Catching Some Luck

It was, Murphy reflected, one of those days. One of those days inside one of those weeks inside one of those years inside of his whole life. The week had actually started well. He won ten thousand dollars in a poker game, when his seven-four off-suit draw paired at the river, and the ace-queen suited he was bucking failed to improve. Once in awhile fortune did favor the bold, though not often enough. Fortune, are you listening? You still owe me!

Ten grand was a large enough brick to begin building a castle, even an empire. He had invested it wisely, not putting all of his eggs in one basket. A few races here, some college basketball there, and it being fall, we can’t neglect the NFL, now can we? The eggs may have been in different baskets, but most of them cracked. Not only was his wallet ten thousand dollars emptier than it was a few days ago, but he owed sixty-six hundred to Conrad the Claw. Murphy wasn’t sure why Conrad was called “the Claw.” He was sure he wasn’t going to ask. Other than Conrad the only people Murphy knew who might know the answer were Conrad’s collectors, Ray Carpenter and Sebastian Wu. Some wag had dubbed them “Hammer and Tongs.” They hated being called Hammer and Tongs. They also hated being called Mr. Carpenter and Mr. Wu. They hated hearing anything except for two things: “Here is all of the money I owe,” or “ow!”

Murphy saw only one way to get the money back. Which is why he was trudging around the Fred Enke Golf Course, one of the City of Tucson’s finest, on a Sunday afternoon, when he could be watching the games with a cold beer and warm nachos at a sports bar like the Depot. Instead, he was across town, carrying his own clubs because he couldn’t afford a caddy, trying to win some money off his buddy Harvey.

Harvey was a lousy golfer. That was an advantage. Murphy was a worse golfer. That was a disadvantage. They were playing five-thousand-dollar Nassau, and Murphy was ahead as they played the final hole. Harvey had won the front nine, sixty-two to sixty-three. But on the back nine his game fell apart. He had just made a miracle shot which travelled one hundred and ninety yards and went into the hole, to give him a final score of one forty-nine. Murphy, meanwhile, had a one forty-five. So far. He could tie if he sank the ball in four more shots, and win five grand if he managed it in three or fewer. Since he had approximately no money, and exactly no money if you wanted to get technical, he needed to at least tie. Harvey was no Conrad the Claw, but he was bigger than Murphy, and he was excitable.

Concentrate, he told himself. One hundred and thirty yards isn’t so far! You’ve been in sand traps before. You can do it! He hit the ball solidly, and it flew. It flew at a forty-five-degree angle to the green, but at least it was flying. It hit a tree, changed direction, and to Murphy’s shock, he was on the green! In the distance he heard “shit!” from Harvey.

When he staggered to the green – someday he’d have a caddy, even a golf cart – he was astounded. There sat his ball, hovering on the edge of the cup. A one forty-seven, the back nine, and the game, were his!

“No tap ins!” Said Harvey.

“Damn it, Harvey, are you fucking kidding me?”

Harvey was not fucking kidding him. Murphy grabbed his putter, and, muttering about friends who weren’t real friends, lined up the gentlest putt of his life. All he needed was a stern look and that ball was going in. Slow and easy, that’s all he needed. 

What he didn’t need was a bee to choose that moment to sting the back of his neck. An instant later the ball was forty feet away, and off the green.

Murphy stomped after it, putter still clutched in his hand. His thoughts were a jumble. The round was lost, the game lost. His plan at this point was to see if he could drive the ball right through that bastard, Harvey’s, eye socket. I’ll give him not a tap in!

As he approached the ball, still stomping, he tripped. He lurched forward, his right hand gripping the putter windmilled up, and then as he tried to regain his balance it karate chopped backwards, striking the ball. The ball hopped once, hopped twice, and hopped in the hole like a good little bunny rabbit. Which gave him a one forty-eight to win the game, and an eighty-five to eighty-seven to win the round.

He had just finished counting the five thousand (three times, just to piss off Harvey), putting it in his wallet, and putting the wallet in his back pocket, when he felt a series of strange sensations. His left elbow froze as a huge hand wrapped around it. His right elbow also froze, as it likewise was grabbed. He levitated off the ground as the pair holding his arms lifted him. And he felt someone reach into his back pocket, and he heard Conrad’s voice say: “Let’s see how much money he just put away.”

He looked to his left, and there was Hammer. He looked to his right, and there was Tongs. He looked straight ahead, and there was Harvey who’d decided he didn’t want to stick around for conversation with any of the parties present, trotting away.

Conrad the Claw came around front, wallet in one hand, cash in the other. Which he riffled one-handed, counting it as fast as the machines the banks used. The man had practice. Murphy wondered if complaining to Fred Enke management about Conrad using more than one caddy would gain him anything. This was golf. There are rules!

“Five thousand,” said Conrad, stuffing the cash in his pocket and dropping the wallet on the ground. “You owe me another sixteen hundred. Plus interest, so two grand next week. Don’t be late!” He nodded at Hammer and Tongs, and they dropped Murphy next to his wallet. 

