Mike Gelfand on the "Dreaded Four-Day Black Hole Known as the All-Star Break"

A gambler’s character is tested often, and sometimes at great risk. My friend Foul Mouth Dave — a legend at the racetrack — met his greatest crucible almost ten years ago, not long after he turned 40.

Dave had three rules for playing the horses: (1) Always bet more than you can afford; (2) Treat everyone, friends and foes alike, with a carefree and voluble stream of profane disdain; and (3) Do not allow even the prospect of death itself to separate you from the betting machine.

And so it was that on a rather ordinary summer night, Dave felt an odd sensation as he approached the video betting console at Canterbury Park. He managed to get his voucher into the assigned slot before his entire right side went numb. A mere mortal might have pondered the finality of what might have been a fatal cerebrovascular accident.

Not Dave. With his right hand now completely without feeling, Dave was facing just one problem: he always used his right index finger to punch the various numbers on the console. His friends were frantically dialing 911 and calling for a stretcher, but Dave paid no heed. No, Dave used his still pliant left hand to stabilize the right index finger and guide that pointing finger to the appropriate numbers.

“Jesus, Dave, do you know what’s happening?” one of his buddies said.

“Hell, yes, you worthless maggot,” Dave replied. “The four is going to get the lead and crush the favorite. I’m getting 8-to-1 on a sure thing.”

By now we could hear the wail of the ambulance siren as it neared the track. And finally, Dave started to panic. He had realized that he would probably be on the way to the hospital before the race went off.

Dave persisted, however. The great ones always do. The wager now executed, Dave was led to a stretcher, on which he awaited the first responders. As he drifted in and out of consciousness, he mumbled something about meaning to backwheel the four in case the colt tired in the stretch. But Dave no longer had the strength, and he was soon on the way to the hospital.

I thought of Dave a lot in the past week — just as I always do during the dreaded four-day Black Hole known as the All-Star Break

I thought of Dave a lot in the past week — just as I always do during the dreaded four-day Black Hole known as the All-Star Break. As a sports bettor, I try to make a considered wager every day. But the Black Hole is my own crucible. There are bets out there, of course, but do I really want to make a wager on the NBA Summer League? Or how about baseball’s Mexican League? There’s Olmecas de Tabasco vs. Diablos Rojos Del Mexico, always a great rivalry for the locals.  Or I could bet Wimbledon, but if I wanted to watch the match, I’d have to get up at something like 9 a.m. For me, that would not be a wager; it would be a cry for help.

So, as always, I manned up. I had to prove I could survive the Black Hole on my own terms.

First, I finally finished reading the 1245-page classic, The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich. If you’re not familiar with the book, it’s about a ruthless serial killer who becomes chancellor of Germany without actually winning a majority of the vote and then goes on to nearly crush democracy, gaining control of much of Europe but finally going too far after he forms an alliance with Russia. Crazy stuff and not exactly a distraction from my anxieties, but, still, I was now a free man, no longer enslaved by my compulsive gambling.

The next day I bought an actual newspaper, the kind that leaves black print on your hands. Yes, free at last. I spent most of the afternoon drinking coffee and reading the paper. After going through all the stories about this Russian thing, I called each of my three sons and told them how thankful I was that they are not idiots. The only time they embarrass me is when they point out my sloth and my inability to form meaningful relationships (except with them, but with kids, that never counts). It could be worse. My Grandma Sadie always said that, although if you hung out with her for a few hours, you might be able to figure out how.

Meanwhile, the All-Star game’s Home Run Derby was being held. I took a quick look and turned off the television, but not before laughing at the spectacle. The home run derby is a joke, sort of a vestigial ritual that I would compare to the county fair freak show’s tattooed lady. Baseball itself is now a home run derby. Seeing some of my least favorite players hit the ball over the fence, like nothing so much as 300-pound, beer-bellied softball dudes, is not my concept of a sport.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6eTeDQjpQZk&t=6s

Anyway, it was time for me to express my nerves of steel by attending a baseball game on which I could not wager. I had been avoiding going to a St. Paul Saints game for a  long time. Actually, forever. I like seeing the game played by guys who respect the traditions and play hard. But I’m not really fond of the tired shtick that goes with the Saints: the Dancing Harrys on the dugout roof, the swine mascot, the elderly women of the cloth massaging the fans…you get the picture. On the other hand, how often does a misanthrope like me get a chance to warn a nun not to touch him? (Nothing against the nuns. Not a religious thing. Just not that crazy about being touched.)

But, as hard as I tried not to, I enjoyed the game. A few of these guys might make it to the big leagues some day, but they are mostly there for the sheer love of the sport. For maybe $350 a week, they try harder than most of the spoiled millionaires who make the big time. These guys hit the cutoff man, round the base to draw the throw, lay down perfect bunts and even hit a home run now and then.

I mention this because I saw about two minutes of the All-Star game — just enough to see my least favorite player, Miguel Sano, hit a high fly ball that eventually landed between fielders. I figured it was an easy double and wondered whether Sano would bother to at least round second base. No such luck. The great spectacle of the Mid Summer Classic had not inspired him, just as most games do not. He stood at the batter’s box, not expending the energy to run to first until it became clear the ball could not be caught. Then he jogged to first.

Thursday, the final 24 hours of the Black Hole, was the hardest. By now I was thoroughly depressed by my increased knowledge of current events; the arrogant disinterest of major leaguers; and, most of all, the pain of withdrawal and the concomitant anxiety. I succumbed to temptation just a bit, making some online bets on a racetrack somewhere in Ohio. I won a few bucks, however, so I figured it was all right.

All the while, I asked myself? What Would Foul-Mouthed Dave Do? Which brings me back to where we started. Dave has somehow managed to turn 50 without having another cerebral event. And although he didn’t know it at the time, he eventually discovered that he had won that bet on the four horse, making a profit of almost $400. It wasn’t quite enough to cover his co-pay, but, still, considering the circumstances, it was an inspired wager. You might even say a stroke of genius.

As for me, I have to live with the knowledge that I will never measure up to Dave’s courage in the face of mortality. All I can say is that when two roads converged, I took the one less gambled — at least for four days. Not that it made much difference.

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