The reason poker has become so famous in the past three years is simple: One good run of cards can make you a wealthy celebrity. The problems with this get-rich-and-­famous-quick plan, especially as it pertains to the World Series of Poker (WSOP), are two in number and can be expressed as follows:

1. Poker has become so huge that, to win a tournament, it takes a lot of luck in addition to cardsharp skill. In 1971, the WSOP's final Texas Hold'em championship had six entrants. This year, it had 8,773.

2. Las Vegas = distractions.

Despite these obstacles, my poker buddies and I - collectively we call ourselves the Batfaces because individually we are unbelievable dorks - took a WSOP trip to taste the riches and fame other "amateur" players have experienced in recent years. This is our sad tale, offered in a diary to help you find a better path toward poker renown. Because you couldn't chart a worse one than ours.

WEDNESDAY H H H H H H H H H H H H
On the cab ride to Caesars Palace, an unbelievably literate and insightful French cabbie questions me about poker. "Vut is the seengle­ most eemportant condition, or should I say, character-eestic, of a good poker player?" he asks. "Aggressiveness," I say. He nods. Clearly,­ he has me pegged as an idiot.

I'm staying in the new Augustus Tower at Caesars, one of five hotel towers that surround the casino. It's gorgeous, with clean modern lines and retro-cool colors. I send cell-phone photos of the sweet digs to my jealous friends, most of whom will arrive tomorrow.

Even though I've been up since five a.m. and it's now near midnight, I decide to meet a friend of ours, a blogger covering the WSOP (which comprises 45 events over more than six weeks) and who shall go by the name Dantana. (All names have been changed to protect the Vegas-y aspects of the trip.) It's being held at the Rio All-Suite Hotel & Casino Las Vegas, which is off the strip. The line for cabs is long, so I decide to hoof it to the Rio.

This just in: Walking a mile in a suit at midnight in Vegas along poorly lit sidewalks, away from the bustle of downtown, toward railroad tracks and highway overpasses, with about $950 in your fancy pants, is not smart. The blisters and fear will last for days.

I find Dantana, who directs me toward the area in the poker room where I can play in a few satellite tournaments; these are one-table tourneys in which you can win money to be applied toward full-­tournament buy-ins. (The big WSOP tourney we're there to play in on Friday costs $2,500 to enter.) Unfortunately, the cards don't fall my way. That, and I play horribly. I blame the blisters, the French cabbie, and my decision to drink water. I'll make none of these mistakes Friday.

THURSDAY H H H H H H H H H H H H H
"Fame sometimes hath created something of nothing."
- Thomas Fuller

Despite what the quote above suggests, often your typical overnight-success story results from years of practice and patience; providence plays its part, but you want to leave as little to Lady Luck as possible. That means spending as much time as you can training for your Big Moment. In this case, 36 hours is as much time as possible. Giddy. Up.

I play in more satellites as, one by one, my crew arrive at the Rio. I am cultivating what is known in the poker world as a good table image. You want players to think you are more thoughtful, mature, and serious than most people in the card room are. You can accomplish this simply by not acting like a spoiled, whiny moron, which is how 42 percent of all poker players you encounter act. So I bring a rock-solid demeanor and a $12 pair of sunglasses I picked up at 7-Eleven. But they don't help, as my pocket­ queens fall to a jack and a five. (Attention poker geeks: I will not be getting into detailed hand discussions in this article, though I would obviously love to and often do nothing but.)

A lawyer friend, TBR, arrives with several other Batfaces. TBR fancies himself the best poker player in our group and takes the game very seriously, which makes him unbelievably easy to mock. He finished in the top 160 of more than 5,000 entrants in the big WSOP Hold'em championship in 2005, and he likes to remind people of that constantly. Also, he's been playing in a game with rich lawyers lately and, in June, had won more money than I made my first year out of college (that was in the '90s). However, in the two weeks prior to our trip, TBR had managed to lose more money than I made my second year out of college. To say he arrives bitter and angry is to say that Céline Dion is slender. To help matters, we stand behind him and giggle as he goes down in satellite after satellite. It's what friends do for each other.

