SATURDAY
I have $47 left in my online sportsbook account—betsharp.com. Last night, at approximately 1:15am, I had $547. That was a few minutes before I came home juiced and decided to put $500 on black in the online casino. I’m up at 9am on beautiful Saturday morning and going for a jog. Then I hit the gym for some weight and fuckin bag work. I quit my bartending job last week to focus on gambling. You see last football season I woke up every Saturday and Sunday morning and bet the games hungover, if not half drunk, and fucked up my entire life. This year I'm going to be sharp, fuckin focused. I am going to be professional. This will be my job.
I sit down at 10:45 and look over the games I picked out loaded last night before I passed out in my Herman Miller Embody chair. I hit a 5 team parlay in baseball a couple months ago and spent it all on this fuckin Embody chair. $1400. It's the best chair on the planet. I fall asleep in it often. I like where my head was at and I take my three best plays and bet a three team parlay—Wisconsin laying 10, Notre Dame laying 12, and Bama laying 4—with this 47 nauseating dollars. I have $120 left on my debit card and $20 in my pocket and I'm really loving Whisky. I can either deposit another few dollars with an online book that accepts credit cards—which is difficult to find after the FBI cracked down on these bastards and even the processors that were deceiving the banks—I'll get into this shit later I'm sure—and bet these bastards and live like a loser for a couple days til I can cashout, or just wait this 3 team parlay out and win or lose hold on to a little cash so I can have a few beers and eat breakfast in the morning.
So I fire $100 in my bigbets.com account. I bet $50 on Wisky 1st half laying the 7 and bet a 3 team parlay for the other $50—all first halves. Wisky -7, ND -7, Bama - 3. Bama and Wisky fall behind early while ND—the only game I truly love—is up 14 in the first 5 minutes. Wisky and Bama both come back and I'm feeling good. Then at the end of the first quarter Wisky misses a fuckin extra point. I'm convinced this will come back to kill me. Meanwhile Bama begins to roll. They drive the ball down the field looking like an NFL team running the ball right up Florida's ass. This game is fucking over. Now what's ND doing? Crushing it. They're up 21-3 on a pathetic Purdue team. But—as is always the case, there's that one fucking team that hates me.
Wisky takes a 6 point lead midway through the second quarter. I need a stop bad. Whisky steps up and forces a punt. Then they drive down the field and line up for a field goal attempt to end the half. Idiot kickers. He fuckin shanks it. I want to smash my head in some glass but can't because Annie—my broad—is less than twelve feet away getting dolled up in the bathroom. Annie and I are heading out to meet a friend at a bar. I've already called this bar to make sure they had all the games on. When Annie comes into play the whole scenario changes. Annie thinks I've stopped gambling. See she was going to leave me a few months ago after she discovered that I was gambling again, so I had to tell her I'd quit. I lied, so now I have to hold in my emotions and act like I'm just a detached, curious observer who is genuinely interested in every sporting event on television. I'm very good at this most of the time.
So Nebraska—the team that at the moment is trying to fuck me—has got the ball back with two minutes and change left. I need an interception. By the grace of jesus with 1:30 left on the clock we pick of Martinez. I'm back in the game. Now I need six. I don't want to fuck with this field goal kicker. With 20 seconds left on the clock my prayers are answered. Russel "Heisman" Wilson scrambles to his right and hits Toon in the back of the endzone for the touchdown. Winners across the board baby. I'm feeling good at the moment and the win should help with the shame, when in five minutes I tell Annie that I forgot my wallet, and she has to buy me drinks. It usually does.
SUNDAY
I wake up with $1100 in my Betsharp account—I snuck out of bed to play blackjack after Annie fell asleep. When Annie sleeps, she fuckin sleeps. I could be working out with kettlebells on the side of the bed and she'd stay under. A fuckin bear that Annie.
Now I have $1100 to work with. I'm dangerous. Today I'll run that $1100 into $11,000. I love two games today—the Texans and the Lions. I especially luuuuuuv the fucking Lions.
