When Dad Won a Bet, Life Was Grand. When He Lost, We Ran for Cover.

You gotta pay the vig.

I always kept track of the point spread. For as long as I could remember, it was my first question before every football game. I’d ask impatiently, “What’s the point spread?” because when you bet on games with a bookie, the final score means nothing. The only thing that matters is the spread when you pay the vig.

Paying the vig is an agreed upon amount of fees and points between you and the person accepting the bet. The point spread theory is to make for a more level playing field. It’s put in place so no one will have an edge over the outcome of the game. No smart bookie would take a bet against a probable sure thing, so points are calculated on to the game favorite to create a “balance.” The favorite will not have an overwhelming advantage over the underdog. The team you bet on not only has to win the game, but has to win over the point spread for you to win the bet.

As teams scored, my little head would do the math. Up seven, down three. Back and forth for hours. And my stomach would turn. If there were a such thing as Irritable Bowel Syndrome 40 years ago, then my little girl body would have had it.

We often visited our close friends in Beverly Hills to watch the game. They were Italian, from New Haven, and as close as family. They lived in a large gorgeous home next to celebrities with impressive grounds and a swimming pool. Their doorbell played the theme from The Godfather. It was loud and crazy, with dining tables filled with the most amazing spread of food. Always included were trays of cold cuts rolled and placed for display, crusty bread, antipasto, and Italian desserts.

It was also super fun and decadent when dad was winning. My dad made bets like he had money to burn, even if it was actually money needed to pay the bills. He always knew he’d win it back. Eventually.

The hardest days were when he had a strong feeling about a team that would result in him betting against the team everyone was rooting for. If he’d win, he would boast, joke, and rub it in their faces, but if he was losing, he would never let on. We would be the only ones who knew. The whole house would be screaming and cheering for their winning team and I’d sit there quietly knowing that my dad had bet on the other team.

Every field goal, every touchdown, made me feel like I couldn’t breathe. The stomach pains would come with each score for the other team. And I couldn’t let on. There was so much joy and laughter and the duality was insane.

I am sure my mom was doing the math the whole time in her head too. She knew the reality. She knew what losing meant. For me, it would just be another terrifying ride home over Coldwater Canyon, sitting alone in the back seat, wide-eyed, being tossed side-to-side, my little body like a pinball bouncing around in an arcade machine. But for mom, it meant getting extensions on the electric bill and hiding the car.

My mom would quietly bite her lip as my dad was screaming at everyone. Would he go chasing after someone who wouldn’t get out of his way? Would he pull someone out of their car screaming like a madman? Or would it be eerily quiet? My mom and dad would give each other a look and he would say something like, “Don’t say a word, Peg,” and she wouldn’t. She knew better.

It wasn’t that she was afraid of him. It was that she didn’t want to kick him when he was down. What would be the point? So she waited. She would wait until he calmed down. Usually sometime in the next few days and she’d have her say. She would lecture him on being responsible and how he shouldn’t gamble away money he couldn’t replace. The funny thing was, he usually did replace it. And it usually was when my mom would really let him have it.

Dad would let her go on and on and when she was done he’d say something like, “What? You don’t like to win, Peg?” and then he would proceed to toss his winnings from the next game or the track up in the air like it was raining money. He would pull money that he had planted in each of his pockets for extra dramatic effect. He would throw wads of cash all over the room and at us and they would both laugh like silly children on Christmas morning. It seemed endless and theatrical and wonderful.

Our lives were like paying the vig. It was a huge swing of ups and downs. And because the ups were as good as anyone could have ever imagined, the downs were just as extreme. It was all part of the balance. It was the point spread of our existence.