It’s 92 degrees and radiating promise at the Encore Beach Club in Las Vegas. It is Elite Eight Saturday and I’m being absorbed into a faceless, ageless crowd of skin and seekers. All sexes, races, and creeds are melding together in a trance-like state of bacchanalian bliss and this group is emphatically answering the question of what to do about the finite nature of man’s existence: we fucking party.
I am in town as a member of a 15-man bachelor party crew. A cliché, I know. The bachelor, an old college friend of mine, escaped the horrors of the Northeastern winter and is finding solace in the desert. Perfectly timed with one of college basketball’s biggest weekends – the Sweet 16 – all systems are go. The house music is pulsating and hypnotic with repetitive choruses and relentless bass. Five Asians are simulating an anilingus orgy on a pool couch. A group of seven bikini-clad model-employees are riding a miniature float, stopping at cabanas to douse willing participants in $8,000 champagne baths. Two cabana doors down a blonde is giving a performance similar to what I’d seen in the window of an Amsterdam sex parlor when I was 16.
I imagine it like this every Saturday, weather flown in special to create the illusion of Eden. Nothing in Las Vegas is as it seems. But at this moment my guard is down. I am basking in the city’s brilliance and enjoying this playful oasis for the soul.
The subtle power of this city is that it makes you think you can have it all. It seems attainable. And at this moment we have it in our grasp.
“Waiting for…”
“Waiting for…”
“Waiting for…”
Nearly 300 miles west of here Arizona and Wisconsin are lining up to play a legacy game. This battle isn’t just for a trip to the Final Four and a shot at decapitating Kentucky. This is a revenge game that will define a period for these two programs. They had battled in an epic Elite Eight contest just one year ago, with the Badgers winning in overtime. Now the Wildcats are hell-bent on settling the score, again favored and focused in California.
This game, despite its gambling and archival import, is further from our minds than it should be. Seven girls and four $1,800 bottles of champagne have just been added to our tab. The specter of sex keeps the guys sharp and focused. Just not focused on this game or the early wagers we placed on it.
Wisconsin is focused. They lay waste to Arizona, winning by 10 and in a game that was really never in question. I curse myself for sitting this game out but I felt it was the tightest matchup of the weekend. The Badgers have been an absolute wrecking crew for two years and their cold, calculated dissection deserves more appreciation than it is receiving from this glossy-eyed group.
Several small winning tickets are strewn about. But at that moment all I care about is the beat and the water. And finding a waiter that would run into the book for us so we can double-down our position on Notre Dame. Or, it’s even easier to use uk casino to make your bets!
“Get out of your head.”
“Get out of your head.”
“Get out of my head.”
The Hammer is our de facto leader and gives the absolute fewest fucks of anyone I know. For the better part of this decade he’s been an executive at one of the most powerful and profitable financial institutions on the planet. Calm and cool, he is one of the least entitled most successful people I know. His father passed when he was a boy. And that cold, hard Truth has shadowed and fueled him since. “We could all die today.”
Myers and I would later conclude that we could’ve built a school in Kenya for the amount of money we would collectively blow this weekend. I suppose the joke is on us. But such are the green blood cells that keep pumping through the veins of Vegas. Feed the beast and it will love you. We are basking in its good graces.
In the throes of our Saturday binge I think of a line a friend uses, facetiously, whenever things are going too well: “I wonder what the poor people are doing today.” We’re all just one bad beat away. And the minute you lose that Fear is the minute Truth swallows you whole.
There is no fear here. And The Hammer throws a quick smile as the words fell out of my mouth as a brief, comedic aside. Even quicker he had me in a one-arm clutch. “All They say is that They want it to be ‘fair’,” he says intently. “Well this is it. This is the fairest it has ever been. You have things. People want to take what you have. It is human nature and it’s survival of the fittest.
“This is as fair as it has ever been. Ever.”
“Why are you my clarity?”
“Why are you my clarity?”
“Why are you my clarity?”
As a professional gambler and handicapper I can only mock the concept of fairness. Of course things are not fair. They never will be. We’re governed by complete and utter fucking chaos. Any attempt to find meaning or order is an admirable path to madness. But that’s the job. Predict the unpredictable. Find certainty amidst confusion. And turn it all into cold, hard cash.
