Full Tilt

"Then, he pulled his head out of the horse's ass and told me it was the winner," the man sitting to my left said.

"Let me get this straight. You spent all day looking up horses butts to see how they were sweating?" I said.

"That's correct. More important than the sweat itself is the viscosity of it. A more foam-like substance, latherin, as they call it in the horse world, denotes a higher concentration of processed protein in the animal's system. At least, that is what Mateo, the horse expert I'm covering, says."

"So because of this sweat, American Baron is going to win?"

"Yes, that is a huge factor, but there's more to it than that. The third seed, Spirit of the Sky, has been having indigestion issues, and his trainers had to move him to a new type of oats for feed, this brand of oats being a little heavier than a typical, especially pre-race day. The second seed, Irish Winter, Mateo believes is still adjusting to the time zone change. He was brought out west from the East Coast just two days ago; his owners made him do a photoshoot for a large business event down in Ocala. American Baron has been trained and kept in Scottsdale, so the haul to Vegas shouldn't affect him at all."

"And the first seed?" I ask.

"He's too old. Last year was his last year of truly competitive races. At least, that is what Mateo says. My expose on him comes out tomorrow," he said, sliding me a business card.

Martin Doyle, it reads. Journalist at the Las Vegas Gazette.

He slides one to the man sitting on the other side of him too. Instead of business cards, I wish he were sliding more chips, particularly in my direction.

I'd been playing Poker for coming up on 13 hours now, and I was exhausted, and an exhausted player is only slightly better than an intoxicated one.

I had been losing. Bad. I wish I could chalk it to bad luck, but I knew there were many hands in my more-than-half-a-day long session that I had misplayed. I had had to go back to the register a few times and re-up my stack, buying in for more chips.

I had to admit, to myself, at the very least, I was on tilt—poker terminology for getting too frustrated or confused and playing overly aggressively.

The cards come again. I take a peek: jack and ten of diamonds. I call; I'm in for the pot. Martin raises. 2 other players call, and I follow suit. The flop comes up the queen of diamonds, two of spades, and nine of diamonds. About as good of a flop as I could ask for. I'm one card away from making a straight flush with either king or eight of diamonds. Even without the straight flush, I can still hit a regular flush or straight or still hit a ten or jack, in all cases having a decent hand.

When the betting comes to me, I raise to a decent size bet and double the pot's size, hoping to win it there. To my left and to my surprise, Martin raises, getting the other two players to fold. I'm confused, unsure of what he could have, but I feel comfortable in my hand strength to try and scare him off.

"All in," I say and shove the rest of my chips to the middle.

"Call," Martin says, almost immediately.

We throw our cards up, and my heart sinks. He had two queens. With the queen on the board, he has trips, an impressive hand.

The dealer shows the turn card. It is the three of clubs, no help to me. The river, or the final card, comes up, and it is the ten of spades, giving me a pair, but that's not nearly good enough to beat three queens.

The dealer pushes all the chips to Martin, and he laughs with glee. I feel my heart sinking even lower, down to my gut, and I rise from the table.

I shake Martin's hand, "Nice play."

"Thank you," he said. "And hey, if you're going to watch the race tonight, put a little money on American Baron."

"Alright, man," I said and then headed off. It was dawn outside the casino, and the sun was starting to rise over the strip.

I head to my hotel room and flop on the bed. I'm tired, drained, and sad. It feels like there's a gaping hole in my body, pulling all the life out of me. I start to cry. Hot tears trickle down my face, and I get the shakes.

Tonight was the worst loss of my career. Over 13 hours, I lost five thousand dollars. I played too aggressively and with too wide of a range of playable hands.

Still, this was the first time I had cried because of cards. I had broken things out of anger because of this game. I had pulled my hair out at the table while playing a stressful hand because of this game. But I had never cried because of this game before.

On my desk, there are dogeared books on Poker. The Theory of Poker by David Sklansky, which I had read too many times to count, and the Holy Bible of Poker, Doyle Brunson's Super System.

I replay my bad beats from the session and try to think of what Sklansky and Brunson would have done in those situations, but I'm too tired to think, which makes me cry, even more, snot pouring from my nose.

I decide to get some shut-eye and crawl into bed.

A few hours later, I take a seat at the diner and order a coffee with their breakfast special of 2 eggs, hash browns, toast, and a pancake.

