Back from my morning jog. It's a beautiful day here in New Orleans. Fucking beautiful. The girls are out in the park with their books and canvases. Fucking dogs. Babies. I'm jogging my ass off. Shirtless. Sweating bombs. I took an extra loop, two fucking miles, just to get another look at a few of these broads. They're always less attractive on the second loop. There are few exceptions, very few. One broad actually held up today. She made me stop and take a break. I sat my sweaty ass in a bench ten yards to her left. She was painting a landscape, some bullshit in the trees across the pond. Wavy hair. Beautiful, pale legs. I love the pale. Fuck it's good to see the broads back in shorts. This girl is down. I know it. Painter broads. Especially the landscapers. They paint all pretty shit but deep down they're dirty dirty. The only broads in this park right now that are more ready than her are the broads doing yoga over by the quarter mile mark. Yoga broads are most most down. Stretching, breathing, contorting. They're pretty much banging themselves. You catch them right after a class and it's over. Hang em' up on the wall. This painter with the landscapes. All I have to do is go sit down next to her. I know this. But I can't. I never can. I just can't bring myself to play the creep. I'm too much of a gentleman. But one of these days... One of these fucking days I'm going to go sit down next to one of these broads, breathing heavy, sweat dripping from my beard, and look them in their pretty little eyes and say... "What's up?"
Fucking coffee. I pop a Provigil and head to Whole Foods. After 2 years, yesterday I made the mistake of striking up a conversation with the Barista. For two years I say nothing but "yes" when they grab the 20oz cup and fill it up with medium roast. Yesterday I made the mistake of asking her if she liked her job. Does she like her job? Two years and that's all I can come up with? Fuck. Now she's gonna expect me to make small talk with her every day. This makes me very anxious. Fuck it. I'm not saying shit. If she tries to talk to me I'm switching to CC's--which will suck because then I'll have to pay for it. I got it! I'll be on my phone. I'll be on my phone for the next fucking month until she forgets we ever exchanged words. Genius. Free coffee again. All is well in the morning.
Shit. Ramble Ramble. So It's Championship Week in college hoops and The Madness has begun. Championship Week! This is where it begins. This is where you find teams with the heart and character that you can ride into the Tourney. This is where you find the "2003 Cuse" that rode the back of that silly little irishman Gerry Mcnamera during one of the greatest Big East Tourney performances of all time (at the time). This is where you find one of these bullshit Butler teams and see how "Good" they are and know... know that God is gonna let them cover at least a few games in the big dance. And this... this is where you find the greatest team in the history of basketball. This is where you find the "2011 UCONN HUSKIES"--who rode the back of "The Greatest" college basketball player of all time... "Kemba Fucking Walker"... and the sweet stroke of the "Iceman"... Jeremy Lamb... and the big bastards they had down low--all the way through the Big East Tourney and all the way through the Tourney field to the Championship Game where they took care of those nice little kids from Butler and were crowned National Champions. This was the greatest three weeks of my life at this point (soon to be surpassed by the NBA playoff run of my Dallas Mavericks). UCONN... oh sweet UCONN. The joy you gave me with those victories! With every win a beam of light pierced my soul and filled me with glory... filled me with belief... filled me with the confidence that I could do anything in this life, just as long as I Loved The Right Team! Sweet Revelation! All I have to do here in this world is find the right team and fall deeply in love with them and then I will know true happiness. True happiness and true wealth... spiritual wealth. I felt the power of Christ... of Siddhartha... Krishnamurti... all those fucking guys. With every UCONN win I moved closer and closer to my true self... to NIRVANA... to the absolute knowledge that Kemba Walker was indeed my God... that Kemba Walker was my savior... that it was Kemba Walker--not that fraud book "The Secret"--that made it fucking rain and rain and rain and gave me riches beyond my wildest dreams just as long as I let him into my life. And so it was. After the National Championship game--while I watched UCONN cut down the nets--I looked at my Crookmaker account and there it sat with $14,000. It was only a few weeks ago that I deposited $500 for this fucking Tourney. I took a walk out to my front porch and clipped the end of a Tuscano that I'd had been saving for this occasion... and as I pulled from this fucking cigar I was indeed my True Self... this was my Nirvana... and as I pulled from this fucking cigar I was filled with the Absolute Knowledge... the Absolute Knowledge that I would be lucky if I got through the fucking week without losing it all because I couldn't stop and would never stop because whatever I won would never... never be enough and this was never... never... never going to fucking change............ But fuck it at least I got here!
