The DG: Not on this day, moose. Not on this day
One of life’s finest pleasures is a nice piece of beef. A steak - bloody or burnt.
Sirloin. T-bone. Filet mignon. It’s your choice, my carnivorous amigo.
Regardless of your preference though, the meat is the main character on the plate. The baked potato and coleslaw are just the side show.
Same goes for gambling. The action itself is the main course. The type of wager, secondary.
Although every wager has two sides, it’s sometimes impossible to pick a winner. It’s a 50-50 chance shot, but I’ve gone days without hitting the right side. Therein lies the beauty of betting totals.
Like a fat chick at 2 a.m., nothing makes for a better slump buster than an over/under.
There is something completely liberating about having action on a game and not caring who wins. When I handicap a game and then invest in the homework, it puts so much pressure on my pick to be correct.
If I’m wrong, not only do I lose my cash, but it makes me question my vision and, eventually, my sanity.
There is a healthy amount of humiliation that comes with pulling the trigger on a side only to find yourself blown out within a few minutes of the start of the game.
Is there anything more helpless then being down three or four goals after the first period in hockey?
Have we all been victims of being down a touchdown in a baseball game or 20 points in basketball?
Sometimes I feel like I’m trying harder than the players. Every little run, every act of good fortune takes a toll on my stamina. A bad losing streak feels like you’re always waiting on a miracle just to scrape out a push.
So, when I’m sick of having the baked potato, I can switch my side order to pasta or garlic mashed.
Instead of betting the favorite and hoping to improve, I can bet the under and I’m winning my wager before the game even starts. It’s a great concept on paper.
Teams and players have slumps. Bad weather puts the pressure on the players instead of the bettor. They have to produce offense to beat me.
These goalies are world class. This pitcher has amazing junk and 100-mph heater. They pay defensive coordinators millions of dollars to keep the other team off the score sheet.
These angles give me more of an edge than hoping the home team will simply play better because they got to bang their wives in the comfort of their own home the night before.
Unders may be profitable, but betting overs gets my heart racing. When I watch a game, I want to see offense. And there is no better form of positive reinforcement for a gambler than to equate touchdowns and home runs with hundred dollar bills.
It’s a simple procedure. You bet the over and the superstars do what they are paid to do.
Score. Hit. Catch. Whatever. It seems so organic, so natural. Teams and players are designed to put points on the board every time they put a play in motion.
Instead of having one side battling against the other, I now have both teams playing for me. And I only have to be half right. If one team lays an egg, I can still win my bet if the other team runs up the score.
That's why i love betting overs. But sometimes teams stall. Like last Friday, I had the Blue Jays and Indians to go over.
The line was set at 7.5 runs, and after five innings the score was 4-3, Jays. I was loving my action and anticipating the payoff.
Break out the voodoo dolls. Drop the noose. In walks the moose.
An hour later it’s in the bottom of the ninth and the score hasn’t changed. Runner on third and Cleveland has two outs.
I was down to my last strike early in the count. At this point, I was so low I could play handball with the curb.
Travis Buck was at the plate against John Rauch and every time the ball left his hand I would just close my eyes and wait for the bad news, but Buck was protecting the plate and fouling off his share of pitches.
Then came the foul ball pop up. The most helpless play in baseball.
Catcher Jose Molina had a bead on it and it was a race between space and gravity when the ball just missed his outstretched glove by inches near the dugout and I was given new life.
The at-bat took an eternity. I paced the room. I left the room. I went to the kitchen. I came back each time only to see foul ball after foul ball.
Then on the 12th pitch of the at-bat, Buck cashed in the runner on third with a blast over the center fielder’s head.
I must admit. I had already accepted the loss.
This time though, I stared the moose in the face and backed it down. I’ll grab my ankles and assume the position another day.