(What follows is an excerpt from Never enough Zeroes, written by Joel Soper and Philip Wyeth. For information on how to purchase, scroll to the bottom.)
Here’s the thing about being a compulsive gambler – there’s never enough zeroes.
I’ve had weeks where I won a hundred thousand dollars. Did I treat myself to a holiday in palm Springs? Camiseta Eintracht Frankfurt Nope. Did I get a new car? No, sir.
What happens when I’m flush with cash is that I increase the amount of each wager. For example, if I usually bet five hundred on a particular game, now it’ll be a thousand. So I can win more, get that rush and feel the thrill of winning again.
That’s really what it is. All that it is. Which is why I say forget the money. If some aunt dies and leaves me half a million tax-free, unless that value’s locked up in a depend on or an actual piece of real estate, then I’ll just use it as principal on my next bet. and the next hundred bets after that.
Every game being played is like a little baggie of heroin. My week ends up looking like a block on Skid Row. anywhere you turn someone’s sprawled out on the ground, and each one of them is me after losing a bet.
Fifteen hundred on the Lakers-Mavs game. three Camiseta Selección de fútbol de Suiza hundred on the second period of the Blackhawks versus the Bruins. and another hundred on Chinese women’s basketball simply because I couldn’t sleep at midnight.
So who’s got my money? Scumbags. often they run a little mom-and-pop restaurant as a tax front. some of them offer a little side action out of a legit poker room. Others I never even meet because they host a gambling web site that’s based overseas.
But they all have one thing in common. They’ve got no problem laying out that piece of cheese for me – and every time, like some animal that’s too dumb to ever learn, I choose the bait.
And no matter how battered, bruised, or miserable I am, as long as I have a few crumpled dollar bills in my hand, they never turn me away. No pity, no compassion, no shred of humanity to say no for my own good.
Why? because they’re just as greedy as I am. sitting on the opposite side of a table that’s made of rotten wood.
It’s hell, honestly. We’re in hell, the lot of us. Chasing after vicarious thrills taking place in arenas we’ll never set foot upon ourselves. moments of athletic glory we pollute by carving them up with rusty scalpels.
Plus-7 to cover the spread. two or a lot more hits for the cleanup hitter. A 55-yard field goal before halftime that’s wonderful not because the kicker was on the practice squad a few weeks ago, but because those three points put an extra two grand in our pocket.
It’s disgusting. We’re disgusting. but saying it isn’t enough, you know? We’re trapped in a maze living the same day for years on end.
Athletes come and go. playing for one team this season, then signing on as a complimentary agent or retiring the next. I don’t even care because they’re just like cards in a deck on a night of twenty poker hands.
These sports heroes have the power to make or break my week – but not my heart. because I’m not a kid anymore, right? All the Detroit teams I loved growing up – the Pistons, the Red Wings, the Lions and Tigers – they don’t matter as much to me now. So if the Pistons lose and I win money, or if they win but not by enough, so that I lose money…
I’ve cut my soul out of sports and replaced it with my own personal chase. I pursue it while sitting alone in some Starbucks in the San Fernando Valley. Or I’ve got the game stats updating on my cell phone while driving out to a client on the 101 Freeway. I’ll see a goal scored out of the corner of my eye and get a little thrill. cash for me, yeah.
I used to be a hell of a soccer player myself back in the day. The feeling I got after sending one past the goalie from thirty yards out, now that was pure. You can’t bottle it, that’s for sure. So you close your eyes and chase after it for the rest of your life, intending to catch another whiff of running across a dewy green field in April, to relive that bittersweet memory from a simpler time that’s so far removed from reality…
Because all those professionals you see on TV? It isn’t so pure for them anymore, either. They’ve got big contracts, plus endorsement deals with merch brands and automobile insurance companies. They’ve got secret girlfriends with expensive tastes Camiseta SS Lazio or ex-wives who take a cut of their salary each month. They’ve got back spasms and an unlicensed pain-pill dealer so they can hopefully eke out an extra season or two in the starting lineup.
What I’m saying is that when it pertains to sports, it’s all in our heads. We make of it whatever we want it to indicate – and none of us can turn our eyes away. As that spiraling football arcs majestically toward the open large receiver, we collectively hold our breath for a million different reasons.
The daddy of the quarterback wondering if his kid has what it takes for a real career. The assistannull