Alright let's get on with it. I'm going to take a break before getting into my winter of 2006-2007 on the davenport to give you a recap of my March Madness greatest hits while reporting on agony and the ecstasy of the coming weeks. So here it is... bang bang........ Let's fucking go!
2006... Hudson, NY
Heartbreak and the search for endorphins...
I was living at my grandfather's house for the winter. My parents had just moved to Florida and Florida had yet to become a apart of my migrations, which were at this time limited to New York City, Martha's Vineyard, and Hudson. I was recovering from an excruciating break-up with my girlfriend of four years, which I had up til that point been smothering with a combination of alcohol, anti-depressants, idiot... immature friends, bench pressing, broads, Ingmar Bergman films, and constant, insistent gambling.
It's was noon on Tuesday of Championship Week and the beginning of the Big East Tournament. My entire Winter up to that point had been consumed by sports betting, horse playing, and poker. Every waking moment of my life. If I wasn't at the gym or watching Ingmar Bergman films, contemplating my eventual disappearance from planet earth, I was gambling.
Perhaps gambling was not the right word, as I didn't really have anything to lose. The only question was how much money I was going to win, as the cash that was deposited into these sites was all on credit.
Interlude on the acquisition of many bank accounts...
Most these sites would approve a transaction with just a legit routing number. I could use 1234567890 as a bank account number and it would be approved. This was fine with me because the cash from that check would be dumped on the poker table. If we needed to cover a deposit if we won... so as not to lose our winnings... we would use a legit bank account. I accomplished this by bombarding a bank account with bullshit deposits and then going to the bank and telling them I didn't know what the hell the transactions were. They'd close the account immediately and give me a new one. There were a lot of branches and a lot of banks, so there was never any problem finding a bank account for these transactions.
Optional...
I feel like I need to clarify this deal for those that don't quite understand. It goes like this. You open an account at a sportsbook. One of the methods of deposit is echeck. An echeck is just like a real check only it's electronic (no fucking paper). On your first deposit there will be a limit, as it will be given to you immediately to play with. So you write a check for $500 and you're account is credited stat. So if you run it up to say $5000, you simply make sure the $500 is in your bank account before it hits. Now some sights will just take the $500 out of your winnings if the echeck bounces. Back in the day most sights would do this. If you're dealing with 3rd party processors you really never had to cover the echecks. If the echeck bounced, the processor would notify the sportsbook and your account would just be frozen, winnings intact, until you sent in the money to the processor--usually by money order. Then you're account would be opened and you'd be free to cash out. Now with some sights you could just make up shit and be given money to play with. For example you could set up unlimited accounts using fake names like "Shakes McCullar" and a bullshit bank account like mentioned above. Now there was no way to cover these echecks obviously, so your account would never be legitimized to cash out. So you dump the fucking money on the poker table to someone with a legit account. You need to make a quick $500?... you dump it asap. You want to go for a hit?... you bet a 3 team parlay and hit for $3000 then dump it. Fuck the scenarios. Now as far as the fake names... you usually had to validate your identity somehow, which I would always find a way to do. We'll address this later but. So it was possible for Shakes McCullar to open an account with a processor and deposit, run it up, send a money order, then cash out... usually by check (you just have the fucking check sent to you and deposit it 3rd party). In some instances you would have to cash out moneygram or western union, in which case you had to find some seedy mini-mart or whatever who didn't ask for ID or in emergency situations have a fake ID made. In any case I'd always find a way to get the fucking money out of the account. So this is the fucking gist of it. Let's go here.
Chip Dumping and probability theory...
