I’m not a bettor, so I have a less than perfect (OK, almost no) knowledge of the history of sports betting in this country. I’ve read some 1920’s era nonfiction about and novels set in New York City, so I know about bookies. That’s it.
For me, sports betting is like a technology, like blockchain, that I simply don’t get and never will—like I have never understood the difference, if any, between a mole, a molecule, and an atom. I can still remember bits of “The Waste Land” and know enough not to quote any here.
And yet, and yet…I have a gut feeling arising from a 25-year-old experience: I was drudging away at AIG, stressing my way to my 1998 angioplasty and stent, and I joined an AIG office pool on the year-end football bowl games. Why not?
I forget what I put in—I suppose $5 or $10. I picked my choices to win the bowl games, turned it in with my money, and went back to reviewing advertising that offended so many regulations that it was to weep. You get what you pay for, and AIG’s salaries were low. Hey, quod erat demonstratum!
This was well past the days when the bowl games carried some class, relevance, and could catch your attention. Remember? I think the Bluebonnet Bowl played on New Year’s Eve. Otherwise, it was just the Sugar, Rose, and Orange. And the Liberty Bowl in Memphis, the Tangerine Bowl in Florida. Eventually the Peach Bowl in Atlanta arrived. And then the Fiesta in Arizona somewhere. A team had to be pretty good to get invited to a bowl game.
But by the time I had plunged into the pool, there were at least 20 games. In the current disastrous state of just about everything, every college with a winning record gets a bowl invitation.
I have no memory of the games that year. Probably Boston College played someone as alien as Texas A&M, and either Michigan or Ohio State would lose in the Rose Bowl to Southern Cal.
I did watch the scores and think, hey I’m not doing so badly. In the event, I picked the last 14 in a row. I had won—or was one of a couple of winners, I think. It’s a little odd that I wasn’t all that surprised or happy.
One guy was definitely unhappy: His name was something like Ken Butz. He had curly ginger hair and the slender but strong build of an athlete. Maybe he worked in IT, the mark of shame in our company.
I’m old enough now that I remember two guys who looked like that, but I don’t remember how I knew the first Ken Butz, whose name was assuredly different.
Is that happening to you? Have you lived in enough places, worked in enough offices, to begin to confuse people now with people in your past? I’ve lived in West Virginia, Florida, Alabama, North Carolina, Delaware, and Washington. I have a high school degree, a B.A., an M.F.A., and a J.D., I’ve taught at two institutions of higher learning, and had five jobs in the legal industry. You know everyone in those contexts looks absolutely alike.
Ken Butz appeared in my office door and asked, his frown sullen, “You Jarecke?” At least he pronounced my name correctly. He had come to pay me off, yet he had expected to win. He took a thick wad of cash out of his pocket and counted it off—I think it was $75. No more. Maybe $50.
This is how well I remember that moment: I would bet my life that Ken Butz was wearing a short-sleeved polyester shirt, white with blue stripes, and a tie.
I remembered because I had just won the first serious bet involving money I’d ever made.
Oh no, shoot, I just remembered.
During my last summer while teaching at Auburn, I took a drive to visit my birthplace, Morgantown, West Virginia. On the way back, I stopped in Lexington, Kentucky, to visit a fellow, Brad, I’d palled around with while getting my MFA in Greensboro, NC. He taught me to have fun; he wouldn’t go buy groceries without pot and beer in the car. We played basketball during thunderstorms, then drank shots of Stoli to ward off pneumonia.
After college, he married and moved to Kentucky, where he was a reporter for a newspaper. So, why not, I stopped in on my way back to Alabama. One afternoon we went out to Churchill Downs. Yes, THAT Churchill Downs. I knew so little about it that I was surprised that someone held races there other than the Kentucky Derby. We watched a couple.
Then when a new group of horses came out and walked around, a black horse called Savage Love caught my attention. As a Scorpio, I felt a kinship with that horse. Also, that horse was a horse of a horse, enormous and powerful looking. Considering it now, wouldn’t that possibly make the poor thing slow?
Nevertheless I bet on Savage Love to win. And wouldn’t you know it, that sumbitch beat everyone by three lengths.
