Televised poker tournaments are making stars in the world of poker. T.J. Cloutier, one of the last real road gamblers, stands up suddenly and reaches across the felt to shake hands. He is done in again, another bad beat in a never-ending series. This time, with only three players left at the Bicycle Casino's Legends of Poker tournament in Los Angeles, he had pocket jacks to the Dot Com Kid's 7s, and all-in -- his chips pushed into one confident pile -- he watches as the young millionaire, a 10-to-1 underdog, nailed a third seven on the turn. The Dot Com Kid, the impeccably dressed Paul Phillips, now has only tournament veteran Mel Judah to contend with for a first-place prize of $579,375. Phillips didn't mean to retire strictly to a life of cards, but these deep-money tournaments, swelled by an explosion of "stationary targets," as Phillips politely calls the amateurs, has made it unlikely he will ever take up golf, as he keeps promising. As he stares down Judah, it occurs to Phillips that the difference between first and second, $285,825, is a lot of money to be playing heads-up for. Poker seems to be nothing more than a form of God's mischief, everybody's belief in math or telepathy or game theory just an invitation to disaster. The treachery of these probabilities, which allow an Internet player like Chris Moneymaker, an accountant from Spring Hill, Tenn., who never sat at a live table in his life, to win the last World Series and $2.5 million, is daunting. But then it sinks in, and you can see it in the crimson flushing cheeks of the Dot Com Kid. Judah's 7-high straight, as improbable as it is, breaks his 6-high. Phillips stares at the table just for a second, both amazed and amused by God's idea of mischief, then reaches across the felt to shake Judah's hand.