Before rendezvousing with the Batfaces, I was asked to dinner by a public relations manager and a marketing manager with Caesars so they could reiterate to me how awesome my awesome digs were. I put on a different nice suit and sauntered into the very posh restaurant at Caesars named Guy Savoy. Men with accents swarmed, and I was given a sparkling water and escorted to wait for my party in another room. A few minutes later, a very apologetic waiter approached.

"Zir, I eem so sorry. You are in zee wrong restaurant."

See, they apologize to you even when you're the doofus who can't get his restaurants straight. That's just good service.

I sprinted downstairs and through the casino to the equally magnificent Bradley Ogden, where I was directed toward two stunning young women sipping martinis at the bar.

I was determined not to let their appearances disrupt my professionalism. After all, I was there on behalf of this magazine, for work reasons. Which is why, during dinner, we discussed the new marketing push for Caesars (upscale); the trendy nightclub Pure, across the casino; and the stellar reviews on the new Augustus Tower, where I was staying. And which is also why I won't discuss the ill-timed text message from my fellow Batface, Big Todd, that asked, "Is she hot? Is she hot?" Because that would be juvenile. Just as it would have been if I'd secretly texted "Duh."

Instead, I will say only that the French wine we consumed was sublime, the gazpacho and king salmon were moan-inducing, and our dessert - a fantastic cheeseboard, some sorbet, and a scoop of blueberry cobbler - was abfab. I should also mention that, after we'd finished a glass of port, I made the gentlemanly offer to my dining companions to come meet the gang.

They smartly declined.

We are to meet at Fix, in the Bellagio.

I smile as I approach the hostess. "I'm with the quiet table," I say. She smiles and waves me toward the screams coming from the center table.

Our leader is a man I'll call High Roller,­ whom I introduced to you more than a year ago in a tale of our group's trip to play poker in Tunica ("The Real Deal," March 15, 2005). He is the managing partner at a law firm. He speaks in a thick Southern accent and is smarter than you could ever hope to be. He is 20 years older and 30 times cooler than any of us.

High Roller arrived at Caesars at about five p.m. and headed toward his room. This may or may not have been to stow his satchel­ of cash, something I heretofore thought existed only in spy novels and Edward G. Robinson films. In the elevator, he happened upon two very young women, the sort most men find intimidating to talk to. High Roller has no such problem. The lasses­ told him, "We're from Lubbock, Texas!­ It's our first time in Vegas!" High Roller told them they should come to dinner with some "fellas your age" who can "show you the town." At this point, according to unnamed sources at Caesars, the guys in the security control room witnessing this exchange high-fived each other and bowed down before the image of High Roller.

So, sitting here with a dozen or so middle-aged amateur poker dorks are two women with long hair, sparkling eyes, and active MySpace accounts. This is insane.

I don't have long to contemplate the scene, though. Within minutes after I sit down, both women (one brunette, one blonde) get up and leave. Yep, still got it.

Hey, I was doing us a favor. Hanging out with beautiful young women isn't our scene.

What is our scene? That's right: the $10 craps table at Barbary Coast Hotel and Casino! We end up there until three a.m., drinking banana-flavored spirits and leaving the sorts of messages on hometown answering machines that prevent you from ever running for office. Go Batfaces.

FRIDAY H H H H H H H H H H H H H H
We all assemble at the Rio for the noon start of the $2,500 no-limit WSOP event, which means you start with $2,500 in tournament chips. I'm seated at what we call a soft table. No one is overly aggressive, everyone plays by the book, and I'm able to steal a few blinds in position, play tight, and keep my stack between 2,100 and 2,700 for a few hours. Then I'm moved to another table (this happens often throughout all tournaments) and seated next to poker pro Bill Edler. Great guy. We bond a bit, discuss poker and his hometown of Chicago. Late in the day, just before I'm about to move again, I get two queens. A gentleman with two tens goes all in. I put all my chips in, and I'm a huge favorite in this situation. But another ten falls on the flop, and just like that, after several solid hours of play, I'm gone. Done. Edler tells me I played well. I don't want to hear that. I want to stay mad.

Other Batfaces are doing well, though. The youngest of our group, Zachary, is sitting between two big-time pros, Todd Brunson and Joseph Hachem (winner of last year's big event). Zachary wanders over to me between hands and says quietly, "I'm killing those wimps." Now, there's the aggressiveness you need for victory.

