Don't pick the wrong team

Writer Mike got his nickname from two sources: He wrote sports and horse betting tickets by day, and he wrote short-story fiction by night.

He eeked out a living doing the former, but dreamed of hitting it big with the latter. Most of the gamblers figured he was nicknamed Writer Mike simply because he worked in a sportsbook. They didn’t know or care about his other interests.

Writer Mike had a quick wit and an easy way about him. I once asked him if he, by chance, had change for a $20 bill. 

“I’ve got change for a $20 by design,” he deadpanned.

“Let me start over,” I countered. “Do you, by design, have change for a $20?”

“There’s a chance I do,” he said.  

Mike also had an icy-cold detachment from his job. He loved sports and the sports betting industry, but never gambled. No moral reasoning, he just didn’t think he was good enough to win at it.

He respected but didn’t admire those who won; he empathized but didn’t sympathize with those who lost. Not that he had much choice. Pretending to care about the agony of losers is part of the job for a sportsbook employee.

Writer Mike never wrote stories about the wild characters he encountered at the sportsbook. I always wondered why, but never asked. I once overheard him say gamblers were too dull to make good copy, but I think he was joking.

Anyway, Mike’s humor, knowledge of sports betting and detachment from the clientele often intersected. Whenever I witnessed moments like these, I privately prayed management would pay Writer Mike whatever it took for him to stay forever. (It didn’t work; these days Mike is living off his wealthy wife and his aspirations for penning a best-seller)

One day, Hard Luck Larry came in and told another “bad-beat” story about how some 19-year-old kicker from Iowa cost him a six-team parlay and untold fortunes. Mike’s delicate reminder that Larry had only wagered $5 failed to soothe the gambler’s pain.

Larry finished venting and started walking away before he spotted that night’s high-profile game on the board.

“Hey Mike, do you have any advice on the big game tonight?” he asked.

“Yes,” Mike answered, pausing for effect. “Don’t pick the wrong team.”

Larry rolled his eyes and chuckled.

“No, really, do you have any hunches?”

“My hunch is you should stop gambling.”

Larry looked as if Mike had insulted his mother. Actually, Larry looked worse than that.

“What fun would that be?” he asked, rhetorically. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I couldn’t help but think that both men had valid points. If you spent some time around Writer Mike, you realized his subtle humor was peppered with practical advice.

After all, sports betting does boil down to picking winners, right? Even if you flipped a coin, you’d win your fair share. Picking winners might be a science, but it’s not rocket science. Some of the times I’ve struggled, I realized I was over thinking the whole thing.

I remembered writer Mike’s advice when I adopted a back-to-basics approach that has paid off in college football and college hoops this season. Here’s the short version:

If I can make a case for both teams, forget it.

If I can’t make a case for either team, forget it.

If the spread seems dead-on, forget it.

If I can make a good case for one team, consider it.

If I can make that good case a great one, fire away.

This “reduce-the-clutter” approach has really come in handy, as I have avoided the over-saturation of information available in this digital-media age, and I’ve limited my exposure to the influences of other would-be experts whose persuasion tactics seem to serve no purpose other than to get me second-guessing. 

I’m much better off doing my own research and diligence, and sticking with my first instinct. (“Unless your first instinct is the wrong team,” Writer Mike always said).

The alternative is following the advice Writer Mike gave Hard Luck Larry, to stay home and stop gambling. But I have to admit Hard Luck Larry had a point.

What fun would that be?