Dominic J Mazziotta
The Name of the Game

_____He was picking the Jets? At seven and a half point underdogs (and that was a gift), the dumb bastard was taking the Jets. Maybe he filled in the wrong circle? Nope, he wanted the lowly New York Jets, who hadn’t covered, or even come close to covering a spread all season. And they’re playing the Colts! The team with the worst offense and defense, going up against the team with the best of both categories, and he took the Jets. What a dipshit.
_____Hell, I’ll take Phil Daniel’s money any day; it’s the name of the game. I wouldn’t be good at what I do if I had a heart that felt sorry for bad gamblers. They’re my salvation. Poor Phil hadn’t won all season, but he still had faith in his outrageous underdogs. I guess he figured the payout would be tremendous if he was right one time, but he never was. But I guess it’s the name of the game. Someone has to loose.
_____He just keeps feeding me his rent money. The poor old man. Can’t say I’m not fond of his addiction though. He’s what I like to call, a steady customer.
_____Six hundred dollars was what poor Phil was willing to throw away on a busted bet. He could’ve bought his wife something nice, like a necklace, or bracelet. Anything to make her forget about all the other paychecks he threw away. Maybe she wouldn’t lock him out if he did. Maybe he could tell me a story other than how he slept in his car. I can’t help but feel a little responsible, but I’m merely providing a service. It’s the name of the game.
_____The book was almost full now. Looks like another good week. Sometimes I’m glad I run the area of loyal, but ignorant gamblers. They always prayed for the upset, always betting it all on a long shot, hoping for a substantial payout. I loved and pitied them, but either way I still padded my pockets with their sweat stained bills. Nobody believes in taking small bites anymore. That’s the secret to winning, build up going small, then go big with the houses money, but nobody knows about that concept.
_____It made me feel bad sometimes; especially for guys like Ricky Manuel. Here was a guy, always smiling, always happy, just an all around good-hearted man, who couldn’t pick a winning ticket to save his ass. He seemed so good at everything though. He was a great father, always showing me baby pictures, loved his wife, did good at his job, but had no clue how to pick teams. I made me want to quit, each time I put his name in my book, knowing he was doomed again, and I’d be eating filet mignon with his cash. What he could do for his kids with that money, I would think? But I’m not in the position to have a compassionate heart. I provide a service; a service for the damned, something to give their lives some hope, at least for a Sunday. As much as a pitied them, there was nothing I could do. It’s the name of the game.