The first time I heard ESPN commentator Norman Chad make a wise crack about a player’s pocket kings, I thought it was really funny. The next time, I wondered if he were talking about me.

During the network’s coverage of the 2007 Main event, there was coverage of a hand in which a player got all-in pre-flop with two kings against his opponent’s pocket jacks. Before the dealer spread the flop, the player with kings uttered what quickly is becoming the phrase du jour for a player who gets his money in good:

“Come on, hold up one time!”

Chad, as is his style, deadpanned this response: “He’s NEVER had pocket kings hold up?!”

Both quotes, taken literally, are funny, and I laughed out loud at Chad’s one-liner. When I saw the same hand replayed the next week, it wasn’t so funny. That’s because after one bad recent run at limit hold’em, I was persuaded that it was, in fact, possible to never have pocket kings hold up.

Fortunately, I folded the kings each time when there was clear evidence I was beat, which is the moral of this story. A lot of the thanks goes to Lee Jones, whose “Winning Low Limit Hold’em” is a great refresher of some of the basics.

I’ve been fired up about limit hold’em ever since reading Howard Lederer’s groundbreaking text on the game in the Full Tilt Strategy Guide, but a few reminders of the fundamentals from Jones have improved my game as well. Just little lessons like making sure you get out when you’re behind no matter how unfair it seems, and that money not lost buys as much as money won.

I needed those words of wisdom on this night. I sat down at a local casino/resort’s card room relaxed and happy to be there after a night of helping out at my employer’s fund-raising gala at one of the resort’s event centers. I had a winning sports bet from the casino in my pocket worth $100 and $60 cash in my wallet. Perfect … exactly $20 big bets for the $4-$8 hold’em game, which happened to be the biggest one they were spreading on this slow night.

I got into the game and quickly realized this was your garden variety, call-everything, no-discipline group of low-limit donkeys at vowed to not play like them. I saw – and played – very few quality hands for the first hour or so, sitting back and picking my spots. I flopped a few big hands in multi-way pots and added about $60 before the kings – and the trouble – started. I had received kings once already and folded them to a bet and a raise on an ace-high flop.

We were six-handed for quite some time before three new players sat down; one kid about 21 years old with a crew cut and a T-shirt who looked and played as if it were his first time while, of course, claiming to be an expert and raising or re-raising practically every hand. The other two were a couple that came form the same gala that I attended; well-dressed, early 30ish, and the dude, an arrogant preppy sort, fancied himself as someone who knew the game while his date admitted she had never played before. She sat right down and was dealt a hand while her boyfriend coached.

I had run so bad for so long that I was just about to cash out my modest win and call it a night when, on the button, I picked up two black kings and the young punk, who was under the gun, already put in a raise. He had a caller, and I re-raised when the action got to me. We ended up capping the pot pre-flop, but I knew from the way this kid played and the goofy grin on his face that I had him crushed, and he capped the pot for no other reason than it seemed like fun.

The flop was terrible for me – 3-5-6 all hearts – and Young Punk led out at the flop and was raised by his first caller. This is where the Lee Jones lesson came into play … forget the fact that neither of these players belonged in the pot to begin with, that’s irrelevant at this point. The important thing is that there is clear evidence that I was beat already, or close to it, and it was time to get out. The turn produced another heart and eventually the Young Punk turned over the ace of hearts (he had A-10 off-suit) and the caller had trip 6s on the flop and lost to the flush. I got out at the right time.

You could say I didn’t do the same on the next one, although it’s debatable. This time, the newcomer to the game limped in and her boyfriend raised. I again found the two black kings in late position and re-raised. Slick, as we’ll call the boyfriend, capped the pot and the flop came down 8-2-2 rainbow. Girlfriend checks, Slick checks, and I bet. She calls, and Slick raises. I know I’m still ahead of Slick. He must have J-J or 10-10 and think it’s good. Girlfriend? She probably has rags and just doesn’t know any better. I re-raise and they both call.

Turn card is a seemingly innocuous 7. Girlfriend checks, Slick bets, and this time I decide to just call. That’s when our newcomer, a lovely blonde who just now sat her glass of chardonnay on a coffee table so she could really pay attention for the first time, asked the dealer the most agonizing question I have ever heard at the poker table.

“Am I allowed to raise?” she inquired politely.

Raise?! It made me sick, not because she didn’t know the answer, but because I knew the answer and what it meant. This couldn’t get any worse. Now, I know Girlfriend has me beat, but for some reason she just calls the turn and I watch as a 3 hits the river. This time Girlfriend bets and Slick … raises! OK, my pocket kings have officially bludgeoned me against the ropes enough for one hand and one night. Although my hand seemed magnetically drawn toward the muck, my mind had a hard time letting them go.

But after a mental tug-of-war, there they went for the third time, this time face-up, which is something I rarely do. But t was sort of cathartic to show what I was laying down. Girlfriend just called Slick’s raise, which we will chalk up to her inexperience – she could only be beaten by quad deuces – and she turned over 8-8, having made 8s full on the flop. Slick turned over 3-3 and made 3s full on the river. It should be noted that Slick re-raised me pre-flop and on the flop drawing very thin, but little did I know that it was Girlfriend who I really needed to worry about.

With my bankroll for the night almost gone and my faith in the poker Gods severely damaged , I almost left before realizing it was my big blind and I had about $20 behind. Everyone folded to an early-position raiser and I looked down at the 6-8 of spades. The raiser was tight so I figured my hand would play well against his range so I called.

The flop came down K-J-5 with two spades and I checked. I lost my heart to check-raise in this spot because for one, I was running low on chips and two, something told me he wasn’t going anywhere regardless. The turn was a non-spade 4, giving me a gutshot to go with my flush draw. Again, I check-called hoping for the best on the river. When it came a blank, I check-folded and I figured the $8 I saved would buy me a cocktail to help wash away the memory of the worst run of pocket kings in poker history.

But before I could leave, the raiser to whom I had just donated the last of my chips flipped over his hand. As a courtesy, I suppose. Of course, he showed down pocket kings and, although he had no idea how many outs I had against them, it was proof they are capable of holding up.

One time.