Tales of Triumph: The Final Chip

With beginner’s luck comes a blind arrogance, and I had an abundance of it back in the fall of 1997.

Although a novice dice roller at the time, my track record remained unblemished at the craps table.

I’d been to Foxwoods Casino a handful of visits, but each time emerged with a few Benjamins more than I’d brought in.

In fact, in the previous trip I’d snagged a nifty $1,100 playing the dreaded Don’t Pass line, a strategy (albeit an unpopular one) I’d learned from a wise, old co-worker.

On one obscure Tuesday in October of that year, I made south for the reservation.

Cocky and overconfident from my previous score, I strutted into Foxwoods with the most idealistic intentions.

Within minutes, I’d discovered the ugly side of gambling. For the first time ever, the dice were not rolling my way.

At 27, I pulled in a modest salary at best, living from one paycheck to the next. As such, a few hundred dollars either way held a profound impact on my financial stature.

My standard bet was always seven red chips, or thirty-five dollars, slapped straight down on the Don’t Pass line.

My luck with this strategy had been mystical, but unbeknownst to me at the time, not the norm. I was due for a humbling reality check.

And on this night, it came to me like a cold slap across the cheek.

My first hundred bucks were gone in a blink. A few Yo-levens on the come-out rolls had me scurrying off to the casino ATM.

Within a half hour, I was back entering my PIN, courtesy of a hot shooter who’d further darkened my dark side wager.

The hole dropped even deeper, both my gut and my wits betraying me. On previous nights, my Don’t Come bet against a 4 or 10 was a sure thing.

On this night, even after hedging it with a nickel on the hard 4 or 10, it was quickly starched by the soft 3-1 or 6-4.

It was just that kind of night.

Panic set in after my third ATM visit. Things had reached crisis mode. I softened the bet to $20, $15, and even $10, but it only prolonged the agony. My chips were quickly swallowed up by dealer fingertips.

Around midnight, I looked down at the table rack beneath me.

One red chip.

It was all that remained. I was like a soldier at war with just one bullet in his barrel.

Thankfully, the table allowed a $5 minimum, which was still highly common in 1997.  

But the voice in my head made the situation bluntly clear: “You lose it, you leave. No more ATM. That’s it.”

I dropped my last nickel onto the Don’t Pass line, dreading the dismal ride home. The point came. A six. Two rolls later it came .... a sweet sixty-one. Finally, a win.

I doubled up the bet to ten bucks for another do-or-die roll. After surviving the come-out, I prevailed over the point of 8. Out seven.

And with that, the hot streak was underway, as I triumphed over a series of conservative $10 bets. Now with a healthy buffer, I began dropping thirty-five dollars back onto the green felt. Out seven. Again. Again. And again. The surge of momentum was intoxicating. The table’s misery (everyone else was betting the “Come” line) became my prosperity. 

Incredibly, the $395 hole was now a mere $60. Like a prizefighter on the brink of collapse, I somehow found the gusto to battle back. On a whim, I dropped a black chip ($100) onto the don’ts amid a sea of Come bet chips. Incredibly, a win here would put me on the “up” side.

In three rolls, that’s exactly what transpired, as the shooter quickly sevened-out against the point of 4. What seemed like fantasy had become a reality, as I dropped another black beauty onto the felt. Again, a quick seven-out perpetuated the upswing and increased my fortune.

While my night had earlier been on life support, down to the mercy of one red chip, never had the Yogi Berra adage been so fitting. And when it was finally over, I found myself trekking back to Boston with $700 in my pocket (including my ATM withdrawals) and a cocky smirk returned to my face.

 – T-Ballgame