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Omaha Hold’em (also known as just Omaha) is a game that plays similar to Texas Hold’em,
but with a few key differences.
Like Texas Hold’em, the object of Omaha is to make the
best possible five-card hand, using a combination of hole cards and five community
cards.
In Omaha, however, players are dealt four hole cards, and must make a five-card
hand using exactly two hole cards and three community cards. This differs from Texas
Hold’em, in which players get two hole cards, and can use any combination of hole cards
and community cards to make the best five-card hand.
Two versions of Omaha are commonly
played around the world, Pot Limit Omaha and Omaha Hi-Lo (aka Omaha Eight or Better).
The next sections will cover Omaha Hi-Lo. Learn how to play Pot Limit Omaha here.
Omaha
Hi Lo Rules Overview
Omaha 8, also known as Omaha Eight or Better, or Omaha high low
split ('Hi/Lo'), is a split pot game. The best high hand wins half of the pot, and the
best low hand wins the other half of the pot.
Much like its cousin, Pot Limit Omaha,
Omaha 8 or Better involves four hole cards for each player. The object of Omaha 8 is to
make the best five-card high hand, and/or best five-card low hand, using exactly two
hole cards and three community cards. Different combinations of cards can be used by a
player to make separate high and low hands.
It is possible for a player to win both the
high and low portions of the pot--known as "scooping". If there is no qualifying low
hand (five cards below 8), the best high hand will scoop the whole pot.
Omaha 8 can be
played as a limit, pot limit or even no limit game. The most common variant is Limit
Omaha 8 or Better, which is also the variant included in most mixed games. For more on
the different betting structures used in Omaha 8, click on the "Limit vs. No Limit vs.
Pot Limit" tab above.
How to play Limit Omaha 8 or Better poker:
Limit Omaha 8 or
Better uses a "blinds" structure: The player to the left of the dealer button puts in
the small blind, and the player two to the left of the button puts in the big
blind.
The player to the left of the dealer button puts in the small blind, and the
player two to the left of the button puts in the big blind. Each player is dealt four
cards face down, starting with the player to the left of the dealer.
starting with the
player to the left of the dealer. There is a round of betting where each player can
fold, call, or raise. (Action starts with the player to the left of the big
blind.)
(Action starts with the player to the left of the big blind.) The flop (three
cards), a turn and a river are dealt with betting rounds following each.
At showdown,
players must use exactly 2 hole cards to make their best 5 card high and low hand. The
same cards can be used to make a high and a low hand.
The same cards can be used to
make a high and a low hand. A low hand qualifies for half of the pot when it is an
8-low or better. If there is no qualifying low hand, the high hand scoops the entire
pot.
If there is no qualifying low hand, the high hand scoops the entire pot. Omaha 8
or Better is usually a fixed limit game, meaning players can only bet and raise a set
amount - one big blind preflop and on the flop, and two big blinds on the turn and
river. Only four bets may go in on each street, which is why the 4th bet is called the
"cap".
Showdown and Hand Rankings:
The high hand rankings follow traditional poker hand
rankings.
The low hand follows the A-to-5 lowball hand rankings, in which Aces are the
lowest card and flushes and straights don’t count against your hand. This makes
5-4-3-2-A the best possible low hand (and a strong high hand in its own right). The
worst qualifying low hand is 8-7-6-5-4.
Check out this article for some Omaha 8 or
Better (and limit Hold'em) strategy tips.
Note: Are you here just to learn how to play
poker...or do you want to know how to win too? Get this free guide with 10 quick poker
strategy tips if you want to come out on top.
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My mother and I have been playing poker together for nearly twenty-five years. For
Christmas recently, I wanted to give her a gift that encompassed our shared passion. I
hired a bespoke calligraphist to draw something up, all curlicues and gold foil. My
mother peeled open the envelope and pulled out the note. It read, “Merry Christmas,
Mom. This certificate may be redeemed for a weeklong, all-expenses-paid vacation to Las
Vegas, Nevada, andR$1,000 for use at a poker table of your choice. May you always catch
on the river.”
The author and his mother happened to be in Las Vegas at the same time
as the World Series of Poker, the most anticipated poker event in the world. Courtesy
of Ian Frisch
She began to cry. A trip to Vegas to play cards: the one thing we had
always talked about doing together.
My mother learned how to play as a teen, from a
group of guy friends at her Massachusetts high school, and it wasn’t long before she
began playing competitively. She moved to Houston in her early twenties and played
there, too, primarily sticking to underground games. But she stopped after marrying my
father, moving near her hometown, and giving birth to me and my sister, all in quick
succession. My mother abandoned that aspect of her identity in the face of new
responsibilities and for the rewards of family life. But she always stowed a deck of
cards in our junk drawer. She taught me how to play at our dining-room table, a flash
of her former life trickling into motherhood.