To carry out my scheme I had to have a crew. So I put together a skeleton crew to help me. We referred to ourselves as The Network (I preferred Mikebook but that was shot down). The other players were Max in NY, Jimmy in Utah, Billy in Boston, and Vinny on the Vineyard. Together we poured as much cash as we could, into as many sportsbooks as we could, by hitting every 3rd party processor in existence, as well as the sportsbooks and poker rooms directly. The processors were Webteller, Flamepay, Intacash, Midas, Trueline, and others I can't recall. The sportsbooks in play were Eight, Betless, Crookmaker, BDG, Bulldog, Actionsports, Pokerlights, Partytime, Big Tilt, Gametime, and others I'm sure. The scheme was simple. I would set up legit accounts with the sites and the crew would deposit into these sites and dump chips to me in the poker rooms. The thing was we had to make it seem legit so hours and hours of playing was required to make it work. This could get quite complicated. Jimmy was in college, Max worked 60 hours a week as a chef, Billy was a bartender and an alcoholic and would disappear for weeks at a time, and Vinny had a wife and 4 fucking kids. Getting someone on the table could be fucking exhausting at times. The whole deal was a full time job really. Sometimes there were months when the only time I could get someone on a table was 2-3 in the morning. My routine was usually betting horses and playing poker all day, betting basketball and playing poker at night, and waiting to Billy or Jimmy to get on the table and win back all the money I'd lost that day. Now I know this may sound like very questionable behavior to y'all, but I saw myself as a modern day Robin Hood, stealing from rich--these fucking crooks that I knew were running Ponzi schemes and depleting the bank accounts of the good people in this country with fixed poker games--and giving to well... Me... and my crew... and their loved ones. The Network... Fucking Mikebook!... We were the shit!
March Madness and the heart stopping beauty of echecks...
note: all the sportsbooks had poker rooms, thus the reference to the sportsbook itself when discussing poker...
By the time Championship Week rolled around I had a few accounts with a nice number--around 3k each. Up until this point we were well under the radar, and had yet to have any trouble cashing out. I was pumped up to bet the games.
A couple days before March Madness began it occured to me that these books might be loosening up on their echeck deposit limits... that they might be bumping up the Ponzi scheme a bit--as this was the time of year that the most money is wagered on sports. So I called up Crookmaker. I got someone in customer service and I could hear chatter all around in the background. It was like a fucking boiler room in there. These fucking guys were bombarding the great people of this country to get their hard earned money in their sportsbook. Fuck these people. I hope you the reader understand this.
So I was feeling pretty good. I asked them what their echeck deposit limit was. Sure as shit they tell me $10,000. Hilarious. I thank them and immediately begin to map out the next couple of weeks.
At this time my boy Max was in Italy visiting family. So The Network was down to 4 heads for this gig. I decided to do it like this....
I had Jimmy write a check immediately and we played with it throughout the first round. I did this for two reasons. One... I was travelling to Florida over the weekend and wouldn't have the time or desire to dump chips. Two... these echecks would generally take at least a week to clear, so if we were up at least 10K after the weekend we'd deposit the 10K to cover the echeck--just in case they took our winnings away from us because the echeck bounced (which was about 50/50).
Then I would have Vinny open an account the following week and depending on what happened with Jimmy we could actually dump some chips into Vinny's account as well as mine. This would make it look a lot more on the up and up. The idea was to have a few accounts to dump chips back and forth with--my account being legitimized--and only cover the 10k echeck if it was worth it.
What happened? Fuck I went nuts on the opening round and blew through the first 10K. I figured we'd try to make 100K the first weekend. I bet $1000 three team parlays and anywhere from $500 to $5000 a game. After running up and down all weekend I lost our last 4K on one play...... Time for fucking Vinny.
Vinny's 10K was excruciating. We could do nothing on the poker tables and couldn't hit a fucking game to save our life. On the tables we just couldn't seem to not only get a legit hand to dump some chips into my account, but we couldn't win any hands against the table. If one of us had a flush draw and the other the best hand after the flop, some asshole would always call us and catch something to beat us both. It was awful. As far as the games, we didn't even make it to the Sweet Sixteen. I blew through it all on the fucking NIT. Not only did we blow the 10K, but I lost a couple thousand out of my legit account. A big shitshow. Fuck it. It happens. It had happened before and would happen again. The good news is we still had another 10K to work with. At this time I was confident we could still make 100K on this fucking tournament.