I'm up at 10am to really dig into this card; Leave no stone unturned. I analyze every game like they're serial killers. I look at the past performances of every team on ESPN.com, read the previews, listen to all the assholes on TV, then the kiss of death—I go through covers.com and see who all the losers are playing. I tell myself after every losing bet I make because I listened to one of these clowns, that I'm never gonna look at this fuckin site again. But here I am, at covers.com, looking at pucku's "monster plays of the day," and—in spite of the fact that I believe him to be working for the sportbooks and giving out sucker plays—I'm ready to use this fucking guy's picks in my plays. I close my browser and try to forget everything I just saw on that site. I turn the TV off and try to forget Mike Ditka is still alive. I lace up my Chuck Taylors—I need to get a nice pair of running shoes with this $11,000—and go for a fuckin run. I like to go running before I place my bets on Saturday and Sunday mornings. It helps clear my head so I can map things out. You've got to be a fuckin cartographer to make money gambling. Believe you me.
I bang out a couple miles and I'm back at home11:40. I've got twenty minutes to get these bets in. Annie is up, and getting ready to go watch the Saints game—which could be a problem. Annie has to watch every Saints game with me. This is not good for my profession; she crowds me. I roll up behind her in the bathroom, smack her in the ass and tell her I want to get my weekly Sunday call to my parents out of the way while the endorphins are in play . I go outside and start walking away from the apartment, toward Whole Foods. I always get as far away from the apartment while I'm on the phone placing bets. Not only does Annie sleep like a bear, she hears like a fucking Owl; and I'm a paranoid motherfucker, so I just keep on walking.
Now it's time, the moment of truth. I call SB (be prepared for abbreviations) with my bets ready to fire. "SB343"... guy11", I say. SB343 is my account number and guy11 is my password. This is how these bastards know who you are. "$1100 to play with" says the idiot. OK. Let's do this!
So after all my careful study, after all my sifting through the information I accumulated this morning and relating that information to all of my past experiences with the betting, after all my attempts to uncover patterns in the vast data sets coagulated from this information (that probably makes no sense but it's not supposed to), what do I do? I'll tell you what I fuckin do. I bet a 3 team 10 point teaser Lions(+12.5), Texans(+6.5), and................ the Buffalo Bills (+7). You see the Buffalo Bills are my favorite team and as every professional gambler knows you never bet on your favorite team—which I tell myself every time after the Buffalo Bills lose me money and I fuckin hate them and vow not only not to bet them ever again but to hate them for the rest of my existence here on planet earth. I really don't know what happens to me in these moments. I've been trying to figure it out all my life really. My shrink tells me over and over again that I just want to lose, and that there's really nothing she—or I—can really do about it. But I just refuse to believe this and fuck her—she's hot and I really like her and when she says mean things to me like that I just want her more—and fuck me—I'm a good looking guy and have no reason to be a loser like this and every time I look in the mirror after acting like a loser I have just barely enough self-love left (I'm an addict in deep into denial) to convince myself that I will never do this again!
Well Fuck it the Bills are covering this 7 point spread. It's all randomness anyway. In fact I love the fuckin Bills today. I like them better than the Lions I think. I'm gonna key them in all my bets. They're not only covering the 7 in the teaser but they're gonna cover straight up. So I bet another 3 team 10 point teaser Niners (+19), the Saints over (36), Bills over (35.5). I bet a 3 team parlay Lions (+3), Texans (-3), and Bills (-3).
I get back to the house. Annie's is getting impatient, but thankfully she's high maintenance so she's doing her hair again to go watch a football game in a sports bar. I walk up behind her, smack her in the ass, and grab her neck and shake her a bit. I always do this shit for some reason after I make the bets. My shrink's theory is that I do it because I think she somehow knows (which of course she does) so I think I have to remind her who's boss (which of course she is). I just think it's because I'm all juiced up and want to fuck.
Oh and real quick before I got off the phone with SB I made a couple other absolutely outrageous bets that I had no intention on betting upon returning from my run. I bet a 2 team parlay—Bears (-7) and Eagles (-10). I then bet the Lions (+1.5), Bears (-4), and Eagles (-7) first half. Keep in mind the only two games I really liked were the Texans and the Lions.
Annie's ready and we hop into her and head over to Tracy's. Tracy's is a divey sports bar down in the Garden District. It has eleven TV's and when the Saints play they only take up five or six of them—most other bars put the Saints on every TV and I often end up getting into it with whoever's got the fuckin remote. I called them right after I got off the phone with SB so I know the Bills, Texans, and Lions will be on. There's one other sports bar uptown—Cooter Browns. Cooter's has the feel of being in a dungeon. It has low ceilings and no windows. It feels more like a Vegas sports book than a bar. Tracy's has tall ceilings and windows that open up into the patio. It's nice and airy there. I prefer it. Besides Cooters is a fantasy hub and I hate fantasy football players. You do not own these players! Get a fuckin life and just bet the damn games! Fuck Cooters.
