Confessions of a sports betting junkie
By Patrick Hruby
THE WASHINGTON TIMES
On a good day, he'll grab a bite at the sandwich shop. Maybe even go out for a drink. On a really good day, he won't bother. Not when there's money on the table. And not when he's riding a hot streak. On any given Saturday, more than a hundred college football teams take the field ? a coast-to-coast buffet of injured stars, crummy coaches, inflated point spreads. He might have action on a half-dozen.
If that's the case, forget dinner. Breakfast is a stretch.
"Watching a full day of football isn't easy," he says. "There's a Subway like walking distance from my house. Five minutes. If I go there, I'm doing good. I usually eat a lot of Chunky Soup."
Call him KJ. He's 35, single and lives in Northern Virginia. He works as a consultant for the federal government and plays pickup basketball at a local gym. Over the last four years, KJ estimates, he's gambled away $100,000. Some of it on high-stakes poker. Most of it on sports.
"If I didn't bet, I'd have probably paid my mortgage by now," he says with a sigh.
KJ has wagered on the dramatic (the New York-Boston American League Championship Series). The mundane (early season Nets-Pacers). The downright foolhardy (hockey). He's bet against his beloved Washington Redskins ? with great success, he says ? and put money on the second half of a Maryland football game. In a single week, he's won as much as $3,700 ? and lost more than double that amount. He knows four bookies, one of them since college.
Sometimes, KJ takes in sports while running at the gym. More than once, he admits, he's gotten so wrapped up in the action on screen ? and his action on the side ? that he's fallen off his treadmill.
And that's when his team is winning.
"You're watching Central Florida against Toledo like it's a big deal, hanging on every last play," KJ says. "And people are wondering, 'What is going on with this guy?' "
Lost weekends
He lives in a red brick house in Herndon, just off the Dulles Toll Road. Inside, his place is clean, decorated with the accouterments of bachelorhood: A big-screen TV, a barbell, a framed headline of Maryland's college basketball championship, a lonely looking ab roller.
Outside, dead leaves blanket his front yard, spilling across the sidewalk and over the curb. Look around: It's the only yard in the neighborhood that hasn't been cleared and bagged.
"Somebody's going to rake it," KJ says, scooping up branches that have accumulated by his front door. "It won't be me."
Certainly not. Football beckons. If KJ has a hunch, he will bet the Thursday and Friday night college games. Otherwise, his real work begins Saturday morning. And carries through to the Sunday night NFL game.
As for typical weekend activities, such as going to Home Depot or putting on a pair of pants? They tend to get lost in the shuffle.
"For 48 hours, he doesn't sleep or eat," says Han, a friend who has known KJ since childhood. "I come over to his house. He's on the sofa, flipping channels. Most of the time, he's in his underwear. Bring some shades."
Weekend after weekend, KJ wakes up to the early broadcast of ESPN's "College Gameday." He likes Kirk Herbstreit ? not because the former Ohio State quarterback offers entertaining commentary but because he "knows the Big Ten."
Next comes a trip to KJ's upstairs office. On a bookshelf, Tolstoy's "War and Peace" sits next to Bill Gates' "The Road Ahead"; in a trash can, there's an invitation to a holiday party at Bally's casino in Atlantic City.
KJ sits in a black leather chair, computer mouse in hand. He scrutinizes team statistics at Sportsline.com, then browses the message boards at a well-known sports gambling site. There, posters with names like "DiceThrower" and "Wiseguy" offer advice on the day's games.
As a Maryland alum, KJ closely follows the ACC. But when it comes to other conferences, he looks for a little advice. The sort of advice only an anonymous Internet gambling junkie can provide.
"I know the people on the board who live in certain areas, who know certain teams," KJ says. "DiceThrower is good with the SEC. I don't necessarily follow everything he says, but I try to listen."
Like sports gamblers since time immemorial, KJ wagers through a local bookie; in a thoroughly modern twist, he does so online. Once he enters his account name and password, the bookie's Web site offers action on the NFL, the NBA, college sports and Canadian football. There's also a page for English Premier League and Italian Serie A soccer.
"I never dabble in that," KJ says.
Usually, KJ waits until five minutes before kickoff of the noon game to place his wagers. Bet any sooner, he says, and you risk getting burned by previously unannounced player injuries. After logging his bets ? typically between $500 to $1,000 a contest ? he ambles down to his living room to watch games.
On the way, he makes a point of loading his dishwasher or starting a load of laundry. His carpet looks near-new, the result of frequent vacuuming.
