The madness of Vegas

Sin City and the NCAA Tournament: One man’s account of the debauchery these bedfellows can cause

By Trent Modglin

Somewhere, not so far away, the sun crests over the baked desert earth, shining brightly. It then begins its descent, ever so slowly, back toward the horizon. It’s late afternoon, I think, but I wouldn’t know for sure. I only catch slight glimpses of the sun’s rays during the day, small doses, if anything at all.

It’s March Madness time (circa 2005), and I’m in the sportsbook at the Las Vegas Bally’s, in the same seat I’ve been in since about 9 a.m., give or take a handful of standing shifts to get the blood circulating in the legs or trips to the food court, bathroom or bar to get another bucket of beer. Actually, now that I think about it, I think I have yet to see God’s natural form of light today, save for the bit that was sneaking in through the drapes when I stumbled out of bed. But what I have seen plenty of is basketball, and after a while, you train yourself not to miss the sun if there’s non-stop college hoops on about two dozen screens stationed at various angles in front of you. And, if you’re winning money. Can’t forget the money. In Vegas, you never forget about the money.

••••••••

It’s funny how an unmistakable buzz takes over a plane when the pilot announces the final approach to the Las Vegas airport. Whoever was asleep suddenly awakens. Whoever was daydreaming or reading is suddenly looking out the window, admiring the strip, anticipating a show or talking about what happened the last time they were there and how it still makes them shake their head.

When my plane lands and taxies to the terminal and finally that sound goes off, signifying the awkward time when people jump up, collect their belongings from the overhead compartment and then stare at each other in those anxious moments until the line starts to move, the guy next to me hears his cell phone ring. He looks at it, almost puzzled, then remembers where he is and scrambles to answer it.

“Hey, how’d we do?” he asks. “I don’t give a sh-- if they won, was the score under 147 or what?”

Another guy, in a Kentucky jersey, cusses at the “slow-moving bastards in first class” to get moving. He’s got friends to meet, games to watch, bets to place. He’s upset he didn’t get to put money down on all the No. 12 seeds against the No. 5s. No. 12 seeds always seem to do well against the 5s.

When you exit the plane, you feel the inevitable spring in your step, but you can’t help but notice them. The dazed looks of those on their way out of town, sitting in the terminal, waiting to board your plane, and you try not to let them faze you. They’ve been beaten. You’re here to be unbeatable, but they look like hell had asked them over for dinner and they were contemplating the invite.

In line to wait for a ride to my hotel, I overhear at least a dozen phone calls, from people just arriving to friends already situated in front of a TV somewhere. Asking about scores. Always about scores. And money. In Vegas, you never forget about the money.

“The guy’s up $250 before he lands, you’d think he could spring for the cab,” says a guy behind me with a distinct Boston accent, poking fun at his friend.

I ask my cab driver, a man with an accent I couldn’t quite match and a blurry name tag on the dashboard I couldn’t quite read, who he likes in the tournament. “I don’t know,” he replies almost too quickly, as if he knew it was coming, prepared as he was for such a weekend and all it brings. “I don’t want to humiliate myself. I don’t follow much of what’s going on.”

I immediately deem him to be a liar. I ask him about the NASCAR event that has just left town, about a construction worker’s convention, some 130,000 strong invading this Thursday, along with the throngs of basketball fans and whether it’ll be too busy to enjoy ourselves. He says all of March is crazy like this, but this opening weekend is the biggest time of the year for everyone working Sin City.

As he’s pulling my bags out of the trunk in the Bally’s parking lot, he looks at me momentarily, like he wants to tell me something but worries I’m wearing a wire for the Feds or something. “You ask me, so I tell you,” he says, now turning away from me, toward the driver’s door. “I like Duke, and the team that Pitino coaches for now. If you must know.”

He squints, puts his sunglasses back on and smiles a crooked grin, almost in a Tom Cruise mid-’80s sort of way. I knew it, the liar. The cabbie with an accent I couldn’t quite match and a name I couldn’t quite read likes Duke and Louisville, the team that Pitino coaches for now.

••••••••

My friend Kenny asks for his bill from the waitress. It’s late in the afternoon, not sure when, and he’s shocked his tab is only $56. He’s been there since he claimed his spot at 7 a.m. It’s about nine hours later, and buckets of beer cost $10. You do the math. He’s eaten some pizza, then a pretzel. That wasn’t on the bill though. It just seems like it should have been more.