I have been on this suicide mission for nearly a decade. In the past two years I’ve survived the birth of a son and the death of a brother. I have not flinched. But this winter, finally, cracks began to show. A two-month cold spell through the heart of this interminable winter, the crux of the gambling season, was both the cause and the symptom of my fraying nerves. I was burnt out. And this trip was as much to purge my soul as it was to see my friends. I needed to remind myself that while Chaos can be cruel it is also impartial. It was time to let go and move forward. With purpose.
The first wager I placed this weekend was Friday. Duke (-5) over Utah in the Sweet 16. The first bet in Vegas is always crucial. It’s a tone-setter. I calculated this wager to cover my flight and hotel room. And a loss would be early enough in the weekend for me to rebound and recover. Or, at worst, it would serve as the catalyst in a hellish weekend chase sequence into the ninth circle. The only way out is through.
I was surrounded in the sportsbook at the Wynn watching the final minutes. Duke’s 11-point lead with 2:40 to play had been whittled down to just a six-point advantage with 1:36 and then 36 seconds to play. The vibe was still upbeat. But we were on dangerous ground. I have relived this Sisyphean nightmare more times than I could count. The stench of a cruel backdoor cover was in the air, even as they traded free throws. It was a five-point game with 15 seconds to play and Duke in possession. Turnover. The air in the sportsbook froze, but quickly thawed as Jordan Loveridge’s 3-pointer fell harmlessly aside and into the arms of Duke point guard Quinn Cook. I felt relieved to escape with a ‘push’.
However, Fate was not satisfied with a ‘push’. And what happened next was unlike anything I’d seen in the thousands of basketball games in my career. Duke had rebounded the miss and held on for the final 9.9 seconds. The buzzer sounded. Both teams walked off the court. But then, inexplicably, the officials dragged both clubs back out, put 0.7 seconds left and awarded Duke two free throws.
No one could quite figure out the why. But everyone in that book knew the what. A confused Cook missed the first and the pro-Devils crowd was on edge. But he sunk the second, giving Duke a spread-covering six-point win. That shot shifted hundreds of thousands of dollars from the pockets of The House to The Players and the room erupted. Things like this don’t happen for us. It always seems to swing the way of the books. This was madness. And we loved how unfair it could be.
“Don’t believe me, just watch.”
“Don’t believe me, just watch.”
“Don’t believe me, just watch.”
Six o’clock is closing time at the Beach Club. We pay two workers $100 to carry a $250 case of Heineken back to our salon suite at the Wynn (house rules) for the second half of the Notre Dame-Kentucky game. The 1,800 square feet provide safety and time to regroup. We stretch out, smoke marijuana wax, drop Molly, and enjoy the final 20 minutes in relative peace.
I had been warned before the weekend that everyone was looking to me to provide college hoops winners. It is the same expectation that follows me wherever I go. I’m not a goddamn fortuneteller. And with each passing second I am more and more checked out from this season. But none of that mattered. It is my duty. And I am up for it.
I had chosen this Notre Dame-Kentucky game to make a stand. My analysis was simple, “Fuck Kentucky.” While I admit a grudging respect for the way this Wildcats team plays I have held firm that this team is woefully overrated and overvalued in the college basketball betting market. Laying 11 points to one of the few capable opponents they have faced this season – especially at this moment, with these stakes – was ridiculous. My brevity and boldness on the subject did not engender a lot of faith from my cohorts. But enough of them were on board to create some stakes.
We watched, giddily, as Notre Dame kept a stranglehold on the game. They were attacking Kentucky and the unbeaten Wildcats were on the ropes. I had seen this look from Kentucky before, however, in Baton Rouge and Athens. They escaped each time and I had the suspicion that they would do it again. Despite a 15-point cushion for my wager I couldn’t relax.
Entering the final television timeout our bet is safely in hand. The 11 points will hold and it was more easy money. But I am bloodthirsty. I don’t just want to win the bet. I want to win the game. I’m lustful for a historic exclamation point. It is a whiskey- and pride-fueled fervor, and I stomp and yell through the final fruitless minutes. I can see the Irish are going to choke. It’s all over their faces. And I angrily predict each of the last six possessions, from missed shots to missed opportunities, as their potential upset bid fizzles out.
Alas, it was not to be. Notre Dame’s effort and near-miss will be lost to Time. So it goes.
“I wanna get crazy.”
“I wanna get crazy.”
“Let’s just get crazy.”