It was time to bring Billy into play. I call him and he immediately opens an account and deposits 10K. It's the first Thursday of the Sweet Sixteen. Now Jimmy's echeck had yet to hit his bank account so I figure we had at least a week and a half to cover the echeck. So the strategy is to relax with the games and play it conservative. We wanted to get at least 10K out of this whole thing to make it worthwhile. Once we got the 10K in my account we could re-evaluate. So we went small through the Sweet Sixteen and went light on the poker tables throughout the week. The Friday before the Final Four we had a big night on the tables. The hands were legit and I felt like we played everything super cool. In one hand Billy had an Ace high flush and I pulled a full house when the board paired on the river. He bet out and I pushed him all in. At that point he was too invested and had to call. An easy 4K dumped in one hand. The rest we dumped after that hand, as it appeared as if Billy was on tilt and I was fucking around with him. It went down real nice and now--with the other accounts we had working--The Network had nearly 20k to bet that fucking tournament with.
Twenty five electoral votes...
The next morning I flew to Florida to see my folks. My plan was to call in the morning and cashout a few thousand by Western Union--just to have some cash in hand by the weekend. After I arrived my folks took me to some seafood shack off the thruway. I got I fish sandwich and a Budweiser and tried to figure out how I was going to sneak away and put in for the cashout. It was quarter to one and I had to have the cashout in by one. I ate the shit out of that sandwich and told my folks I needed to make a call. I was always sneaking out to make calls when they were around to make bets and doing bullshit like this. Whether I told them I had to make a call or I went to the bathroom for 20 minutes they never said shit. Looking back it's clear that they knew all along what I was up to and just didn't really know what the hell to do about it.
I called up Crookmaker. When I told them I wanted to cashout they told me that unfortunately my account had been "frozen" pending a review of my play in the poker room. I was livid. I asked them if I could at least play with the funds for the weekend and just have no ability to cash out. They told me that the account would remain "frozen" until my play in the poker room was reviewed by an "expert" who they use in such situations. Fuck me this was bad. So I made the only move in this situation... I went absolutely nuts. I asked for a manager. I got a manger. He told me to fuck off. I told him to fuck off. I told him I was going to post on the online forums about what crooks they were. I told him that I'm going to call and harrass his staff all weekend if he doesn't open up my fucking account. I told him that he didn't know who he was fucking with and that I was coming after him and everyone involved in Crookmaker. I told him whatever I could think up until he told me once more to go fuck myself and hung up the phone.
I went back to the table. My beer was piss warm. My parents simply asked me if everything was Ok. My fucking parents. God love them. They were just happy to see me and hoped to Christ that I'd figure this shit out soon... before it was too late.
Now I wasn't worried about losing the funds in Crookmaker at this point. This had happened once before, and even after they came to the conclusion that we were chip dumping, I was so persuasive with are defense--which included emails and Oscar winning performances on the phone to not only the sportsbooks but also to the sportsbook watchdogs (who were people that graded the books on integrity)--that the sportsbook gave us our money and apologized. This time would be no different.
The problem was the Final Four started that afternoon and I wanted to put 5k each on UCLA and George Mason. Thankfully I would have had a split, so there was nothing lost. This would not be the case two weeks later, when after an extensive review, Crookmaker determined that I was involved in chip dumping and that I could indeed go fuck myself. They did analysis of the time we spent at the table and all of the hands we were involved in together. They straight up told me that I had someone write a phony check and dump the funds to me. They waited a couple weeks to freeze the account, so they must have waited to make sure the check bounced. After a valiant battle I was indeed defeated. This was the first loss for The Network and it was painful lesson to us all. But we would learned from it and in the future we would win much more than we lost.
I ended up losing pretty much everything I had in all the accounts on UCLA in the Championship game. Fucking Farmar. The Network was pretty pissed off at me for that one. But we regrouped and pushed forward. The fucking Madness. I don't need March to get it. The fucking Madness is always with me. And so it goes. I end this blog rolling into this years Tourney fully armed. I've been scouting these teams for the last few weeks. I'm absolutely ready to crush it. I'll keep you posted on my progress as we move forward toward the Final Four... right here in the greatest city in the world-- fucking New Orleans!
