Round of Dirty Thirty-Two 03.23.03
Up above New York State, an hour or so away, lies Mohegan Sun, a mecca for weekend gamblers and Michael Jordan Steakhouse lovers. My friends will plan out trips to pile in a car and lose their money. A good time is had by all, they get drunk, relate stories, play roto baseball in the backseat of the car, catch up;
Down the Jersey turnpike is Atlantic City, famous for its boardwalk but more importantly for its bevy of gambling opportunities-- the Las Vegas of the East Coast. Except darker and smaller and shadier and perhaps with more hair gel and gold-chain tricksters. And out there, with the sea breezes drifting in, people drop coins for anything from slots to blackjack;
I don't bet.
This weekend I realized why. Drop just a ten spot on the NCAA tournament, and I found the highs and lows of basketball games making my stomach churn like Clooney and Wahlberg were riding my seas. Especially since I was perfectly right for the first five or six games. I was freaking Nostradamus. I was a goddamned oracle. I sayeth'd the sooth. Whoo-hah, do I love being right.
And then I was ridiculously wrong, over and over again. That's the last time I listen to the pundits about Mississippi State. U Penn, U tried. Notre Dame, I'm coming to South Bend and laying down a "terror attack," which will consist of my pointing and yelling. That's all. Homeland Security, please don't hurt me. I've read your suggestions.
Fo' sheezy, do I hate being wrong.