Halfway to Tracy's Annie gets a text from a friend who's at Bayou Beer Garden in Mid-City. He tells her all her people are there and that it's a great place to watch the games. Now I'm fucked and Annie starts to try to sell me on the beer garden. We're three minutes from Tracy's and she wants to drive out to Mid-City. I'm gonna miss the first quarter! I ask her if she's been there. She says no but "everyone says". These "everyone says's" have gotten me into some shit meals and bars and have made me very upset and resentful. I'm over them. I google them quickly and it says they have twelve plasma's—so they should have the games. We get there. No fucking games. I walk through the bar and out to the patio. All twelve of the TV's have the Saints game on them—and they're not even on HD. Idiots! I walk back through the bar, right past Annie and her friends, and walk out the door. Annie comes out and gets a little chippy with me, but eventually gets in the fucking car.
Finally I'm at Cooter Browns (yup, it was closer and I had enough of the fuckin car) and all the games are on. I station myself in the middle of the bar looking out into the room. I have five tv's to my left, three on my right, and one with the Red Zone on behind the bar. I find a seat for Annie right in front of me and tell her I must stand up. I look around. Detroit is down 14. The Bills are tied. The Texans are up 7. Behind me on the Red Zone the Bears and Panthers are exchanging touchdowns and Philly looks like they've showed up to play this week. The problem at this point is Detroit. What the fuck Detroit? This Cowboy team has no receivers and is banged up in the secondary. Why are you not winning this game? The good news is my Billies are up 17-3 an the Texans are up 10-0. These three games are my main concern. Behind me Philly is up big at half. I just need them to win my more the 10 and less than 19. The fucking bears are up 4 and I get push on my first half bet after Carolina bangs a field goal on the last play of the half. These are the toughest losses, but are also the sweetest wins. Once, when I has really balling, I had this genius on the Vikings return a missed field goal 107 yards to end the half—a $4000 swing for me (we'll get into this later). One of the best moments of my life.
Speaking of the Vikings, they're in a close, low scoring game with the Chiefs. The Vikings suck and I ask myself why didn't I bet this game? Both teams suck that's why. But now I think the Chiefs win this game. Mcnabb is a washed up bum. The problem is I can't get reception in this dungeon and I can't think of any excuse for Annie to get me outside to place the bet. Then a fuckin miracle. Out of the clouds she decides she wants a chicken sandwich. I tell her I'm not hungry and she goes to the counter to order. Once she's out of site I barrel my way through the crowd and make it out. I have $250 and change that I left in the account to bet the 2nd halves. I ask for the Chiefs line. Off the board—fuck... fuck... fuck. Then again the disorder kicks in. "What's fucking Buffalo," I say? Now this is when things go bad. I not only miss the only halftime play I like, but to make up for what I'm convinced I would have won I bet my fuckin Billies again. I need a winner here so I'm not angry when the games end. Now I must root against the Chiefs—the rub in these situations is that you're a loser even if you're a winner... kapish? Well fuck I'm confident and convinced the Bills are going to open up in this game. I tell the Costa Rican girl with shit English taking my bet to empty my account on the Bills at a pick em', then run back inside. I get back to my spot in the middle of the bar before Annie gets back. If the Bills lose and the Chiefs win I will blame her for being here with me and resent her until next week.
Here we go. I look to my left and the Chiefs go in for a TD. Fuck. The Texans look great. I have no worries there. It's these fucking Lions. They go down 27-3. They may not cover the 12 1/2 and bust my tease. Unreal. But I'm dead yet. They pick of Romo and take it to the house. 27-10. The Boys kick a field goad. Three and out for the Lions. Fuck. Then Romo blesses me with another pick six. 30-17. Still a half point behind the tease—which I have to have or I'm dead.
Fifteen minutes later and it's 30-24 as the Lions are beginning to look unstoppable and the Boys worn out. I love my chances at the tease and now I'm thinking I can hit this fucking parlay! I look a couple TV's over. Fuck! The Bills get stopped on a 3rd and 1 and Chan Gailey punts—he's easily the biggest pussy coach on this soil. Bellicheck would never punt there. If it was 4th and 11 he's go for it. Fuckin genius that guy. Anyway now the Cincy offense is rolling and the Bills D is gassed. A first down right there would have essentially won it for me. I'm now starting to come to the realization that once again my Billies are fraud. They will blow this game for me.