NOTE TO NEW READER This is the last post in this blog. I would suggest going back and getting into the posts with more than just gambling jargon. I say this because the archive list on the right is difficult to view and I've had people tell me they didn't know it was there. My favorites are the ANNIE L.A. ones along with Orson and I and One Hand Clapping. That said... Good morning Preakness! I'm up and at em' at 6am (I'll explain later). I'm on DRF.COM and just bought The Form. I got a tip yesterday from a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy that's a poker buddy of a clocker up at Pimlico. He loves the 7 horse Laughingin the 3rd at Pimlico. Laughing!What a beautiful name! When I was a kid--I'd say 12 or 13--my favorite horse was this grey horse Launching. He was just a shitty claiming horse who must have run 7 or 8 times one winter at Aqueduct--back then they used to just run the shit out of em'. There was a group of horses, about 5 or 6 of them, all in that class that used to run against each other in every race and it seemed like a different horse would win each time. But it was Launching that won the most of them, and I was on him every time. Anyway, back to Launching in a bit. Right now it's all about Laughing and I just checked The Form and she looks fucking fantastic! She's 7/2 with Ramon Dominguez (The best... even better than Johnny V.) on her. Goldberg off the claim. Bullet work on the 13th. I luuuuuuuvLaughing.
Big day. Big fucking day. For a day like this I need an extra edge. For a day like today I need The Fucking Sheets! I'm on the site now. Fuck these are expensive. 35 bucks. Fuck it they're gonna make me $35,000. So here's the numbers for the Kentucky Derby. Take a quick look and then we'll discuss.
The Ragozin Numbers
for the 2012 KENTUCKY DERBY
I'LL HAVE ANOTHER 4"
BODEMEISTER 6+
DULLAHAN 5+t
WENT THE DAY WELL 6"
CREATIVE CAUSE 5"
LIAISON 7"
UNION RAGS 9+t
ROUSING SERMON 10
HANSEN ~9
DADDY NOSE BEST 11+t
OPTIMIZER 12t
ALPHA 14"
EL PADRINO 15+st
DONE TALKING 16"t
SABERCAT 16
GEMOLOGIST 19+
TRINNIBERG ~12+ at the mile
PROSPECTIVE 22+
TAKE CHARGE INDY 31"
DADDY LONG LEGS
You see what I'm saying? FuckingPI. Fucking John Nashe in all his schizophrenic genius couldn't figure this shit out. Here's what I do know. What makes The Sheets unique is that their speed figures take into account more variables than any other speed figure calculator--the most important being the trip the horse had. I don't know who watches all these fucking races to come up with this shit but fuck am I envious. So I'll Have Another ran the biggest figure (the lower the better). Dullahan ran the 2nd best figure in the race--a quarter of a point faster than Creative Cause(+ sign is 1/4 and " sign is 1/2), who ran a bigger figure than Bode and Went The Day Well. The Fucking Sheets! I love it. I just fucking love it! I'm going to box IHA, Bode, and CC in triples and exactas and throw WTDW underneath in triples and superfecta's. The deal is The Preakness is a 1/16 of a mile shorter than The Derby. Following that logic Bode should be the first to hit the wire since he was well clear in The Derby until he tired after setting a blistering pace. But fuck logic. I think IHA wins again and I'm betting him to win and keying him on top of Bode, CC, and WTDW in everything. I can't fucking wait.
The fucking Preakness! I think it's my favorite of all the triple crown jewels. Everyone is always talking about going to The Kentucky Derby. Fuck The Derby. I want to hit up the fucking Preakness. Never been. Next year after I crush the NCAA tourney I'm buying box seats--fucking clubhouse! The Preakness! Some of the best and worse days of my life have come on Preakness Saturday. The first two that come to mind involve my two favorite horses of all time--Easy Goer and Curlin. Let's start with the tragedy.
