"I have no idea."

Two years ago, I wrote of a highly unlucky gambling trip to Las Vegas.  Well, here I was again (large surprise, huh?).  It's an important weekend of NCAA Football and Breeder's Cup races.  You know the dealing I had to do ensuring I'd dive head-first into this pit of despair?  Charity begins at home for this group, and so does life gambling for the rest.  I'm in one of those camps, and while my fortunes are better this time around, as I entered this rumpus room, I had WON all of my bets.  That's how life goes.  Did we sign up for that yo-yo?

(Not long after this excursion, I sat at a diner in Yermo, CA with Smiley.  We ate hash browns and discussed the possibilities of sports gambling as a vocation.  I had to tell her the sad truth:  "You do all this research, so when you win, that's your pay.  It is hard work paid off.  There's little thrill, like winning on a roulette number, because according to you it was supposed to happen.  If you win on a longshot, you get the thrill, but the rest is punch in, cash out.  But hard work can lead to losing money, and that's why everyone in there looks like they do.  Among other reasons of course.")

Matters not, because I was in the plus column after a disastrous weekend in October.  So I was scrambling in the sports book to find a seat at working TV to catch the vital Louisiana-Monroe/Louisiana-Lafayette game.  It's tied to one of my bets (naturally).  The desk I chose was littered with a half-dozen Churchill Downs tickets.  It is news to me that they race in November, and maybe to the man who previously sat here.  That's a LOT of fail tickets.  He left in haste is my guess.  He also left 3 pens (ballpoint pens in this sportsbook - we've all taken a step up!), a half-finished drink, and the wrapper for a high fiber bar. 

It was as I began to re-think the departure of this man when someone who I can only identify as the brother of Yukon Cornelius approached my station.  (It was an aisle seat, which, as a reporter, was to my advantage)

Yukon: (Unintelligible)
Me, realizing I'm being talked to: What?
Yukon, smiling: The only way you're gonna beat them is with a whip!
Me: Yeah...

Boy, I hope he's talking about horse racing.

The battle for Louisiana has been found.  (It took me a week to look it up and realize Lafayette and Monroe are NOT that close to each other: 3-4 hour drive in Sportsman's Paradise)  Let everyone else watch Northwestern and Nebraska...we've found our battle.  Clearing room on my desk I see an engraved plaque on the desk...one covered with tickets:  "Reserved for IPT Players.  See Management."  How about I don't?

I'm hearing the typical yelling as races get down the stretch, but what's been unique is the area near the collection desk: a group is there just congregating, waiting to cash in football tickets.  Their game must be near the end, but they CAN'T WAIT.  I'm really hoping for a riot of some sort, but it doesn't happen.  And then, from behind me a row or two: "Stupid Coach!"  Ahhh....that's the sportsbook member I know.

The action in Lafayette gets tight (I bet it does) when a gambling pro returns to his desk.  He has 3 magazines of various gambling and horse racing details, and multiple markers in a rainbow of colors.  By this look he should be all business, but he isn't.  He's uncomfortable, and annoyed.  Something isn't right.  The cocktail waitress walks by (at high speeds, likely frightened to death of the inhabitants, most of which looks like a High School Principal convention) and the pro stands assertively: "Miss?  Hot Tea...with MILK."  Before I can even finish asking myself if he's mentally on an airplane in 1962, he changes TV stations rapidly.  The screens here are touch, so you can move quickly between games.  "Jesus!"  Is it good or bad, Sir?  I find out seconds later.  "Back to Blackjack."

No words between us have been exchanged, but we both know he's going nowhere.  The markers and papers indicate otherwise.  In a feeble attempt of review, I scan the sheets for one last bet, something that would give me yet another excuse to extend this journey.  Again, from behind me: "3 man rush?  Sucks!"  It's not a good day for that man, like most, we'd gather.

The pro gambler to my left is getting more and more worked up.  He changed channels, muttered "Fuck.", changed channels again, and muttered "Damnit."  By word choice alone, there has to be a difference in outcomes, and his paperwork could give insight.  I'm starting to plot my next move of his actions...that and the fact that Lafayette is down 10.  The Cocktail Waitress walked right past the pro without the drink...something that did NOT please the man.  "Aw, Geez."  Wait a minute - what's with the Leave it to Beaver talk all of a sudden?  You're a Pro - do as Pros do, get pissed and swear aloud when Santa Anita's fortunes don't work out. 

The turnover was getting higher and higher.  The desk attendants were laughing, which made me curious...enough to wander out for fresher air.  It was just a brief breath, but I can't hide it: I wanted more.