The author’s bespoke Christmas card to
his mother. Courtesy of Ian Frisch
By 2000, when I turned thirteen, my father’s tile
business was flourishing. That year, he and my mother finished building a wide-set,
two-story colonial with a sunny kitchen and a deck that overlooked the broad backyard:
their American dream home. Then, eight months later, my father suddenly died—a stroke
on the small yellow couch in the living room. He and my mother had worked for so long
to save up for that house, had managed to secure a mortgage they weren’t quite
qualified for even while he was alive. And now our family had no income.
My mother
realized that the best way she could pay the bills on time was to start playing poker
again. She ran the numbers: She could make more money at the card table than at the
minimum-wage jobs that were the alternative. She reunited with cards like long-lost
best friends—passionately, longingly, both nostalgic and hopeful. She began chasing
games wherever she could find them: inside basements with underground tables in our
area, in regulated card rooms in New Hampshire, at high-stakes tournaments in
Connecticut casinos. She played on weekdays and weekends, logging enough hours most
weeks to count it as a full-time job.
My sister and I supported her eccentric vocation.
Our mother was home every day when we returned from school—a small token of stability
in a household that needed it. Most evenings, she left us at home, but we didn’t mind;
dinner was always waiting for us in the refrigerator, our clothes were always washed
and folded, the house was always clean. Most mornings, on my way out the door for
school, I’d spot the previous night’s earnings spilling out of her purse. The routine
became normal for me. She never spoke to us in such terms, not then, but family
survival was what motivated her—to save the home that stood as a physical manifestation
of her and my father’s upward mobility, to not give up on all she’d accomplished so
far. And she always seemed to come out ahead, each year taking home roughlyR$25,000 in
winnings.
The author and his parents, circa 1988. Courtesy of Ian Frisch
My mother had
first started playing poker for the fun and for the intellectual challenge. Returning
to competition twenty years later, she rediscovered old pleasures. She was playing not
only to make money but also as an emotional escape. At the table, she wasn’t a single
mother without a steady job mourning her husband’s death. It was the only place she
felt comfortable playing the villain, cutthroat and cruel, lying to strangers’ faces
and getting paid for it. “I love having a nemesis at the table,” she once told me. “It
gives me purpose.” To this day, at every table, she picks a player and slowly,
steadily, hand by hand, tries to destroy them.
To some people, poker is just a card
game, a way to pass the time. For me and my mother, it’s a window into our identity,
our way of understanding a world that at times can seem unforgiving. I began joining my
mother in basement games around town in 2003, when I was sixteen. Ever since, poker has
formed a bond between us, a mutual love, a prism through which I can see her not just
as my mother but as a three-dimensional person who carries deep heartache and immense
responsibility. Though it took me years to realize it, I now understand exactly how
high the stakes were each time she sat down at a card table: It was the only way she
knew how to keep living.
She and I played together over the years, catching games when
I visited from college and, after I moved to Brooklyn in 2009, meeting for weekend
getaways to Foxwoods Casino, in Connecticut. By then, having borrowed against the
American dream home shortly before the financial crisis hit—for her, a desperate bid to
buy some time; for the bank, just another line of credit during the
mortgage-backed-securities boom—my mother was struggling to pay her debts. Poker no
longer covered the bills; she stopped paying the mortgage. The dream home’s value
plummeted. Eventually, the bank took it, and she used her nest egg to buy, in cash, a
tiny, very cheap fixer-upper a couple towns over.
The family’s american dream home,
shortly before the 2008 financial crisis that led them to lose it. Courtesy of Ian
Frisch
The loss hit my mother like a swinging hook after the jab of my father’s death.
It crushed me to know that she’d made the riskiest bet of her life—taking that second
mortgage—and lost. When she moved out, I couldn’t bring myself to help. I’ve visited
the house only once since then, in 2024, soon after I began dating my now-fiancée, on a
driving tour of my hometown. I nearly burst into tears as soon as I turned into the
driveway, seeing all my mother had lost.
And yet, as the years passed, we kept making
the time to play cards together. That longing never left us. Poker has been the only
constant in my mother’s turbulent life, and the thing that has kept us close.
My mother
had been to Vegas before—one of her sisters lives there—but this was the first time she
was going exclusively to play cards. To compete. We chose to stay at the Bellagio,
located at the bleeding heart of the Strip, boasting a card room that many players
consider to be the center of the poker universe. After landing, my mother and I took a
cab to the hotel-slash-casino, handed our bags to the bellhop, and looked up at the
thirty-six floors towering above us, all limestone and marble. The humidity hung in the
air like thick smoke. We were drawn inside, as if the building carried its own gravity,
were a planet unto itself.
