To truly “get” this book, it helps to be a poker lover. Or, failing that, to have played a fair amount of poker. Or, failing that, to at least have played some sort of card game, sometime, and to know the rules — because this account by a journalist and all-around regular guy of his decision to go for the high-stakes international gold, the Olympics of poker, does have its share of passages that detail specific games, specific gambits, specific things that specific players do. These poker-specific passages are no doubt rip-roaringly funny to anyone who knows anything about cards, because the other parts of the book — the introspective parts and the parts in which Walsh observes the vagaries of human nature — thrum with such bright authenticity that you know the actual card parts’ve gotta be great too, even if you don’t understand the difference between a “wired pair” and a “walker” and, for that matter, a royal flush. It’s a perfect birthday gift or Father’s Day gift for that loved one who’s always shuffling a deck and stacking up the chips. That’s what those flat things are called, right? Chips?