The Poker Masters Invitational: A Tradition Unlike Any Other

Under the soft glow of the overhead lights and the reverent silence of poker’s Amen Corner (aka the river), the 2025 Poker Masters Invitational unfolded like a Sunday back nine at Augusta—full of drama, heartbreak, and a touch of chaos.

In the end, Columbus-raised AKA 2025 National Champs Go THE OG ShullTrain channeled his inner Jack Nicklaus, turning back time and delivering a vintage performance to claim the coveted title. With laser-focused reads and a chip stack as solid as Hogan’s bridge, ShullTrain navigated through Riker’s Island and an army of dirty girls in a rowdy, no-holds-barred heads-up battle that felt more like Rae’s Creek than Butler Cabin. Calm in the storm, OG secured the green jacket (or at least the poker equivalent: unchallenged bragging rights and a stack of fresh bills).

Wheel  spun into a strong 3rd-place finish but had to bail faster than a Sergio backswing—called away for a game show taping. The wheel never stops turning, and apparently, neither does his schedule.

Jiffy wasn’t just slinging chips—he claimed Best Hand of the Night, a thing of beauty that would’ve made even Ben Crenshaw tip his visor. Think eagle at 13, but with pocket rockets and a flopped full house.

Brian Solo, marching in from the sacred city of GREENsboro, played with the efficiency of a seasoned caddie, grinding his way to a respectable 4th place cash. With that payout punched, he adds fuel to his epic journey to hit all 30 MLB stadiums this year. Some chase cards, others chase baseball meccas—Solo does both.

In 5th, the pride of the Southside, Paul Craddock—known alternately as Chipper, Ryan Klesko, or Southside Sports Book—played steady, strong, and just unpredictable enough to keep the table guessing. He hit greens in regulation all night, but a bad beat on the back nine ended his run just shy of glory.

As for Jiffy (again), Directa, NolaBridge, Canada Ted, and Daddy-O—let’s just say they were tariffed for participating without importing any cash to their stacks. The customs agents at the final table took one look at their chip counts and waved them through with a “better luck next year.”

Meanwhile, first-timers were properly initiated with a classic tradition: smothered, covered, and humbled at the local Waffle House. Nothing says “welcome to the tour” like hashbrowns, heartbreak, and a few replays of misplayed hands.

As the chips were raked, cigars lit, and laughs shared, it was clear: this wasn’t just a tournament—it was a tradition. And like the Masters itself, every swing (and every shove) mattered.

 

Until next year… grab your jackets, prep your bluffs, and don’t forget to tip your waitress at the Waffle House.