Place Your Bet

Last night was the final game – the championship – for the “over 40” summer softball league. Our building – as it had in the regular softball season – went undefeated the entire season, got cocky and lost. Not only did they lose the game, but the main four players lost about $100 cash.



These four guys are all ringers. They’ve all played softball for years in the “prison leagues”. One guy – M & M – will tell you “I’ve played ball at every prison in the system since 1986”. That’s something he can put on his resume!


So these four guys in the spring just “happen” to all get moved into our building. I had thought about playing, but once I saw these four gems in action, I decided against it. They hand-picked who would play. They taunted and criticized their teammates and their opponents. And, they got cocky. “Pride goeth before the fall.” I learned that in my own situation. These clowns learned it with their bets.


Gambling is illegal in prison, yet we have one of the most sophisticated bookies here I’ve ever seen. He could work in Vegas at a casino’s sports book operation.


C is a young guy, 24. Ironically, his brother is a rising senior majoring in history at the University my ex teaches at. He’s been locked up for almost three years with seven to go. He ran his own “chop shop” in the Harrisonburg-Winchester area. He must have had a pretty large operation because he still owes in excess of $800,000 in restitution (for all the stolen cars he disassembled).


C has a great math mind. He knew of my gambling background and we hit it off. I don’t gamble. For awhile, I thought I suffered from a gambling addiction. Through therapy I realized it wasn’t gambling that was a problem, it was my wanting to be everything to everybody. In fact, I was a pretty good gambler. I had a positive win-loss rate in both Vegas (the Mirage) and Atlantic City (The Borgata) for the five years I played high limits craps.


Anyway, C and I routinely discuss odds and sports book. He runs a sheet on anything and everything: Baseball; NASCAR, WNBA; the World Cup. He clears $500 on a good week, then pays his “runners” (guys in every building who accept bets and collect) based on their intake.


He ran book on the softball league. Our “fearsome foursome” all decided to bet on themselves to win it all and to win big. As Pete Rose can attest, the cardinal rule in baseball is “no betting on the game.”


You would have thought they learned their lesson when they lost the regular league championship. No, these guys – while sitting around doing Bible study – also plotted how to run the action up to maximize their winnings.


Back to the game. The “Fab Four” squad is getting killed. One of the unique aspects of “prison sports” is the unbelievable amount of crap thrown at the players. Heckling is not an art form in here; it’s a way of life. And, everyone – even the guys in our building – is rooting against these four scumbags.


Right fielder makes an error, M & M explodes. Runner tagged out at home, Max hurls insults at his teammate; talking about his mother, his wife, his sexual orientation. Guys on the sides of the field hoot and holler. Every other word is profanity.


Then, ever so gradually, the tide begins to turn. The game gets closer, only one run down and last at bats. Two quick outs and the bottom of the order still to bat.


“Cheddar Bob” somehow places the ball just right to get a single. “Carolina” hits one in the gap and Cheddar moves to third. The crowd is going wild. Bettors hold their tickets waiting to see which way it goes.


Moore – the 10th place hitter – is due up. Max, M & M and Elliott are huddled by the bench. M & M whispers to Moore and then M & M retrieves his bat. M & M, the “Sultan of Swat”, “the Great Bambino” steps up to the plate. No one notices he’s batting out of order; no one notices the best softball players in the history of DOC are cheating. No one – that is – except for Jimbo – the other team’s first basemen.


“Walk Him”, he yells to his pitcher and, on three straight balls, M & M walks and heads to first. Max steps up to the plate.


Jimbo leans over and whispers to the first base ump. He pulls out the lineup card, looks at the bench, looks at M & M and yells out:


“Batted out of order; runner on first is out. Game over!”


Pure pandemonium breaks out. M & M is screaming; Elliott has to restrain him. Guys are laughing and cussing the “losers”.


I see C sitting at a picnic table. He smiles as I approach. “Made over $600 just on the game.”


I want to give a “shout out” to a guy who left this week and a guy who’s still here. “Boston” went back to the regional jail for “transition home” in 90 days. He hated a couple of guys he lived near. His final “see ya” – he left feces covered shorts on one guys bunk; urinated in another guy’s cup, and filled “friend number three’s” boots with used tissues and toilet paper. He made a sign for the C.O.’s that said simply “you clowns all suck. Die scum!” A beautiful farewell from a real gentleman.


Then, there’s Reggie who really is crazy. He’s our morning trash man who literally talks to his trash cans. He said something very enlightening to his trash cans the other day after an alleged Christian called him a “mental a—hole.” He looked at his trash can and said “wonder what Jesus would say to him for talking to me that way?”


I had to agree with his trash can: that was a hell of a good question!