There is an uproar at another table. I run over there. It's another Batface, a former golf pro we'll call Tiger, putting all his chips in against one of the best-known professional players, Men "the Master" Nguyen. Nguyen thinks for a moment and calls. He has a pair of aces. Tiger has nothing. He's done. But, like a lot of amateurs, he's almost giddy that he got taken out by a big-time pro. He probably should have reread Nguyen's quote from 2003, in which I've substituted one word: "I came to this country with empty hands. Now, I got everything I want. All I need to do is say, 'Call, Raise, Call.' And [Batfaces] give me their money."

Hours pass (spider rolls + White Russians = about seven hours). By one a.m., we're watching Zachary, the last Batface left, try to make it to the final 100 or so participants, meaning he will be "in the money." After a few more screams and yells in the poker room, we're ready to break with the 96 people left out of the 1,290 who started the day. Zachary is one of them. Even though it's now past two a.m., when he finds out cards don't go back in the air again until three p.m. Saturday, Zachary declares, "Time to party." Gentlemen, let's get ready to stumble.

We walk back into Caesars to play craps and talk poker with the one member in our group clearly headed for glory and riches.

Then, we hear an unfamiliar female voice scream at us.

"Oh my gosh!" she says. "It's the Bat guys!"

And that's when the girls from Lubbock reappear.

I'd like to go into details about the next three hours - but I have to save something for the gossip pages when I finally win a poker tournament and become famous. So all I can say at this point is, "Go Batfaces!"

SATURDAY H H H H H H H H H H H H H
Three and a half hours after I fall asleep, I roll downstairs and find much of the crew, in heroic fashion, already up and gambling. We'd all been invited to play in the blogger tourney by Dantana. It is to begin at 10 a.m. I peek inside the poker room at Caesars. The line of bloggers is huge and unkempt. Picture the kids who thought Anthony Michael Hall was a god in Sixteen Candles. Now picture them at age 23 and buying into a no-limit poker tourney. Right. Horrifying. I decide to pass. All agree except for Summertime, another Batface, who thinks this is his best chance at poker glory during the trip.

The rest of us find the breakfast buffet and set records in hog fat consumed before noon, local time. Summertime quickly regrets his choice. "Worst decision ever," he texts us. "Sitting between guy with Gorgon breath and girl who just introduced herself as Jane100."

We head back to the Rio, where Zachary's tournament is about to restart; at three p.m., he is seated, and our large crew sweats him. While we wait, we play in some more satellites. I sit down, and in the first hand, I'm dealt pocket aces. Now, that's the kind of luck you need to get famous! I win nothing. Then I'm busted out five minutes later. I contemplate jogging back to Texas.

By the time I get back, Zachary's run is unceremoniously over. He busts out in 50th place and wins more than $9,000. A fantastic feat that makes us proud. But no one ever signed an agent for placing 50th. My goal - that one of us should end up on TV, become a household name, and give financial support to all of his friends - seems far-fetched.

This is the way it goes in Vegas - and in poker. It all seems to be going well, the bright lights and big chip stacks making you think you're on your way to notoriety and sweet coin. Suddenly, it's yanked from you, and you realize that the height of your experience involves random girls from Lubbock and men who call themselves the Master.

Still, it's many hours until my flight home, so we decide to play in the seven p.m. Caesars no-limit tournament. It's not a WSOP event, but it's poker, and it will help pass some time as I contemplate my failed Las Vegas trip.

There are more than 140 players in our evening tournament. I am tired, I am irritable, my Vegas trip is failing, and I figure I'll get unlucky soon enough, go to bed, and be done with it.

Then, an amazing thing happens. I play well. I never get unlucky. I somehow put it all together. I make the final table, I am second in chips, and I help broker a "chop" (meaning we all split the rest of the winnings), which nets each one of us almost $4,000 - even the three guys who tell the Caesars person filling out our tax forms that they are undocumented immigrants.

After I collect my winnings, it's almost three a.m. We play casino games until the sun rises, and then I head to the airport. As I sit at my gate, legs akimbo, head bent over, fast asleep, a line of drool connecting my mouth to my right kneecap, my last conscious thought is that I'm finally a poker star.