Molly’s Game: The Riveting Book that Inspired the Aaron Sorkin Film. Molly Bloom
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The events and experiences that follow are all true. In some places, I’ve changed the names, identities, and other specifics of individuals in order to protect their privacy and integrity, and especially to protect their right to tell—or not to tell—their own stories if they so chose. The conversations I re-create come from my clear recollections of them, though they are not written to represent word-for-word transcripts. Instead, I’ve retold them in a way that evokes the real feeling and meaning of what was said, in keeping with the true essence, mood, and spirit of the exchanges.
I am standing in my hallway. It’s early morning, maybe five o’clock. I’m wearing a sheer white lace nightgown. High-beam, fluorescent light blinds me.
“PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR,” a man’s voice yells—he sounds aggressive but emotionless … I raise my trembling hands and my eyes slowly adjust to the light.
I am facing a wall of uniformed federal agents stacked back as far as I can see. They are armed with assault weapons—machine guns, guns I have only seen in movies are now pointed at me. “Walk toward us, slowly,” the voice commands.
There is a detachment, a lack of humanity in the tone. I realize that they believe I am a threat, the criminal they have been trained to apprehend.
“SLOWER!” the voice warns menacingly. I walk on trembling legs, putting one foot in front of the other. It is the longest walk of my life.
“STAY VERY STILL, NO SUDDEN MOVEMENT,” warns another deep voice.
Fear grips my body, making it hard to breathe; the dark hallway begins to look blurry. I am worried I may pass out. I imagine my white negligee covered in blood, and I force myself to stay conscious.
Finally, I reach the front of the line, and I feel someone grab me, and push me roughly up against a concrete wall. I feel hands patting me down, running all along my body; then cold steel handcuffs close tightly around my wrists. “I have a dog, her name is Lucy, please don’t hurt her,” I plead.
After what feels like an eternity, a female agent yells, “CLEAR!” The man holding me guides me to my couch. Lucy runs over to me and licks my legs.
It kills me to see her so afraid and I try not to cry.
“Sir,” I say shakily to the man who handcuffed me. “Can you please tell me what’s going on? I think there must be some mistake.”
“You are Molly Bloom, aren’t you?”
I nod my head.
“Then there is no mistake.” He places a piece of paper in front of me. I lean forward, my hands still cuffed tightly behind my back. I can’t get past the first line, in black bold letters.
The United States of America v. Molly Bloom
Beginner’s Luck (noun)
The supposed phenomenon of a poker novice experiencing a disproportionate frequency of success.
For the first two decades of my life, I lived in Colorado, in a small town called Loveland, forty-six miles north of Denver.
My father was handsome, charismatic, and complicated. He was a practicing psychologist and a professor at Colorado State University. The education of his children was of paramount importance to him. If my brothers and I didn’t bring home A’s and B’s, we were in big trouble. That being said, he always encouraged us to pursue our dreams.
At home he was affectionate, playful, and loving, but when it came to our performance in school and athletics, he demanded excellence. He was filled with a fiery passion that at times was so intense, it was almost terrifying.
Nothing was “recreational” in our family; everything was a lesson in pushing past the limits and being the best we could possibly be. I remember one summer my father woke us up early for a family bike ride. The “ride” ended up involving a grueling vertical climb of three thousand feet at an altitude of almost eleven thousand feet. My youngest brother, Jeremy, must have been six or so, and he rode a bike without gears. I can still see him pedaling his little heart out to keep up, and my dad yelling and screaming like a banshee at him and the rest us to ride faster and push harder, and no complaining allowed. Many years later I asked my dad where his fervor came from. He paused; he had three grown kids who had far surpassed any expectations he could have dreamed of for them. At this point he was older, less fiery, and more introspective.
“It’s one of two things,” he told me. “In my life and my career, I have seen what the world can do to people, especially girls. I wanted to make sure you kids had the best possible shot.” He paused again. “Or, I saw you all as extensions of myself.”
From the other direction, my mother taught us compassion. She believed in being kind to every living thing and she led by example. My beautiful mother is the most gentle and loving person I have ever known. She is smart and competent, and instead of pushing us to conquer and win, she encouraged us to dream, and took it upon herself to nurture and facilitate those dreams. When I was very young, I loved costumes, so naturally Halloween was my favorite holiday. I would wait anxiously each year, laboring over who or what I would be that year. My fifth Halloween I couldn’t choose between a duck and a fairy. I told my mother I wanted to be a duck-fairy. My mother kept a straight face.
“Well then, duck-fairy you shall be.” She stayed up all night constructing the costume. I, of course, looked ridiculous but her nonjudgmental support of individuality inspired my brothers and me to live outside the box and forge our own paths. She fixed the cars, mowed the lawn, invented educational games, created treasure hunts, was on every PTA board, and still made sure she looked beautiful and had a drink in hand for my father when he got home from work.
My parents parented according to their strengths: my brothers and I were guided by their combined feminine and masculine energies. Their polarity molded us.
MY FAMILY WENT SKIING EVERY WEEKEND during my childhood. We would pile into the Wagoner and drive two hours to our one-bedroom condo in Keystone. No matter what the conditions were—blizzards, stomachaches, sixty below zero, we were always the first ones on the mountain. Jordan and I were talented, but my brother Jeremy was a prodigy. We all soon caught the attention of the head coach of the local mogul team and we began training and soon even competing.
During the summers, we spent our days water skiing, biking, running, hiking. My brothers played Pee Wee football, baseball, and basketball. I started competing in gymnastics and running 5K races. We were always moving, always training to go faster, be stronger, push harder. We didn’t resent any of it. It was what we knew.
At twelve, I was running a 5K when I felt a white-hot pain between my shoulder blades. After a unanimous first, second, and third opinion, I was scheduled for emergency spinal surgery. I had a rapid onset of scoliosis. My parents waited nervously during my seven-hour surgery while the doctors cut me open from neck to tailbone and carefully straightened my spine (which looked like an S and was curved at sixty-three degrees) by extracting bone from my hip, fusing the eleven curved