Tales of Triumph: The Way, Way Back

They say you’ll never know the sweet smell of a fresh bloom until you’ve languished beneath the sod from time to time.

And it was supposed to be that savory type of day – my friend Rick’s birthday – when we settled upon Boston’s Encore casino with a hefty roll in our wallets and the highest of hopes in our hearts.

Seldom do things go as planned. From the outset, we found ourselves underground, fighting for a breath of salvation in the form of a few lucky sevens.

From the very first dice roll, we’d become Charlie Brown and Al Bundy – jinxed, cursed – call it what you will.

Only one thing kept my spirits afloat: my propensity for ferocious comebacks.

These massive come-from-behind rallies were seemingly in my DNA. It was hardly uncommon for me to erase a sizeable deficit and eek out a hard-fought draw against the house.

Some say the comeback surge is more exhilarating than a commanding victory because the emotional swings are so extreme.

On this day, I had abandoned my usual coffee diet (I prefer to stay sharp) in favor of a soothing cabernet. And why not? It was Rick’s birthday.

Nine pours and umpteenth treks to the ATM later, I finally maxed out my card’s daily limit. I was reduced to the way of the cash advance, a means to which I’d never reverted before.

Whereas I’d long been a cool, collected player, discipline and self-control were nowhere to be found. Rather, spontaneity and callousness were in heavy supply.

After the third such cash advance, I’d sunk to unprecedented depths. Never had the hole run so deep. Yet, a gravitational pull kept drawing me back to the cashier window.

There are times when, pun aside, you sense it’s just not in the cards. Ain’t happenin’.

And yet there are others when you sense something vastly different. You can feel it, just as I did on this day. A comeback still lurked in my future.

I ventured to the window for what I decided would be my final advance withdrawal.

But this time, I had a plan. It involved venturing boldly into a universe where I’d never ventured before.

With a mere $500 in my pocket, I vaguely recall climbing those carpeted stairs into the High Rollers section at the eleventh hour of this laborious grind – a prohibitive ‘dog, outmatched and outmanned, but hardly counted out.

Whereas craps was my one true love, baccarat had long been my lucky mistress. It was also my safety net, as it had bailed me out of financial quicksand on more than one occasion.

What you notice immediately about the High Rollers haven are those subtle nuances. Like in Titanic, the aristocrats are treated much differently from the vermin dwelling below. You feel like a celebrity up here, met with smiles, greetings, and first-rate drink service.

I zoned in on an empty table – a $200 minimum – with a charming female dealer.

The fact that the table held a clean shoe – the board displayed a 0-0 tally – was considered a risky endeavor. Baccarat players typically prefer to join a table in mid-shoe to assess the streaks and trends and bet accordingly. But this table showed no such footprints, no preceding history to gauge.

Nonetheless, with a stroke of bravado, I settled in for my final standoff of the day – and my last glimmer of hope. If it went the route of Michael Spinks (a quick knockout defeat), I’d be lapping my wounds and ghosting this joint for many moons to come.

In baccarat, the first card out of the shoe determines how many additional cards will be drawn before the game officially commences. Her first pull was a 7 – and so she revealed the next seven cards out of the rack.

After studying the layout, I dropped two black chips on the Player line.

Oddly enough, a medicinal calm overcame me. Under any circumstances, my heartrate would be jacked to the Boston skyline. Dropping two bills on one bet was no joke for a scrub like me. But perhaps when you’ve been whacked in the gut all day, you become desensitized.

Right now, I felt focused, confident – like I knew something inexplicable.

I’d also learned that playing upstairs with the big guns brought an element of theater with it. The cards were dished out face-down to add to the game’s “dramatic” effect, although it had positively zero bearing on the outcome.

I calmly turned over the two Player cards:

King-9 combo. A natural 9. The perfect hand. I had landed the first blow.

Before the dealer swept them up in her palm, I quickly studied the spread across the tabletop. Believe it or not, there is a method to my mayhem – and which way I wager (Player or Banker) on the ensuing round. For now, it will remain in the vault.

I dropped two black ones on the Banker this time. I turned over my two cards.

A natural 8. Another instant winner.

Unlike Spinks, I had lasted more than 91 seconds.

Looking back, I realize the most surreal moments of your life are oftentimes a blur. You remember the event as a whole, but the intricate details are a mishmash of random thoughts and mental images.

Exactly what happened next will forever be lost in a cloud of euphoria and red wine. But I do know this: I went from being the ass-kickee to the ass-kicker, and the House was now on the receiving end.

I must have rattled off eight or nine wins in a row, as black chips were suddenly scattered before me like Oreos.

At some point, I was joined by a second player – a brash, cocky Rico Suave-type in silky threads and gleaming karats. He brought a large entourage, too, and they hovered beside him like loyal minions.

For whatever reason, the kid decided to go opposite of me. When I’d go Player, he’d bet Banker. I’d go Banker, he’d swing back to Player. Perhaps to antagonize me, to enamor his gang – who knows?

For a fleeting moment, I wondered ...

Would this unexpected wildcard throw off my mojo?

Nope, not a chance. My dizzying streak only intensified, and my fortune became his grave misfortune.

Foolishly, he doubled down on his reckless approach, even reverted to lame taunts, only to taste defeat again, again, and again.

It brought me zero satisfaction. My focus was strictly the cards – and winning back my money.

Unbeknownst to me, I had at some point texted my friend Rick, who was still tossing dice downstairs:

Me: Brother, I’m crushing it.

Brother: No way.

Twenty-eight minutes later, at 8:03 p.m., I texted him again.

Me: I’m f***ing crushing it.

Rick then ascended the imperial staircase to witness this miracle first-hand. He arrived just in time to see me notch another win and, for the first time all day, land north of the equator.

Yes, after enduring an 11-hour beatdown, I was actually on the plus side, smelling the blooms.

I carried on until my next defeat, which didn’t arrive until a few hands later. When it did, I finally turned off my game face and basked in the achievement of what I’d pulled off.

I was now Matt Damon after the Rounders finale, letting out a triumphant sigh, part of it relief, the other part holy shit.

After devouring a Chinese combination plate (we hadn’t eaten all day), I awoke the next morning to mixed emotions. Sure, I was elated to pull off such a riveting comeback, an improbable feat I could savor for many years to come.

But I was simultaneously disappointed in myself for losing focus, for relinquishing self-control, and allowing the damage to reach a harrowing level.

The experience would ultimately serve as lessons learned. Stay sharp. Remain disciplined. Know your basement. And for the love of God, lay off the red vino!

Nonetheless, my remembrance of the second day of September will forever be twofold: Rick’s birthday was a glorious one – and my most epic chip tale to date.

T-Ballgame