"It makes me feel less guilty," he says. "I could do other things. Fix my house. Go jogging. Play basketball. Every Sunday morning before the football season started, I used to play. Not anymore."
http://www.washtimes.com/sports/20031202-120408-7998r.htm
By Patrick Hruby
THE WASHINGTON TIMES
On a good day, he'll grab a bite at the sandwich shop. Maybe even go out for a drink. On a really good day, he won't bother. Not when there's money on the table. And not when he's riding a hot streak. On any given Saturday, more than a hundred college football teams take the field ? a coast-to-coast buffet of injured stars, crummy coaches, inflated point spreads. He might have action on a half-dozen.
If that's the case, forget dinner. Breakfast is a stretch.
"Watching a full day of football isn't easy," he says. "There's a Subway like walking distance from my house. Five minutes. If I go there, I'm doing good. I usually eat a lot of Chunky Soup."
Call him KJ. He's 35, single and lives in Northern Virginia. He works as a consultant for the federal government and plays pickup basketball at a local gym. Over the last four years, KJ estimates, he's gambled away $100,000. Some of it on high-stakes poker. Most of it on sports.
"If I didn't bet, I'd have probably paid my mortgage by now," he says with a sigh.
KJ has wagered on the dramatic (the New York-Boston American League Championship Series). The mundane (early season Nets-Pacers). The downright foolhardy (hockey). He's bet against his beloved Washington Redskins ? with great success, he says ? and put money on the second half of a Maryland football game. In a single week, he's won as much as $3,700 ? and lost more than double that amount. He knows four bookies, one of them since college.
Sometimes, KJ takes in sports while running at the gym. More than once, he admits, he's gotten so wrapped up in the action on screen ? and his action on the side ? that he's fallen off his treadmill.
And that's when his team is winning.
"You're watching Central Florida against Toledo like it's a big deal, hanging on every last play," KJ says. "And people are wondering, 'What is going on with this guy?' "
Lost weekends
He lives in a red brick house in Herndon, just off the Dulles Toll Road. Inside, his place is clean, decorated with the accouterments of bachelorhood: A big-screen TV, a barbell, a framed headline of Maryland's college basketball championship, a lonely looking ab roller.
Outside, dead leaves blanket his front yard, spilling across the sidewalk and over the curb. Look around: It's the only yard in the neighborhood that hasn't been cleared and bagged.
"Somebody's going to rake it," KJ says, scooping up branches that have accumulated by his front door. "It won't be me."
Certainly not. Football beckons. If KJ has a hunch, he will bet the Thursday and Friday night college games. Otherwise, his real work begins Saturday morning. And carries through to the Sunday night NFL game.
As for typical weekend activities, such as going to Home Depot or putting on a pair of pants? They tend to get lost in the shuffle.
"For 48 hours, he doesn't sleep or eat," says Han, a friend who has known KJ since childhood. "I come over to his house. He's on the sofa, flipping channels. Most of the time, he's in his underwear. Bring some shades."
Weekend after weekend, KJ wakes up to the early broadcast of ESPN's "College Gameday." He likes Kirk Herbstreit ? not because the former Ohio State quarterback offers entertaining commentary but because he "knows the Big Ten."
Next comes a trip to KJ's upstairs office. On a bookshelf, Tolstoy's "War and Peace" sits next to Bill Gates' "The Road Ahead"; in a trash can, there's an invitation to a holiday party at Bally's casino in Atlantic City.
KJ sits in a black leather chair, computer mouse in hand. He scrutinizes team statistics at Sportsline.com, then browses the message boards at a well-known sports gambling site. There, posters with names like "DiceThrower" and "Wiseguy" offer advice on the day's games.
As a Maryland alum, KJ closely follows the ACC. But when it comes to other conferences, he looks for a little advice. The sort of advice only an anonymous Internet gambling junkie can provide.
"I know the people on the board who live in certain areas, who know certain teams," KJ says. "DiceThrower is good with the SEC. I don't necessarily follow everything he says, but I try to listen."
Like sports gamblers since time immemorial, KJ wagers through a local bookie; in a thoroughly modern twist, he does so online. Once he enters his account name and password, the bookie's Web site offers action on the NFL, the NBA, college sports and Canadian football. There's also a page for English Premier League and Italian Serie A soccer.
"I never dabble in that," KJ says.
Usually, KJ waits until five minutes before kickoff of the noon game to place his wagers. Bet any sooner, he says, and you risk getting burned by previously unannounced player injuries. After logging his bets ? typically between $500 to $1,000 a contest ? he ambles down to his living room to watch games.
On the way, he makes a point of loading his dishwasher or starting a load of laundry. His carpet looks near-new, the result of frequent vacuuming.
"It makes me feel less guilty," he says. "I could do other things. Fix my house. Go jogging. Play basketball. Every Sunday morning before the football season started, I used to play. Not anymore."
http://www.washtimes.com/sports/20031202-120408-7998r.htm
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