list. Most of those currently in the room are regulars, coming several times a week."
— "Cool. Do dealers really work for free?"
— "Why free? We give them entrance to tournaments and any drink from the bar every 2 hours."
— "And there are always people willing? Even when there are seven tables?"
— "Yes, always. If one of the dealers drops out of the tournament or simply doesn't want to deal anymore, a replacement is found—or one of the organizers takes over. My bar partner, for example, often deals."
— "Fantastic."
— "Is this your first time coming to play?"
— "The first one, yeah."
— "Have you ever played poker before?"
Here I notice that the break is over – I nodded confusedly to Marcel, quickly finished my beer, and hurried to the table.
I didn't have to rush, though. I already had enough material for this article (in my head and in notes on my phone), and I could have easily quit and gone home. Or just gone straight home, throwing away my stack. The EV, frankly, was low. But of course, I didn't quit. The chips were there, I had to play.
I just shuffled the red deck next to the button. To the right is a card with poker hands.10:30 PM
The atmosphere in the room hasn't changed much since the break; everyone's still having a relaxed time. There are 30 players in the game, on three tables. Vlad is eliminated, but he's standing behind Ksenia, looking at her cards and whispering advice. Of course, no one objects; this is clearly the norm here.
And so on and so forth: one player calls a raise, the neighbor (who folded) reaches for his cards, looks at them, and winces dramatically. The player in the hand launches into a tirade: "What the hell are you doing? What kind of poker face is that? He's grimacing, but I'm actually playing."
He laughs in response; they're clearly friends. A minute later, at the showdown, it will be revealed that the hand that broke the man's poker face was suited.
The dealer displays a remarkable feat: he simultaneously manages to run the game, participate in it himself, munch on nuts, and smoke an e-cigarette. Then he deals himself a cooler against a young woman, vs . He hands over his stack without any visible emotion, says goodbye, and heads for the exit. His place is quickly taken by one of the bartenders—just as Marcel promised me.
Meanwhile, nearby, the organizers open a new table: a 10-max SnG for those who were eliminated. First place, of course, earns points for the leaderboard. Interested players are quickly found, and the floor girl quickly makes her way around them with her terminal. The buy-in is, of course, 1,000 rubles.
Midnight at the Final Table
We're taking photos, and play continues. The last remaining dealer deals. The structure suggests it's going to be fast: ten-handed, we have 6.8 million chips, blinds are 50k/100k, and the average stack is under 7 big blinds. The limps, however, haven't stopped—and now people are limping with beautiful shiny plaques, like the ones I was given at the final table of a BPT tournament 10 years ago.
I'm not writing about limps to offend my opponents, of course—God forbid—but I just want to point out that what was happening at the tables was almost nothing like poker as we know it. I recorded a few funny hands, but ultimately decided not to include them in the article; there was simply no point. Of course, no one knows how to play, but that doesn't seem to be a problem. People came to have a good time, and the hands—well, what's the point?
I was the only one, like a fool, reflexively counting stacks, choosing sizings, figuring out ranges (or trying to), and doing other nonsense that's completely unheard of within these walls.
And yet, I felt… nothing. There were no prizes at stake, so the outcome of the hands and my "tournament life" were of no interest to me at all. Sitting at the final table and not feeling the slightest bit nervous—that was truly a completely new experience.
1:00 AM – Heads-Up
My opponent and I had 12 big blinds between us, then the bartender/dealer dealt a cooler, and we couldn't win.
My opponent let out a joyful cry of victory when he saw the river—and I was actually glad I didn't win the tournament, in case he'd been just as upset. The organizer came over and took a photo of me "for the ratings."
Then the winner was given a nice photo with cards and chips—and, apparently, a business-class taxi was called for him, courtesy of the house. The tournament was over.
Reflecting on the Evening
On the way home, I tried to somehow piece together everything I'd seen. Throughout the evening, I felt a strange mixture of irritation and confusion. It was as if I'd been in a perfectly understandable and familiar place, but somehow everything there felt wrong. The cognitive dissonance. Where did it come from?
Let me start with the obvious. For someone who once connected their life with poker, it's still very strange to see organizers collecting 180,000 rubles worth of buy-ins in one evening (not counting SnGs, plus there's also the bar profit) and then paying out nothing. Yes, I remember the finale in a country house with a sauna and barbecue, but simple math tells me the RTP (return to player percentage) hovers around 3% at most.
On the other hand, I can argue with myself. People are willing to pay for events and all sorts of pleasures without expecting a positive ROI. They attend tests and study, pay their fees, and then the winners receive diplomas. Or at a shooting range, they let you shoot a pistol for $70, and you don't expect to get double that for hitting a couple of bull's-eyes.
Maybe that's the way we should think about things here, too? People were given a great time, tables were set up, chips were handed out, a tournament was held for them, and the bar was stocked with beer. Everything was fair and transparent, with no cheating, and you even had to sign a form before the game started.
For us, the GipsyTeam website and forum, poker is associated with making money, a potential career, learning, grinding, stats, hijacks, and lowjacks. But those who frequent these "sports poker clubs" simply sincerely think it's such a cool game. It's interesting, varied, and has a natural dynamic. Chips are a joy to hold. Coinflips are fun. Scoring points on the leaderboard is exciting.
Maybe there's no problem at all?
But, There Is a Problem
I don't really believe the arguments above. Poker isn't a quiz or a shooting gallery. Poker is a game for money.
Its very essence and nature lies in the fact that you can win and you can lose. And it's not that we're all crazy regs living in some marginal, mercenary world. Two amateurs who can barely tell a king from a queen MUST also play against each other for money (any amount, even pennies), otherwise it's not poker in the traditional sense. "Sport poker" does something blatantly unsportsmanlike to our game—it takes away the chance to win and leaves only the guarantee of losing.
I have no complaints about the organizers (they've struck gold, they're working honestly, customers are queuing—congratulations), nor, of course, about the players (good for them). But on the last Thursday of May, for the first time in many years, I felt the pain I felt in 2009, when live poker in Russia was shut down at its peak. And what future it could have had is perfectly illustrated by this sudden "sports poker" boom in mid-2026.
It's such a great game that people are willing to pay just to play it. And looking at this, I can only helplessly say: bring real poker back to the people. People want to play it.
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