The Agony of Defeat
I started betting horses when I was 8 years old. I spent most of my time as a kid in my grandfather's restaurant, Lawrence's Tavern, which was right across the street from an OTB (off track betting). There was a symbiotic relationship between the two. People would make their bets in the parlor then walk across the street for a beer, highball, pastrami sandwich, or whatever. The TV in the tavern was always on OTB. I still remember the day I made my first wager. I played piano when I was a kid. There was a player piano in the bar that I used to practice on, since we didn't have any room for a fucking piano in our house. I was playing some bullshit Bach piece when I heard a big roar at the bar. I looked up from the piano and saw a couple guys jumping up and down and patting my grandfather on the back--Sam we called him. Ole Sam was standing there with a cigarette dangling from his lips wearing the most pronounced smile I'd ever seen on his face. Sam never showed any emotion (don't get me wrong he'd yell and beat the shit out of his kid's when he had to.) But as far as positive emotions, a smile... maybe a chuckle. That's it. I remember thinking in that moment that I wanted to be like Sam. I wanted to pick winners and have everyone pat me on the back while I just chilled, reflecting on my genius, cigarette dangling from my lips. So as the smell of hot pastrami sandwiches filled the room, and the great men of this town sat at the bar sipping on highballs and watching their lives be dictated by a jockey's whip, I stood up and forcefully closed the piano. Fuck Piano I said to myself. What a waste of fucking time. I'm going to be a horseplayer. I'm going to be like Sam... a winner. A winner with dignity. A winner with class. Fucking Sam. That's it. And so it went. Soon I was hanging out at the OTB parlor and had already set up my network to place my bets. The major players were Jake the Irish and Haircut Danny. Jake was older--late 50's. He apparently passed on the job to call the races for NYRA, which eventually went to the driest race caller in the history of the sport--Marshall Cassady. I don't think anyone like Marshall but me. Jake spent every moment of his life out of bed either in OTB or The Tavern. Rumors were that he was gay, possibly a pedophile. I didn't give a shit. I trusted the guy with my life. Haircut Danny was all gay, he wore it in his hair, on his neon shirts, on his white socks hiked up to his knees, and his sweet sweet way. He also was possibly a pedophile. Like Jake the Irish I didn't believe the pedophile rumors one bit. I trusted the guy with my life. I even let him cut my hair a couple times. Not a bad chop. These were my boys. They were there when I'd sneak out of The Tavern. They were there when I'd walk two miles while I was hiding out during a game of ringolevio to get in bets in for the late double. They were there when I'd get dropped off the bus after school and scare the lights out of my mother when I didn't come home. And they were there on the 20th of May, 1989 when I suffered one of the most heartbreaking defeats of my life as a horseman.
Easy Goer is my favorite racehorse of all time. I lived, breathed, bled with this horse. I never missed one of his races. Easy Goer was the beaten favorite in the Kentucky Derby after a bad trip. He was favorite again in The Preakness. Before the derby he set the world record at Aqueduct for a mile race on the dirt. His daddy was Secretariat and he was poised to become the greatest thing since.
Easy Goer wore the colors of the Ogden Phipps stable. Black silks with a Cherry cap. I loved the colors. Fucking loved them. I think it's that weirdo movie Donnie Darko where the kid says something about "of the endless combinations of words in history, Celler Door is the most beautiful." Well I don't know about that, but the black and cherry, placed top to bottom, on a 4' 10" jockey sitting on a horse, was the most beautiful shit I'd ever seen.
Preakness day. I was with the crew. Duke, Aaron, B.G., and Pete. We're getting in poker session before heading down to OTB for the big race. We played poker pretty much every day during and after school. There's much there, but lets just say we would freeze our asses off, in the dead of winter, passing cards around at recess just to get our fix. God that was awesome.
After our session we hit OTB. Duke was the smart one out of the crew. He was from a family of horseplayers. His father was some math-computer guy who plays horses like a pro. One of his brothers would go on to become a trainer, the other one of the best handicappers in the country. Together they were a force and would consistently hit Pick 6's across the country. I mean they would invest tens of thousands to win over a hundreds. They are the only people I know that actually made a living off of the horses. Duke was disciplined. He didn't play every race. He didn't play every hand of poker. Like I said he was the smart one. The rest of us were just fucking degenerates. I've always lamented that I wished I was more like Duke. That day, and two weeks before in The Derby, Duke and The Family loved Sunday Silence. I ran my mouth all week about how Easy Goer was going to romp. Duke and The Family cleaned up. I got cleaned out. Such is the story of my fucking life.
