The Case of What Happens to Traitors, or Eating Bitter Goddamn Crow

Your ol’ pal Steve Baltimore has tasted pain this weekend. Where to begin? How about the way Odense crashed out of the Royal League? No, that’s small time. OK, how ‘bout how Werder Bremen and Bayern Munich fucking tied, dunking me on two bets with one game? (All you gambling historians out there, I had Werder for the win – based solely on Miroslav Klose being available for the game, and then he pulls out moments before the start.) Sure, that hurt, but my gold standard for the year, my clockwork assassins, my beloved Celtic; Celtic. Celtic – lost – in the derby – to fucking Rangers. RANGERS. I spontaneously shit myself over that one. And then the crying started.
Oh, but I didn’t know pain, not real, biting sorrow, until I checked the League Championship scores. The Tigers of Kingston-on-Hull, the brave men of the ancestral hometown, won. Handily, as well, at 2-0.
And I had bet against them.
I had bet against them.
Why?
I’d bet for them every game this year. At 6-2-10, I’d weathered a terrible beating, financially and emotionally, at the hands of Hull AFC. But I stuck with them. Marmey, Windass, Ricketts, Barmby, Forster and my personal favorite, The Beast Jon Parkin, I backed them every tie. But with Preston fully 12 slots ahead of them, I thought I’d bet with my head. With the statistics and the probabilities and the likelihoods – I’d go with those, and stop betting with my gut. My rotten, booze-soaked gut, which had thrown me down the hole too many times this year. I thought I’d take the shortcut, and make some of my Hull money back by betting against the boys. Parkin was on loan to Stoke, anyway – I was hurting.
2-0 to Hull. Lucky seventh win. Three spots (by dint of goal differential) clear of relegation.
I have learned a terrible lesson.
This gambling is a metaphor for life. I have piloted many a sinking ship to the bottom – but always to the bottom of a safe harbor. You see? You can’t abandon a sinking ship just because it’s sinking. Not even when the shoals are looming out there in the night-black waters. Not even when the engines die. Not even when the captain’s drunk.
Because that sinking ship is YOUR ship, and it’s your goddamn duty to stay with it until the bitter end.
I heard you, Hull AFC. I’m back on board.
300 on Hull to win this weekend – I’m back.

The Case of Football Sunday

I bet a bundle on the games this weekend, and I ain't breakin' even. Five bills on Hull to win brought me a tidy sum, but Celtic's draw (goddamn Ranger bastards) and the Gooners inability to score have cost me dearly. Adding to my woes are Sparta Rotterdam's dismal match and the absolute godawfulness of Werder Bremen's showing in the Champions League. Still, the GreenWhites did pull it out today, so I've picked up a little dosh on that front. If the Royal League would pick up the pace and play some games, I might actually turn a profit before Christmas.
Ah, why'm I complaining? That Hull victory has put me ten dollars in the clear on their season. I kept betting with my gut on those damn Tigers and they kept kicking me in the same spot. Maybe if The Beast hadn't gone down, I'd actually be drinking top-shelf rye tonight. Instead, in honor of my eight dollar bet on the Highland League, I'll be drinking Scotch and hoping those crazy Scots Vikings can find the back of the onion bag. Gimme a goal for every slug and the world'll be my oyster. A shit-filled, throat-choking oyster.
I think the real problem here is that everything I know about gambling on football I learned from my old man's old man -- and gramps died two years before I was born. I'm handicapped by fate and death, but I've got the blood of a lower-class drinker in my veins. I'd say it all cancels out, and my meager cash flow would back me up. Well, it'd back me up if it was currently available. I did lay that bet for Stenhousemuir, after all. I may not be making a killing on the games, but I drink like a champion.
See? It's a dead heat. Thanks, Old Man.
Stevedore