CHAPTER ONE
LET ME tell you about the bets.
I work as a paralegal in a Wall Street firm. Every Friday morning they pay me $447 and every Friday night I bet four hundred of it on a ball game. If I lose, I go the next week on the rims. But if I win—and I win a lot—I take on the town.
Here’s the system: All week I mull over the matchups, and by Friday one or two start feeling like winners. Friday after work I buy a Foster’s Oil Can at the deli across the street and start the long walk up the East Side to Adam’s Curse, my home bar, where my bookie Toadie waits on his stool. I go over the games, weigh the angles. Nothing too scientific in my method. I’m partial to hot pitchers, even on the road, and I steer clear of the big favorites. Pick them and you have to give away two or three runs to Toadie, runs that always seem to come back in the late innings and bite you in the ass.
Just last month I had the Braves giving three against San Diego. They coasted into the ninth up 8–2. I had the money counted already and was spending it in my head on the blonde at the jukebox. Had the restaurant picked out, the wine, was holding the cab door for her, telling the driver my address, thinking I’d give my roommates a little treat, maybe even put them in the mood.
Then, bam! The rookie that Cox trotted out to pitch the ninth walked the bases loaded, Joyner unloaded them with a shot into the upper deck, and just like that the bet, the date, a week of fun down the toilet, and Toadie clapping me on the back, saying, “Tough one, kid.” That’s one of two phrases he knows. When I win he says, “You were born lucky, kid.”
Tonight I’m going with the Phillies on the road over the Cards. Schilling starts for the Phils and he’s on a big-time roll. It’s an even game, too, so I don’t have to spot Toadie any runs. Just the usual four bills once I’m in the door. Most bookies don’t need the cash up front, but Toadie works the low end of the betting public, and he won’t issue a stub without the dough in his pocket. He’s not much to look at, Toadie. The same combat pants every day, a sweatshirt over his gut, and a brown rug on his bowling-ball head. Coke-bottle glasses that make his eyes bug and lips stretching out of his face like—you guessed it—a toad. A money belt around his waist for the stash.
I don’t think I’ve ever been in Adam’s Curse when he wasn’t drinking bourbon and taking bets. He’s worked some deal with the owner, Stella, who’s in tight with the cops. He can afford to slip her ten percent or so, I’m sure, because Toadie takes down the regulars pretty good. In a year of betting, though, he hasn’t made anything off me.
Tonight he’s in his usual spot and grunts in greeting as I walk in.
“I’ll take the Phils,” I tell him, counting out four hundreds into his palm.
I take a seat at the long oak bar and let out a breath. The sweet release I get handing over the money is the best part of the week. Five days to earn the bread, to agonize over the pick, and ten seconds to put it all on the line. Now my work is over and I’m like a priest who quits praying and leaves the rest to the man upstairs. It’s out of my hands.
Betting all you have cleans the system. Spend enough time in the office I work in and you start to think the point of life is to stay on an even keel all the time. Just today, our receptionist Kay passed around a sign-up sheet for a stress-reduction program the partners are touting. That’s a big theme around that place—avoiding stress.
Me, I think they have it all wrong. I think we need to jack up the old ticker sometimes, like a car needs to get onto the highway and go full out once in a while. It’s good for us.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for computers and cash machines. But let’s face it: a lot of modern life isn’t exactly out there on the edge. How many times do you feel your heart in your chest these days? Your first night with a girl, maybe, sprinting From a mugger, I guess, or if the Knicks make it to the finals. But that’s about it. Work? I’ve been there a year now and I don’t think my pulse has topped forty yet. That’s why I bet. I mean, it’s for the bucks too, sure, but not only. Betting it all reminds me I’m alive.
I guess I should have been around twenty thousand years ago. Back then, nobody had to go out chasing thrills. They had all the excitement they could handle just staying alive. Look at the caveman. He could pretty much count on jacking up his heart rate a few times a day. If he wanted to eat he had to kill some beast with two-foot fangs. That’ll get your blood moving. Then there were invasions to repel, the harsh elements to battle, and one wild animal or another set to pick him off if he dropped his guard. Sex, too. It must have been tough enough charming some Jane back to the cave with grunts and hand signals, but if he did win her over, there was always some brute with a club on him ready to knock our boy out of the picture.
Now we’ve gone all the way the other way. We move paper around the desk all day, order in from a deli, and rent a movie with our squeeze at night. If we have a squeeze. But that’s another story.
I just shake my head at these tea hounds who live on the safe side all the time. I can’t imagine never gambling on anything. Never risking the last dollar; the hangover, the slap in the face. Risk and reward, baby. Risk and reward.
These few minutes before game time all the crap in my life drains away. Stella asks who we’re rooting for this week, pours me an Absolut on the rocks, and I feel myself go empty. At peace for the first time all week. My calm holds through the starting lineups and the national anthem.
With the first pitch comes the rush and I’m off. Living in the purity of the big bet. Feeling the surge one minute, the clutch of panic the next. I take in everything: the ump’s low strike zone, sure to hurt their starter; the wind blowing out to left, ready to give my sluggers a boost; the first sign of fatigue in my pitcher. I feel every pitch in the gut and come up out of my chair for a rally. I talk to the managers.
“Don’t sacrifice. Not here. Show some balls—play for the big inning. No—don’t walk him—they’ll pinch-hit. That’s it, send the runner. That’s it!”
I rock back and forth, swear at the screen. I’m happy. At stake is the good life. Lose and I’m a drone again, kissing ass at the firm, stuck in the pad all week eating instant noodles, just enough money to live on till next Friday. A schmuck like everyone else. But win and I’m the man. Eight hundred bucks in my pocket and six nights to spend it. The first winning Friday of each month covers the rent. The rest of them I eat well, drink well, spoil my date, if I can get one. What more could a guy want?
Tonight the Phillies do me solid. Down 1–0 early, Dykstra, ex-Met and a bit of a gambler himself, doubles in two in the fifth and seals it with a poke in the ninth. Schilling does the rest. Goes all the way on a six-hitter, striking out the side to end it.
“You were born lucky, kid,” says Toadie, handing over the money with a scowl. I count it out onto the bar. I give Stella a high five and settle my tab, throwing in a bourbon for Toadie and a round for the alkies at the end of the bar.
Man, I wish all you christers who rail against gambling could feel the rush of victory just once. You’d come around. As I leave, Stella calls after me.
“You ready for Tuesday night, Tom?”
“You bet.”
MY ROOMMATE is the nicest guy in the world.