Once again Duke and The Family liked Sunday Silence. I was head over heels in love with Easy Goer. Luckily I lost all my cash in the poker game so I didn't have any money to bet him. But my heart was all up in Easy Goer. He was my guy.
It's getting close to the Post Time of the 5th at Pimlico, so I'm afraid I'm going to have to wrap this blog up. I was a little overzealous this morning and this is what I get. So what transpired in the 153 4/5th's of the 1989 Preakness would become one of the great tragedy's of my life. It's one of those races I watch over and over again wanting so badly for the outcome to be different. Well hell here it is. The horse race Jim McKay declared was, "the best race I have ever witnessed."
Easy Goer v. Sunday Silence II
The Thrill of VictoryAnd Sometimes... sometimes... you go out and fucking nail them! Curlin. My second favorite horse of all time. The scene is this. It's Preakness day 2007. I was at home in Sarasota, and just beginning to peal myself off the davenport. I had a job lined up in Martha's Vineyard, but no money to get my ass up there. I absolutely loved Curlin in this race. I'd followed him all year and fell in love with him. He had a bad trip in The Derby but finished well to get 3rd. What did I do? I went and pawned my fucking laptop for the 18th time. I got $100 for it. I deposited $100 and did this. $50 win on Curlin. $20 exacta Curlin/Street Sense. $15 triple key Curlin/Street Sense and Hard Spun. If Curlin lost I may still be on the davenport. But he didn't. He won in what was and is the shortest margin of victory in Preakness history, in the time of 1:53.46 (the 3rd fastest in history). He made me $1100 and got me off the fucking davenport. So here it is... one of the greatest thrills of my life. Curlin v. Street Sense II
Round One Day 1.... 11am. Jog, coffee, provigil. Let's go. Locked and loaded. $500. 3 team parlay Murray St., K. State, Louisville for $100. I hit Louisville and K. State for $100 each 2nd half. K. State and Murray St. cruise. Fucking guy from Louisville misses 14 free throws in the final minute. They win my 7 and I push for the game, 2nd half a loser. My 3 teamer becomes 2. I win $260 on the parlay and push on the 2nd half bets. Plus $250. I la la la love Marquette and the over. I watched BYU play in the play in game and they are garbage and have a bunch of Mormon fellows who won't be able to guard the Marquette's. I bang both first half and game for $150 and hit a 3 team parlay with Montana, Cuse, and Marquette for $100. I hit all 4 on the Marquette's. $600. Parlay's a loser. I'm up $750 and looking at $1250 as I run out the door a half an hour late, refusing to leave my coach until the Marquette's was over. Love Vandy! I buy the Madness App and sit my phone down on the bar in front of me. I'll be making drinks and staring at my phone for the next couple weeks. Vandy! I saw them play once this year when they beat Kentucky in the final of the SEC Championship Game and now I think they're the best team in the field. I have them in the final game with NC. State. If this happens I'll win every bracket contest and make $2.5 million. I don't feel bad about it. I bang Vandy first half and game for $200 and hit Kentucky first half for $200. Vandy cruises and and Kentucky hits a 3 in the last 10 seconds. They win by 19 laying 17. Llllllllllllocked. $1850. Indiana is another team I like to go far. I have them in the Final Four. I hit them first half and game for $300 and hit Colorado first and game for $150. I bet a three team parlay with UCONN for $150. Bang bang... $900 on the win bets but a loser with the parlay as UCONN is a dump without the greatest college basketball player of all time--my main man Kemba Walker. Fuck them. $2500. Day 2.... Jog, coffee, out of Provigil, call my shrink. N.C. fucking State leads off the card. $500 game and $250 first half. EASY WINNER THEY ARE GONNA WIN ME $2.5MIL!... fucking 3 team parlay for $200 a loser. $3050. The Georgetown Hoyas are my other Final Four team. They're playing Belmont who are the darling of the media. The squares have pushed the line down to 2. Hoyas by 2? Fuuuuuuuuuck You! $500 game and $500 first half. They cruise. I like MIZZOU. Not to