At one point, big shooters like Texas, Gonzaga, Wake Forest and Arizona are all losing in the second halves of their games. The sportsbook is all abuzz with the thought of a run of upsets.

I meet a couple from Michigan sitting next to us. He’s wearing a Michigan State sweatshirt. She’s donning a Spartan green hat. They’re getting married this weekend in Vegas, she tells me. I congratulate them. Fun weekend to do it, I say. “We’re only getting married if MSU wins both games this weekend,” he says, face unflinching, eyes never leaving the TV above him. She pouts her lips, gives a look of disgust at no one in particular and removes her hand from around his waist so she can cross her arms, the way a lot of women do when they want to make a statement without saying a word. I figure this is a good time to leave them to root for their Spartans. Or leave her to root for his Spartans. I made sure to wish them luck and meander back to our table.

“This a--hole just bet $500 on LSU, and he doesn’t know one player on the team,” I overhear a guy announce to a table full of his pals on the way back. “A friend told me they’re a lock,” the bettor retorts. “And that’s gambling, baby.”

Other guys next to them were betting $5 each on what state Creighton was in before calling a friend with a broken leg who couldn’t make the trip to have him look it up the answer on the internet.

Across the sportsbook are empty buckets and empty bottles, littering the tops of tables. Failed betting receipts that have ripped out hearts rest in a pile of shreds, only there is no moment of silence. No one’s watching just to watch. There is a serious, vested interest at work here. A Nevada-Texas rivalry is going on, like two cheering sections of an arena trying to outdo one another. Finally, Nevada’s side rises and cheers once a cover is assured.

It’s at this point I realize this place has a worse guy-girl ratio than the first 30 minutes of a frat party at an engineering school.

Over at Caesar’s, it’s much of the same. Guys sit on the edge of a packed sportsbook, pretending to dabble in the nickel slots so they can watch and score free drinks at the same time. Drinks aren’t handed out pro bono in the sportsbook anymore, and that doesn’t go over well.

“They built places like this,” my friend Jay says, looking up at the impressive ceiling lights, “they built them because of people like us, and you’d think the least they could do is bring us a couple Coronas on the house.”

Meanwhile, Wake Forest connects on five free throws down the stretch and then a circus layup against token defense as time expires, but they still only win by 16, not the necessary 16.5 needed to cover the spread. Bummer. The place, though, is electric.

For as big as Caesar’s is, there are a limited number of seats available inside the parameters of the sportsbook. The ones who secure those seats are admired like the All-American quarterback who dates the cheerleader.

“For 16 years, it’s been right here at Caesar’s, always Caesar’s,” says Jerry Klein, leaning back alongside his brother, Jim, chewing on an unlit cigar from the second row of plush seats in front of massive screens tuned to all four games in progress. “The waitresses remember what we drink from year to year.”

The only year this duo missed the annual pilgrimage to the oasis of over-unders and hangovers was back about 10 years, when Jim was in the midst of a divorce.

“I thought we still should’ve come,” Jerry says unapologetically, never removing his eyes from the West Virginia forward driving the baseline. “I still think it would've been therapeutic for him.”

At this point, West Virginia is making a serious run that has the crowd excited. Lots of knees are bouncing. Jim Klein, watching UCLA playing its share of freshmen, suggests, “Man, I had more composure at 19 than they do. It’s never a good thing when you feel confident ripping up your bet receipt at halftime.”

During a timeout in a closely contested final game of the night, I look over to a table full of guys who had been sitting in the same spots all day, leaning on elbows, clapping or yelling or elbowing each other occasionally, standing only to hit the pisser or grab a slice.

During the commercial, they all break out their $1 bills and begin a game of liar’s poker with the serial numbers. Three zeros, says the first. There is a pause, as his friend to the left contemplates his options. Four threes, he adds, drawing comments from the peanut gallery.

In Vegas, the gambling doesn’t stop at a Chevy commercial.

••••••••

I am a college basketball fan but have never heard of Tyrone Salley before today. This is Friday, I think. Yeah, pretty sure it’s Friday. Anyway, never had a reason to care much about him until he tied the score for West Virginia at 58 by making two free throws with under a minute to play. Love the guy now.

