Maybe you caught Darvin Moon on ESPN last week. No, never heard of him? You'd probably like him if you're the type that wants homespun, aw-shucks people to do well, whatever their pursuits -- even gambling.

Moon's journey to a $5.2 million second-place finish in the World Series of Poker made him a mythic American folk hero of sorts, with The Washington Post chronicling his every step as a card-playing Paul Bunyan. Mr. Moon is a real-life, big-bellied, trailer-home-living logger from Oakland, Md., who gained access to Texas hold 'em's biggest event by winning a tournament at Wheeling Island Hotel-Casino-Racetrack.

In the $10,000 entry-fee World Series in Las Vegas, he went up against nearly 6,500 other poker players -- many of whom are professionals or indulge in a zillion games a day on the Internet -- and he beat all but one. And he didn't complain at all about finishing second.

"It don't bother me one bit," he told the Post. "It's only money. ... Am I sad about it? Am I depressed? Hell no."

Mr. Moon gained admirers when he spurned cash from all kinds of sponsors who wanted him to wear apparel endorsing them. Unlike professional players, he can't fathom traveling the world to play and discuss poker. He doesn't have a computer, or even a credit card.

Though friendly as could be with the other eight players he sat down with at the World Series of Poker's final table, wishing them all well throughout, he now intends to go back to working in the woods in Maryland's rural panhandle. There, he'll be playing cards with his buddies like regular folks do.

The young man who is the actual World Series of Poker champion is every mother's dream come true -- maybe especially if mom works as a card dealer in a Detroit casino, like Ann Cada.

Her 21-year-old son, Joe Cada, was the one who knocked out Mr. Moon, and won $8.5 million in doing so. The youngest World Series of Poker champion ever only gets half the money, however, because he guaranteed half his winnings to gambling acquaintances who put up his $10,000 entry fee.

The boyish-looking Mr. Cada seemed a nice enough fellow himself on television. He's a college dropout -- a community college dropout, at that. The moral of the story, apparently, is not to waste time with education if you've got natural math skills and gambling aptitude to support yourself well without a diploma.

This one win wasn't anything to tire Mr. Cada of poker. He'll keep playing in tournaments, which is fine with his mother and his father, who is laid off from his automotive job in Michigan.

"We wanted him to get his education first, but when he started doing good [at poker], we wanted him to follow his dream," Ann Cada told The Detroit News. "He loves it. How many people can say they love what they do?"

Maybe the next Darvin Moon or Joe Cada will come from Pittsburgh, once the Legislature and Gov. Ed Rendell settle table games issues and we all start practicing in poker rooms at the local casinos. Pittsburghers excel at everything, after all -- and don't make us go down the whole Johnny Unitas, Gene Kelly, Andy Warhol, etc., list to remind you.

So it should come as no surprise that one of Las Vegas' greatest gamblers ever was Pittsburgh-bred. He was former casino owner Bob Stupak, a poker-loving native of the South Side who learned much from his father Chester, who was well-known for running illegal gambling halls around Pittsburgh.

The tallest building shown in Las Vegas postcards, the Stratosphere Tower hotel-casino, was built by Mr. Stupak, a colorful and crazy showman who personified old Vegas instead of its new corporate image. He became famous for stunts such as a $1 million Super Bowl bet and agreeing to donate $100,000 to the United Negro College Fund in return for a chance to play with the Harlem Globetrotters at Madison Square Garden.

It's hard to imagine such a character enjoying life for long in Pittsburgh, where statues are made instead for the humble Fred Rogers-Richard Caliguiri types. But Mr. Stupak certainly made sure Pittsburgh had a role in Vegas, where he died of leukemia at age 67 on Sept. 25.

A lengthy obituary quoting public officials there noted his sense of both vision and mischief were legendary. And, by the way, there was a Stupak statue -- he put it in the Stratosphere himself.

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