I'm still upset about my loss last night and hunched over my cup of coffee when someone sits down across from me.

I look up to see a man in a fedora and trench coat. He has a heavy mustache and is short and stout.

"Teapot," I call him. He hates the name.

"Psh, don't call me that," he says. "How are you doing?"

"Been better," I said.

"Well, I've got something for you that can hopefully improve your mood," he said, then took out a small black notebook from the inside pocket of his trench coat. In the book, he has a ledger, tons of lines and numbers running through it, keeping a balance of his money. He jots and scribbles a few numbers out.

"20 grand for you," he said and then took out a checkbook.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," I said. "What's all this about?"

"I'm down bad this month, down really bad, and I need to get some money back. All my other players have been losing, and you're one of my best. So, I believe 20 grand is a good amount for you to win with. Do you agree?"

"Of course, I agree," I said. "20 grand is a lot for anyone to win with. But I've got to let you know, to be fair, I've been losing."

"Well, you're going to have to turn that around. If I can't pay Spider at the end of the month, I'm going to be in serious, serious trouble."

"We'll keep our normal sponsorship deal?" he continues, telling me more than asking. "You play, and we split the winnings 50/50."

With that, he signs the check and hands it to me. There's no point arguing with him.

I don't let it show, but I'm ecstatic. I have a chance to redeem myself from last night! I pay my tab and make my way to the Red Rock Casino; the Bellagio's less talked about younger brother.

I'm thinking about my strategy as the bellman opens the door for me. I should tighten up my range, and with the number of chips I can buy in for, I can still be aggressive and bet big at opponents to bully them around.

With this amount, I shouldn't have a problem forcing a few players all in and hopefully winning a few thousand dollars more in my first hours of play.

I made my way to the front desk to buy-in for a few thousand to start when something caught my eye. To the side of the main hallway, there is a room full of 60-inch flatscreen TVs. It's the casino's sports betting room.

On one of the screens, they are showing the odds for a welterweight championship fight tonight. It's been all over the news lately and is supposed to shatter pay-per-view records. What interests me about the screen is the parlay it is boasting.

A parlay is a bet that allows you to place a single bet for multiple different wagers, and you win only if all of those wagers hit.

This parlay consists of three bets. The first is that the underdog will land more body shots. Him being the shorter, stockier fighter and having a reputation for body shots; I can see it happening. The second is that the favorite will land more shots overall. He has a longer reach and is known for sticking to the outside. Again, this makes sense. The third and final wager is that the favorite will win with a score that shows him losing only 4/12 rounds.

This final wager is by far the riskiest one. But I take a look at the potential payout for the parlay, and it is 4/1. Incredible. If those three things were to happen, I could quadruple my money. I think it over briefly and decide it's safer than Poker. I make my way to the sports betting counter when I'm stopped in my tracks again.

The race. The horse race the journalist had mentioned. It was to begin in 15 minutes. Next to American Baron's name was the incredible 27:1 odds. I quickly grab a casino-owned calculator and magazine on the stand, detailing the upcoming race. I do the math.

At 27: 1 odds, if American Baron were to win, I can turn $20,000 into $540,000, keeping 50% for myself, or $270,000 in winnings. More than a quarter of a million dollars.

I quickly flip through the article about the race to see why American Baron is such an underdog. My main concern is the #1 seed, Darley. Too old, Martin had said. Was that seriously a consideration? According to the article, Darley had won the triple crown. Upon further research, that meant he won the Kentucky Derby, the Preakness Stakes, and the Belmont Stakes in a single year. He was the fourteenth horse ever to do so.

Martin's explanation of being too old made sense. According to the article, horses usually are only at their best for one year. I think. What gives American Baron an edge. Sweat viscosity? Was I really going to leave a $20,000 gamble up to, of all things, butt sweat?

Three minutes left before the race started. My poker playing was tilted lately, and with these odds, I could make myself a rich man, and more importantly, a Vegas Legend.

I go to the register and place my bet, handing over the entire $20,000. The attendants look at me in shock, then offer me free drinks on the house. I was happy to indulge; my heart was pounding.

I take a seat to watch the race when I hear a commotion coming from the floor. A group of cops was dragging a man out, his suit ruffled, cursing up a storm. They drag him past me. It was Martin.

A horn sounds, the gates open, and the horses take off.