And another thing about betting on games, even small amounts, like us. You find yourself rooting for the improbable to happen. Can a team get a steal and a foul with 2.1 seconds, or perhaps a bucket for overtime? You do your best not to start reaching for bets as a way to make up for previous miscues. Something should jump out at you on the list of spreads. If it doesn’t, don’t stretch for something you’re only lukewarm over. Many people in Vegas have trouble with this. It’s why the casinos are as fancy as they are. The fountain at Bellagio is probably operated every night just from people who can’t help making that logical three-game parlay into a questionable four-gamer.

“I am only going to Vegas with my wife from now on, and never again during the tournament,” Kenny complains. “I can’t control myself. It’s that simple. I’ve never left Vegas happy, and I know I’ll do less gambling if she’s with me and there’s no basketball on.”

A baseball cap and the occasional nap are essentials in Vegas, especially if you’re there for the long haul, meaning the entire first two rounds of the tourney. Not your grandpa’s naps that last 15 or 20 minutes, but your power naps, where you’re lucky to regain consciousness in three hours.

Friends of mine disappear from the table from time to time. A nap, perhaps a shower, a couple hands of blackjack or a burrito are in order to break up the monotony. But they always return to the TVs and the buckets of beer.

I learn never to bet on your archrival, or more specifically, the archrival of your alma mater. If they win and you cover, you’re left in a sort of purgatory, like if your girlfriend catches you flirting with a model. Guilt eventually overtakes you. You’re far from proud of your misgivings. If you lose the bet, you hate that rival even more. If the team wins the game but loses against the spread, you’re only compounding the pain.

Sometimes, even the most subtle line movements can cause a stir among the masses. Syracuse moves from –10.5 down to –9 over the course of the afternoon, sending people staggering back to the betting window, like a boxer after a bad round and the smelling salts.

When the games are over for the day, the sportsbooks clear out faster than a crowded elevator after a fart. Believe it or not, there are other things to do in Vegas.

••••••••

At 8:30 Saturday morning, the line for the betting windows at Bally’s is out the sportsbook, through the door and into the hallway, covering several hundred feet.

A guy at the bar is decked out in a Wisconsin uniform and hi-tops. I notice a shirt that reads, “I woke up Grumpy this morning. Normally, I let that bitch sleep.” Another reads, “Trust me, I’m a doctor.” Lots of superstitions too. Dolls, shirts from high school basketball camps and fuzzy ornaments. I see a guy holding a basketball. He says it started a few years ago, when he bet on games from his fraternity house. Picked it up one nervous night, and his team made a run from 20 down to cover in the last minute. Now he takes it with him to Vegas. At least he doesn’t bring it to the strip clubs, his friends say.

I really need the Southern Illinois game to be over. They’re covering, and would be the final winner in a parlay I was aching to cash in, but the clock seems to be going backward, like the clock at school in “Risky Business,” when Joel is worried about racing home to check on the prostitute staying at his house.

North Carolina starts bringing in their scrubs up 28 points. The line is 29. “Here come the white guys,” a guy starts cheering. “We got this one.” And a missed layup in the waning seconds secures the win for him, taking the points. Half cheers, half groans.

In a shocker, Bucknell beats Kansas outright, and moments later, a guy, the only guy in town with a Bucknell sweatshirt, walks into the bar we’re at. He gets high-fives from everyone in the vicinity. He suddenly has a ton of new friends. His girlfriend laughs.

On the other side of the bar, a man removes his Kansas sweatshirt and hangs it over the chair. It’s still sitting there 30 minutes after his group leaves. Still may be there for all I know.

“He’s a 90-percent free-throw shooter, dude,” one friend of mine says to the other, who needs a point or two for security. “You’re good to go.” On cue, he misses, and Wake Forest comes down and hits a three. A punch to the arm for the jinx. “Don’t worry, you’re set. What’s the worst that could happen — a turnover?” Ask and you shall receive. A charlie horse to the leg.

Every bar, every restaurant, every TV in a casino bar is absorbed by the tournament. Cell phone conversations are about point spreads and good point guards, not decadent hotels and flashy shows. For some, this is what heaven must hopefully be like.

••••••••

Eventually, your body begins to shut down. Even the most seasoned vets, the tough guys, face the inevitable shutdown. Vegas can do that to a man. Better men than you and me. Gets its grip on you and doesn’t let go. Too much alcohol, not enough sleep or fresh air, too many nerves spent watching college kids on a hardcourt toying with your emotions.

