The Thirty Percent Rule: While Ahead is When Thy Shall Quit

A Commentary from T-Ballgame

During one of my infamous Foxwoods Casino runs in the late 90’s, I can recall a particularly festive evening when the slots were singing and the tables were cranking.

I was hardly thirty seconds through the foyer when I found myself nose to chest with a twenty-something acquaintance named Pat.

At a lumbering 6-foot-5, Pat was an imposing, blue-collard type from Boston suburbia with a devout passion for casino wagering. When God manufactured Pat, he was generous with the brawn but a tad bit stingy with the brains.

On this night, dollar signs bristled in Pat’s eyes as our unexpected encounter brought us together amid a sea of table games.

What I noticed first about Pat, however, were his hands. They trembled excitedly under the lights, as he extended his palms toward me like a waiter serving a gourmet entrée.

“Look at this,” he blurted, barely able to contain himself. Within his palms were a scatter of orange casino chips. “I just won twelve-thousand on blackjack. This is going to be my down payment on a condo.”

Thrilled (and perhaps slightly envious), I repeatedly congratulated Pat, high-fiving him until my palm turned pink. Yes, in 1998, twelve grand could easily equate to a down payment on some nice digs.

Being about four years Pat’s senior, I then offered him some sound and sensible counsel.

“Pat, if you never listen to another word I say, I want you to listen to me now,” I began. “Take those chips and walk directly over to that window,” I ordered, pointing toward the Cashier’s booth. “Cash in those chips, then get the f--- out of here. Do it now.”

He nodded like an obedient puppy and said, “Yes, yes, I will. I will ... in a little while.”

“No!” I snapped. “You gotta do it now. Otherwise, you’ll regret it. Trust me.”

“I just want to play for a little while longer,” he said.

“Then at least go cash in ten grand and fiddle around with the rest,” I advised. “But dial it back. Do NOT cut into that ten grand, Pat. Don’t give it back.”

Did Pat listen? Did Richard Kimble kill his wife?

About an hour later, I moseyed through the busy blackjack area, and my eyes caught a glimpse of Pat hunkered down at a table’s shortstop position, head buried in his hands like a funeral mourner.

“How’s it going?” I asked, despite already knowing the answer.

“Don’t ask,” Pat spat out, hardly looking up from the table.

And so I didn’t.

I encountered Pat about a month later at a mutual friend’s party and inquired about the twelve-G fortune he’d initially scored on that night at the ‘woods. And, better yet, what about the condo?

“I went onto a cold table and lost it all,” he admitted. “Then I kept playing and lost a couple more thousand trying to get it back.”

I was immediately overcome by stomach nausea. He’d at one point been twelve-K onto the plus side but somehow submerged all the way under the equator and into the minus side. The worst part was that Pat’s woes were so direly predictable.

Greed had secured a chokehold on Pat and refused to let him go. And by the time he had tapped out, it was too late.

The prospect of getting gut-punched by the House is painful enough. But it hurts bigly when it comes on the heels of a prosperous surge.

The squandered fortunate is the flipside of the comeback euphoria. Nothing slices through your soul quite like a significant lead that dribbles through your legs Bill Buckner-style.

Take a lesson from chipster. Shave off roughly thirty percent of your gains and pocket the remainder.

I recently kicked off a Wednesday night grind session with a stop at the baccarat table, where I caught fire and rallied for nearly $800 in just ten minutes.

As I ventured my way onto the craps table, I opted to drop $500 into my pocket and keep the remaining $300 as my bankroll.

The psychological impact of such a play is as cathartic as your monetary one, as playing with House money removes yourself from stress better than a Calgon bath.

The only challenge comes in the form of the almighty discipline. In the event your new bankroll dissipates into nothingness, you must resist the urge to dig into your pocket to keep the meter running.

Nope. Nighty-night. You’re done!

Remember to heed the signs of greed, and, first and foremost, walk away a winner.

My old acquaintance was hardly so prudent. Due to another poor decision, Pat tragically passed away roughly five years later, but not before leaving behind a lesson to forever indulge.

After all, never had the sentiment of quitting while you’re ahead seemed so eerily pertinent.