The mood in the room was contented as Kentucky cut down the nets and we counted up our winnings. But like the 38-0 Wildcats, the sun and drugs are still undefeated. And they are closing the gap on us. A change of venue is in order. So after more weed wax and the healing power of the shower we hitch a ride to Fremont Street and turn up the weird.
Fremont Street is Old Vegas. It is a sweaty simulacrum of electric eccentricity and curiosity. These people are seekers too. The gawking crowds and deal-diving tourists are so desperate to see and feel and meld with Authentic Vegas that they don’t realize they have become the props in each others experience.
The low-limit craps tables at the Golden Gate had been a profitable respite for The Hammer, Myers and I on Friday night before a foray to the strip clubs. It seems like a logical place to unleash the beast again. The street’s electro-dome and Bon Jovi cover band absorb our party and inject some life. And a couple hours of community gambling and free alcohol provide ample cover until we make our next move.
Eventually, key members in the tribe dutifully steer The Bachelor toward the seedy strip club next door. It was an obligation, seeing as the Molly was hitting him will full force. I have little interest in getting my pockets picked and the local desperation is sticky enough as it is. I don’t want to leave. I want to stay and be part of The Show. However, knowing when to walk away isn’t an option in these parts. It’s a survival instinct.
“One more time.”
“One more time.”
“One more time.”
The Hammer and I barely have time to settle the fare before Myers fills a garbage bin outside the Cosmopolitan with dark-shaded vomit.
Myers, a jovial, hulking partier from New York, is responsible for a multi-million dollar healthcare business in the western states. He’s rallied from worse. Less than 10 minutes later he is handling his second vodka-rocks while I thumb wrestle strangers for cigarettes and harangue them about super powers. The Hammer is moderately amused but calls for backup from the second half of our group that wasn’t trapped on Fremont.
Las Vegas is still as busy at 4 a.m. as most major cities are at 10 p.m. The casino is teeming with possibility and hordes of people simultaneously dry humping The American Dream. It can be as disorienting as 26 straight hours of drinking and drugs. Eventually a Cuban man ambushes us. We chat and he explains that he’s only been in this country for seven months and Las Vegas is the only part of America he has ever been. My friends tell me later he could have been a male prostitute. Regardless, we talk baseball, a Cuban passion, and spend a drink talking about how Yoenis Cespedes will fit in Detroit and how the White Sox are overrated despite the brilliance of Jose Abreu.
Major League Baseball Opening Day is April 6. And from the chandelier bar at the Cosmo I can’t figure out if that is eight or nine days away. I’ve been in a self-induced gambling coma since August; eight straight unyielding months of spreads and stress all being washed away. But like the Vegas vibe in the early hours the gambling carousel never ends. It never slows down. “Buy the ticket. Take the ride.” And it only ends when you find the courage to quit.
“Bounce”
“Bounce”
“Bounce”
“Bounce”
I wake at 10:18 a.m. with half of an Italian sandwich strewn across the unused portion of the bed and the television screaming at me about Jesus. Or wrinkle cream. I am suddenly slapped with the reality that airport security will soon have its way with me. I lost my license on Friday and my halfhearted attempts to reclaim it on Saturday went unrewarded. My plans for a late flight and easy morning have been thwarted by my own stupidity.
A text awakens my phone: “My boy wants to toss $500 on a long bet in baseball what u got? Any long shot World Series picks?”
I rise and do some recon within the room. Time to go. Fortune smiles on me in the form of an empty taxi stand line. And on my way to McCarron I send Myers a few recommendations for MLB season win totals – I like the Pirates ‘under’ – and try to explain that the difference in degree of difficulty between World Series futures and season win totals is like the difference between hitting a free throw and nailing a half court shot.
My metaphor mix goes unnoticed. But it seemed apropos as we transition from one season to the other. It is spring. It is time for baseball. The ride continues.
I feel grateful to survive another Vegas weekend, albeit a nondescript one, with my dignity and bankroll still intact. These 48 hours are a blur. The future approaches calmly and is clear of the reckless weight of expectations.
The sun is shining and I don’t think I’ll die today.
Robert Ferringo is a professional handicapper at Doc’s Sports Service. Doc’s is recognized as one of the leaders and most trusted names in the sports handicapping industry since 1971 you can read more tip and stories from Robert Ferringo at www.docsports.com
*This Post Was Guest Authored By Robert Ferringo*