cover. I just like the way they play--they just run around and shoot the shit out of it--so I'll bet them every game. $500 and $250. Loser loser. Mich St. is one of my squads. I hit them for $500 and $250. Winner winner. I dick around with a few other games just to watch, which are all losers. My 5 team parlay for $150 is a loser. $3550. Day 3.... Snooze, snooze, snooze, water, advil, coffee, provigil, fuck jogging. I miss the first few games and bang Vandy for $1000 straight. They cover by 1. Louisville is inexplicably a 2 point favorite over New Mexico. New Mexico? The Lobos? Fuck them. $1000 on the Ville. I hit Indiana for $500. Ville cruises. Indy wins with no cover. 4 fucking K. Day 4.... Snooze, snooze, shake an empty bottle of advil, coffee, walk around Whole Foods, coffee, provigil, couch, blanket. I hit Michigan St. and Creighton for $500 each. Michigan misses 18 free throws in the last minute and the everyone on Creighton has a heart attack midway through the second half. The only game I like late is Purdue. I go $500 first and $1000 game. I always bet against Kansas. Always. Kansas and Duke. I've never bet on either of them. This has probably cost me $100K in the last 20 years. I almost spill a vodka tonic on my phone. My boss busts my balls about the phone when we're 3 deep at the bar. I slide the phone to the customer in front of me until the bastard gets out of my face. Purdue covers. $4400 after the first round. Word ups. SWEET SIXTEEN Day 1.... Night games. 11 Stellas. $5700 after fucking around with the NBA for a week and withdrawing $1000 to for rent, phone, and a fucking hanger steak. I run with Michigan St., Cuse, and the Marquette's for $500 around and parlay them for $300. Loser, loser, loser, loser. $3900. Day 2.... Night. I hit a bar and behind it is this hot fucking redhead I met 2 years ago a crawfish boil. She was with a 6' 5'' 280 pound tight end for the Saints--who's name I'll refrain from revealing. I was drunk and ridiculous and I think in the three minutes we conversed while the Tight End was grabbing a plate of dogs I repeatedly said to her, "I'm better than him." That's about all I can remember. 14 Stellas and screaming, pleading, demanding the redhead turn this TV on this and put the volume on that and by the end of the night we both HATE EACH OTHER! She ends up becoming the worst person I've ever met, which is unfortunate because she's single and fucking smokin'. $500 Indiana, N.C. State, and Ohio and a bunch of other shit--every first and second half and parlays everywhere. Winner, winner, loser as Indiana fucks me. All in all I lose $900. $3000. DAY 3.... 3pm. Shower, toothbrush, cab, work, Mexi-Coke. I put $1000 each on Louiville and Ohio St.--Fuck it. My phone is on the bar and I'm stirring up Mojitos for these suburban broads. Whenever my manager is lurking around I toss the bevi-nap over the phone. Fucking Louisville is getting crushed as Florida won't miss. I start shooting chartreuse by myself. Then they make a ridiculous comeback in the final few minutes and win by 4. I'm 3 deep at the bar as I'm either fucking up a cocktail or ignoring these broads. My boss is just staring at me from across the bar shaking his head, resigned to the inevitability of my actions. The Buckeyes roll and I'm able to make Mojitos and chat these broads up. I'm blacked out behind the bar by midnight. $5000. Day 4.... Pain. Couch. The games are no brainers. $1000 each on Kansas and Kentucky. Kentucky is playing fraud Baylor. Easy winners. $7000.
Final Four Here we are 2 days away from the Final Four. There's also 18 races at the Fairgrounds on Friday including the Kentucky Oaks. Love the fucking Oaks. On Saturday before the Final Four there's the Louisiana Derby. I plan on being at the Fairgrounds for 10 hours on Friday and 6 on Saturday then going downtown and buying scalped tickets for these fucking games. I withdrew $3000 today for these fucking tickets along with a suit, steaks, and strippers. I've already put in my bets for the games. $2000 on Louisville catching the 8.5 and $2000 on Ohio State laying the 2.5. If these games win and I hit a superfecta or 8, this weekend has potential to be the best fucking weekend of my life. Bang bang.