I presented my ticket and collected $38. I remember that, in 1981, that bought the three of us a Chinese dinner. Well, that’s $118 in today’s money.
I’ve never bet the horses or other sports again. A rational person would say, well, ahem, you should indeed quit while you’re ahead.
Having read this blog, you know better.
I am itching to do a little sports betting now that it’s a real thing. Oh but the warning labels!
People get addicted to gambling. It’s a regressive tax. It can sunder a family like opioids or alcohol. The only good thing about it is that states can render unto themselves huge revenues—though again, like the lottery, on the backs of those least able to afford it.
I don’t have this personality, but I understand the rush, the risk, the highs and lows. But I don’t need no more highs and lows, especially the latter. I’m marking on a calendar how long it’s been since I’ve been suicidally depressed, and we’re getting onto three weeks.
But there is also the promise, of “The achieve of, the mastery of the thing.” (Gerard Manley Hopkins, “The Windhover”, 1914.)
For instance, I had a friend who once admitted that he walked down the sidewalk gaming out blackjack hands.
It used to be that if someone told you, I’ll give you Oregon and 3 points, I’m pretty sure it meant that Oregon had either to win or lose by three points or less before you would collect. That is, Oregon would either have to win or the score had to be Oregon St. 37, Oregon 36, 35, or 34 for you to win. (A recent opponent, Oregon State, would have to win by five for a bet on them to win. At four, no one wins (now the bookies would post it at +3.5). I would have taken Oregon on those terms this year. And lost, if the line contained that fractional element. Oregon St. won by 4.
OK, I don’t know much of anything about pro football. I know baseball most intensely. But bet on what is going to happen any particular night? I’m a Mets fan, and the Mets have great pitching. But am I going to bet money on whether this or that particular pitcher is going to have his best stuff? Or even if he does, will he hang a curveball the way I used to do and give up home runs? Fuck and no.
College football is similarly unpredictable: what is this or that 18-year-old going to choose in his undeveloped and concussed brain to do at this or that minute? What about the 18-year-olds on the other side? That’s just the beginning. Too many variables to bet on that stuff, for sure. I lost my bet on Oregon up above after all.
Yet I can’t help remembering how I picked those 14 college football games in a row. It was pure intuition.
So let’s have at it! In this year’s college football playoffs, Michigan is favored over TCU by 9.5 points. I will fucking take that. Michigan is enormous, and they owned the second half against Ohio State in their big game and Purdue in the conference championship.
And yet, and yet, TCU’s quarterback, a fellow called Duggan, is a winner. He willed his team into overtime against Kansas State in their conference championship game.
Georgia is favored over Ohio State by 7. What are the bookies smoking? Georgia’s defense is better than Michigan’s, and Ohio State couldn’t score on Michigan in the second half. I’d take Georgia by 10 and put a large sum of money on it.
If you wanna make a bet, leave it in the comments. Minimum bet $50,000. Otherwise you can fuck right off.
And yet…and yet…Oregon vs. Oregon St.
Oh well. I have a lot of books on hold at the library. And, this winter, the memory of the button-up cardigan I wore in my too-cold office at AIG. That cardigan is a metaphor, you dig?
[Editor’s note: Though a noted Scrooge, Mr. Jarecke insists on taking a couple of weeks off, with pay. As his work is unpaid, this is a demand of no moment. He claims that he and his wife and daughter are going to Palm Springs on Christmas Day. Originally the plan was San Diego, to which he said, Pass: been there, done that, and too many Republicans.
[Then Kate and Nancy proposed Palm Springs, which is sort of an iconic place from the 1950’s and 60’s culture. If you hear a report that one of the Rat Pack has reappeared—Joey Bishop, Peter Lawford, Frank Sinatra, or Dean Martin—it’s just Mr. Jarecke hoisting a Manhattan at a pool. Obviously not if you hear about Sammy Davis Jr. as Mr. Jarecke is way taller. He seems to think that the Rat Pack hung out in Palm Springs, but only Mr. Sinatra had a house there. Otherwise the Rat Pack was a Vegas phenomenon. Anyway, Mr. Jarecke thinks those dudes must have made a few bets. Happy Holidays!]
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