Coincidentally, the World Series of Poker, the game’s most
anticipated annual event, was taking place at a neighboring casino while we were in
town. We’d planned to stick to the small-stakes tables at the Bellagio, but we decided
to try our luck at one of the Series’ many tournaments. The next morning, we walked to
the banquet hall where the event was being held, each paid aR$500 entry fee, and
entered. Hundreds of players packed the room. The sound of chips clattering on dozens
of tables filled the space. My mother wished me luck, then found her assigned seat
across the room. Maybe it was because we hadn’t played in a while, or maybe it was
because of the intimidating glitz and glamour of the World Series, but we both played
poorly, our stacks dwindled, and we quickly busted out.
The author and his mother,
immediately upon arriving at the Bellagio. Courtesy of Ian Frisch
We licked our wounds
at a small taco stand, boasting about our most beautiful plays—we each had exactly
one—and brooding over our worst, of which there were many. As we ate, she opened her
purse and pulled out two black poker chips, “World Series of Poker” emblazoned on the
front. “You took them off the table?” I asked, shocked. We both knew pocketing
tournament chips was against the rules.
She had. When the dealer’s attention turned
elsewhere, she explained, she palmed the chips and dropped them into the strategically
placed purse at her feet. Her own personal Ocean’s Eleven. She looked at me and smiled
as she reached for another taco. “Our little memento.”
I beamed. These chips were a
tiny symbol of the long and sometimes reckless lengths she’d go to just to create
memories for us to share.
For the rest of the trip, we played every night at the
Bellagio. We fell into a groove; after just a few sessions, we each pocketed a neat
little profit of a few hundred dollars. My mother quickly cemented a reputation—not as
a little old lady, a tourist trying to make good, but as someone who commands respect.
Since my father died, she has carried this ethos of fearlessness, even in the direst of
circumstances. It’s the thing I’ve always respected about her most.
One night, the
author took his mother to a restaurant overlooking the Bellagio’s famed water
fountains. Courtesy of Ian Frisch
One night, I took her out to dinner at a fancy
restaurant that overlooked the Bellagio’s famed water fountains. We sat at a table by
the window and watched the choreographed spurts and the bright lights. She explained
that while things had been rocky for her recently, she’d begun meditating to ease her
internal pain. An insomnia that had troubled her ever since she lost my father—for a
while, he haunted her dreams—had started abating. Through trial and error, she’d found
an especially useful method: She conjured up a large box into which she stuffed all her
troubles, all her regrets, all the things she wished she had done differently and the
things she knew were out of her control. Into the box they went, then she snapped the
lid shut until the next morning, when she awoke to start living all over again.
Just
then something occurred to me. “You do the same thing when you sit down at the poker
table,” I said.
She nodded, still watching the water fountains. “Yes,” she said.
“You’re right.”
Playing poker with my mother has made me realize that life isn’t
anything more than a series of well-timed bets, and that sometimes things don’t work
out and there’s nothing you can do about it. A run of bad cards—during a poker game or
in life—cannot be escaped, only endured.
Which is why our trip to Las Vegas was so
special, so necessary. So much had changed since my father died and my mother resumed
playing poker. Gone were the dreams of small-town entrepreneurship that she’d shared
with my father, and with them the baton of upward mobility. The only thing made real
for her over the past two decades was this: It was a fallacy to think that you’d be
rewarded for doing everything right, that class could easily be transcended, that hard
work and a plan would always pay off. Our trip to Las Vegas taught me that I play
because I want to but she plays because she must. For her, money isn’t the only thing
on the line; in this zero-sum game, her identity is, too.
On our last night in town, we
joined a lively session. Everyone at the table bet big. By 11:00, I was up by more
thanR$1,000 and my mother was close behind. On the next hand, my mother locked horns
with two other players, who quickly raised the stakes as the hand progressed,
culminating with both of them going all-in before the river, as the last communal card
is known, was dealt.
My mother knew that if she caught the card she needed, she’d win.
She pushed all her chips into the middle. “I call,” she said. She turned over her hand:
a king and a ten, both diamonds.
The dealer peeled the river: the eight of diamonds.
Which meant my mother had a flush, the best hand at the table. She jumped out of her
chair, thrust her arms skyward, and yelped with joy.
After stacking her chips into neat
little piles—she’d won nearlyR$600—she leaned over and whispered into my ear, “Just
like you said in your note, honey: ‘May you always catch on the river.’ ” We smiled at
each other, placed our bets, and began the next hand.
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