Sure enough ten minutes later Cincy scores to tie the game, just as Calvin Johnson catches the go ahead TD for the Lions. The Texans win by 7 (the hook baby). Now there's only one way I can lose this parlay. My Billies. A few minutes later Cincy kicks the game winning field goal as time expires. Hysterical. At least I hit the teaser so I didn't get that crushed. My other plays were losers. Again my team. My beloved Saints. They're up big and running out the clock with under a minute to go when Sean Payton inexplicably decides to throw the ball on 3rd down from the 15 yard line. Brees is sacked for a loss of 20 yards and on the next play they miss a field goal. Idiot kickers. Oh well. Sometimes that Payton makes no sense at all. I'm convinced he has money in a book that accepts live betting and somehow he's calling that shit in through that headset. That turns out to be $330 swing as the Bills over has hit and The Niners cover the 19. My two team parlay with Philly and the Bears is a loser. I've got $600 in the account when I should have $3000. Disgusting.
OK time to recharge. It's 3:12 and I got shut out of any teaser or parlay I wanted to bet as most of them started. The only game left is the Patriots—who I love. I have three minutes to bet em. I have to get Annie the fuck away from me. I grab her by the shoulder. "I'll be back around 7." "You're leaving right?" "Yeah I'm going to go, she says." "See Ya babe." And there she goes. Thank fucking God. I wait 30 seconds then run outside. It's 3:14. Come on. The Patriots first half are a lock. I'm dropping a nickel on them. Hello. SB3433. Password guy11. Yeah put a nickel on the Patriot's first half. "It's gone?" "It's fucking gone." What the fuck! "Fuck You guy," I say and hang up the phone. Yeah sometimes I lose my cool with these people. I do a lot a fuckin apologizing to these Costa Ricans motherfuckers.
Alright Annie's cost me $500 so far. This will be another dime. I hate her. Fuck you Annie I hate you. I want you out of my life (well just on Sundays really). Again the rub—let's go Raiders! I go back inside and order a Stella. The games are going. I was gonn tease and parlay the Pats, Pack, Falcons, and Cards in some ridiculous combination. Now I have to root against all of them. These are some of the most submissive moments of my existence. I have to root against my own acumen. You're actually pulling for an outcome that would validate your inability to succeed in this world. It's just really depressing I mean it really it.
Well fuck it it's all randomness anyway and anyone who thinks he can predict the outcomes of fuckin football games is a fuckin idiot. At least I know that it's all luck —as much as I don't want to believe it. I'm the enlightened one here and I'll have no problem with myself if the Patriots lose this first half.
The Patriots cover the first half and I want to kill myself. Fuckin Jason Cambell throws one of those interceptions where you're convinced the guy has money on the other team. I mean I wouldn't have thrown that ball at 10 years old playing in a pop warner game. I was a genius kid but still the guy's got to have money on the Pats. To my left the Packers are rolling as Orton (bum QB for the Broncos) is just being the useless, bum QB he is. On my right the Falcons are rolling. Great it's looking like all winners and thousands of other dollars Annie's gonna cost me. My only saving grace are the Cards. The Cards must lose or I'm really gonna feel terrible.
I have time now to get a second half bet in. I've watched the Pats and Pack closely. I love both the 2nd half overs. The Pack should score at will. The Pats and Raiders are both moving the ball with ease. I'm putting a nickel on one of these overs.
I throw down on the Pats. My reasoning is that both teams will score as opposed to the other game—where I think the Pack could shut Denver down and just run the ball the entire second half. This turns out to be a bad decision. Jason Cambell is awful in the 2nd half. The Patriots play conservative. There's never any doubt it's a loser. I'm left with $250 after my time and energy with these bullshit games. I feel slightly less suicidal because the Redbirds and Falcons fail to cover, but I figure Annie has still cost me about 3k on the day.
I'll wrap this up. It's been a long day. There's one Sunday night game left. I bet everything on a first half parlay—Jets and the under. First play from scrimmage Sanchez is sacked by Ed Reed and the Ravens take it to the house. By halftime the TV is off. I get online and check the line for tomorrow night. Bucs are laying 7. I think about how I'm going to get money in that account to bet the game. What cash advance joints around have I yet to hit up. I'll figure something out. I always do.
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