Posted: Saturday July 9, 2005 3:58PM; Updated: Sunday July 10, 2005 2:29PM
Oliver Hudson and Brad Garrett (pictured) suffered the same fate: knocked out on the first day.
Ethan Miller/Getty Images
It has always been such, but it must be especially cool to have been Goldie Hawn this past Friday.
Your daughter, Kate Hudson, 26, is off reprising the Band Aide role she played so well (receiving an Oscar nomination) in Almost Famous, but now in real life: her husband, Chris Robinson, and his band, The Black Crowes, are currently touring with Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.
Meanwhile your son, Oliver Hudson, 29, is about to play in the main event at the 36th annual World Series of Poker.
By the way, Oliver and Kate are the children of Goldie and musician Bill Hudson. For about ten years, I've found that the Hudson Brothers reference gets me nowhere.
Am I the only person who remembers the Hudson Brothers' Razzle Dazzle Show? (Crickets chirping).
Sigmund and the Sea Monsters, anyone? Anyone? H.R. Pufnstuf? Hello?
Poor Oliver. You're Goldie's son and you know the cameras are going to find you on Day 1B of the WSOP. So what happens? On the very first hand, just shortly after 11 a.m., you get knocked out. It was like watching the 1986 Mike Tyson-Marvis Frazier bout all over again.
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The worst hand in poker is the second-best hand -- and that's exactly what Hudson had.
Hudson, according to a friend who was there at the ungodly Vegas hour of 'before noon', was pulled into a heads-up, all-in confrontation versus noted pro Sam Farha (it was Farha who, two years earlier, was bluffed out of a potential WSOP bracelet by then-unknown Chris Moneymaker in the 2003 main event; Farha finished second). Hudson had a good hand: full house, tens full of aces. Farha had a better hand: full house, aces full of tens.
To be fair, I have my own embarrassing story involving Goldie, and in an act of compassion toward her son, I'll share it.
Five years ago, I attended a convention on sports and the Internet in Santa Monica. Goldie was there. I screwed up the nerve to approach her and ask why, but I got tongue-tied.
"This is John Walters," I said, extending my hand, "from Sports Illustrated." (followed by the inner voice saying, "You idiot!" and the Farley-esque hand slap to the forehead).
Goldie was gracious. Barely even acknowledged the doofus comment, except to give me a smile that said, "Don't worry, it happens all the time."
Final Goldie reference: SI's Adam Duerson, writing in SI On Campus two years ago, described Dallas weather in early January as being not unlike Goldie: "Could be 35; could be 60."