I wake up on Sunday morning and, despite never having smoked in my life, I feel like I downed two packs last night. I’m pretty sure I may have licked an ashtray at some point.

The place begins to clear out a bit on Sunday. Some have flown home to begin the recuperation process. Others are unconscious upstairs in their rooms, wearing the same clothes from 20 hours earlier and soon to be wondering how empty room-service plates showed up on the bedside table. It’s still a respectable showing in the sportsbook, just a later arrival with fewer games.

“Did that Coppenrath kid up and die or something?” someone at my table asks, wondering why the Vermont star isn’t on the court. “Why isn’t he in there? Shouldn’t someone notify Lesley Visser if they’re giving him CPR or something?”

We meet a group of girls from Michigan State, who look ridiculously perky for early on a Sunday afternoon in Vegas.

They’ve won a few bets and gained some confidence. They admittedly have the strut going when they walk to the window now. Then, they decided to bet against their Spartans. The unthinkable.

“All our friends are text messaging and calling us saying, “Isn’t this great? Go Spartans!” and we’re like, “Yeah, go team!” explains Sara, the spokesperson of the table full of bloody marys and over-sized sweatshirts no doubt slept in the night before. She makes a face. “We can never tell them the truth,” she says, “but we can take them out for dinner when we get back.

“Other than that, we bet a little something and then get together and decide whose uniforms look better and who’s got the cutest player. We remember the cute ones from the first-round games.”

I chuckle, not really knowing what to say after that.

“I hate North Carolina,” I overhear at the next table. “I really do.” Twenty seconds pass, and the stance changes. “I love North Carolina. I really do.”

There is a couple behind me in the betting line, and the husband wants to know what she’s thinking. I’m sure she’s pondering what wine they’re going to have with dinner, maybe the price of Celine Dion tickets. Instead, she starts spewing stats like a Dookie on NoDoz. I can’t believe this. Impressive, I tell her.

“Yeah?” the husband asks. “You can have her if you want.”

She shoots him a look I’m fairly certain he’s gotten before. “This is the only time I let him bet on sports all year,” she says. “This and those stupid Super Bowl squares his friend Bob does.”

Really?

“Yep,” he says, nodding. She looks down to straighten her skirt. He smiles and winks, assuring me he still wears the pants in the relationship. One-legged pants, anyway.

Back at our table, a man walks by, smelling something awful, like a cross between leftover Indian food in an unplugged refrigerator and Patrick Ewing’s gym bag. The stench lingers for 10 seconds after he leaves. What happens in Vegas may definitely stay in Vegas after all.

I’ve noticed that thousands of people I run into start looking familiar. Don’t know why, but it doesn’t come as a shock to me. My attention span is not the same on the last day. Not as sharp as it was. My mind wanders a bit more, the eyes sting a bit.

“White guys have to make free throws,” Kenny yells, snapping me back into the moment. “That’s their job. That’s why they’re on the team.”

He shakes his head in disgust. “I said it before and I’ll say it again, I hate white people.”

Kenny is white. Maybe one of the whitest people I know.

••••••••

I haven’t thought about Vegas for nearly two whole days. My sleep patterns are about back on track. My mind is again focused on work and my life in Chicago. Then, on Thursday night, as I’m watching the Sweet 16 games with friends at a local sports bar, things get close in one of the games, and I reach into my jeans pocket, looking for my betting receipt, my parlay cards, my scribbled marks on a napkin about an underdog I like with athletic guards and good rebounders, anything that would remind me of what I need to have happen in the game currently on the tube. Who had to knock down some free throws to protect that paper-thin lead and who needed to commit a few more careless turnovers down the stretch so I could nail down that cheap four-game parlay for 10-to-1 odds.

I search my pockets, but all I find is my wallet, keys and a couple pieces of gum. And lint. Not at all what I am looking for. Physically, sure, I may be at a neighborhood sports bar in Chicago, but mentally I remain in Sin City. Or just want to be. I wasn’t sure.

But that’s the way it works with that town sometimes. It sinks its teeth into you and doesn’t let go. It plays games with your mind. It makes you do things you wouldn’t ordinarily do. It beats you down and convinces you that you want to come back for more. That’s Vegas. That’s March Madness in Vegas. And that’s gambling, baby.

Click here for more Features