Murphy sat there, too dignified to get up until Conrad and his merry men were out of sight. Then he noticed his wallet, picked it up, and peered inside to see if there was still a stray dollar or two. No such luck, but there was a lottery ticket for Powerball.

He dug out his phone, and checked the Arizona Lottery web site. Hmm, the winning powerball was 23, and he had 23! He had money coming. The numbers were 5, 11, 17, 39, and 55, and he had 5 … 11 … 17 … He began reading slowly so as not to jinx himself. 39 …. And …. 55!!!! Oh my fucking god!! He checked the date, and yes, of course, the numbers were for last night. He checked the date on the ticket, and yes, yesterday. He’d bought it at Circle K on Friday. But he needed to check it again, and a third time. He checked the numbers again, and a third time. Yes, it was real. He felt dizzy, spots appearing before his eyes as he double- and triple-checked the most important number of them all: Four hundred and eighty-three million dollars!

He'd take it all at once, and when you did that, they gave you a reduced figure. Only if you took it in instalments over decades did you get the whole thing. They’d take taxes out before handing it over. He’d probably get around one hundred and forty-five million. Not four eighty-three, but a man could live on one hundred and forty-five million, if he budgeted wisely. He took a deep and grateful breath.

When last seen, Murphy was running across the fairway of the 18th hole, chasing a small slip of paper, windborne and gaining on him. 

 

Did You Know I Played the Sax?

 

I did. Not only that, I was taught by Apollo himself. Mr. Apollo, that is, who taught music and band during my fifth through eight grade years. But we aren’t here to talk about that. This report is on my trip to Los Angeles for the recent L.A. Open.

 

You may have heard that L.A. is a dangerous place. I don’t know about that, but it is true that tournament organizer Candace Mayeron put us in Jeopardy!

No, I didn’t compete! Those are all backgammon players, except the guy in the blue suit, who photobombed us. We had VIP seats for the taping of two future shows, to air October 10 and 11.

 

I had a very easy time the next day, in the Bob Glass Masters Jackpot. I played Dorn Bishop in the first round.

Dorn

The match was over one, two, three! He doubled me, I redoubled him (a bit too early), and then he redoubled me:

It’s an easy take, but I got gammoned. My Masters event lasted less than thirty minutes. What could be easier than that?

 

The Open was less easy. I won the qualifying round in the afternoon, which meant a long break until after dinner. In the evening, I won my first round, then lost the next. That put me in the Fighter’s bracket, where I won a round, and lost a round.

Having won matches in both the Main and the Fighters meant I was only six rounds from winning the Consolation, once I landed there. Why I was practically in the finals! Since 2022 I have played in three L.A. Open events (held in June) including this one, and two California State Championships (held in December), and had cashed in three, one in the Doubles with Carol Joy Cole, once in the Fighters, and once in the Consolation. Why not add a second Consolation prize?

 

Four wins later I was in the money, and would show off my Sax playing skills by playing Steve Sax in the Consolation Semifinals, the match to be streamed.

Steve Sax

Kent Goulding has been lecturing recently on the topic of Hidden Blunders. Those are the ones which seem like no brainers, but prove to be massive errors. Like this one.

There is one right play here; the rest are whoppers. Doing commentary, Alex Eshaghian mentioned the dictum, which I believe he attributed to Roberto Litzenberger, that one should never put three (or more) men on the 24pt. The alternative was “the Magriel,” playing bar/22, 24/23, which considering all my builders I would call “the Charge of the Light Brigade,” as into the Valley of Death would ride all of Steve’s back checkers. Steve opted to play bar/24, 13/10, which is what I’d probably have done, and which Alex seemed to favor as the lesser evil. It was a .100 blunder, slightly better than the Magriel. The best play is bar/22, and then slotting with 6/5! Sometimes duplication is overrated, and sometimes it is a great play.

 

No matter what he played, he was getting doubled. After Steve’s play it is .975, still a take, and he correctly took.

 

I made my five and bar with my next two rolls, but then thanks to 42 followed by 33, Steve matched my four-prime. I made a small error with my next roll, a 31. I played 13/9, thinking that it gave me an extra builder for my 3pt over 13/10, 6/5, and let me make a broken five-prime with 4s. XG prefers 13/10, 6/5 by .026. Steve responded with 22! From a borderline take to a borderline favorite in three rolls, without ever hitting.

Time for hidden blunder number two. The second-best play is only .50 worse than the best play, while the third-best play is a .202 double whopper! Guess which play I made? Guess which play is best.

I chose to run. There is some duplication, in that 4s hit in two places, but unless he can make his 3pt, we know where he will hit. Meanwhile, I give him 2s, and his “bad” rolls, 6s and 5s, aren’t so bad. He can hit with 65, his two biggest doubles are great rolls, and his other rolls with 6s and 5s aren’t really bad. Perhaps if I thought longer, I would have played 13/7, 13/11, which leaves fifteen numbers and cedes outfield control, but turns out to be much better than my choice. The right play, according to XG, is 7/5, 7/1. Even having seen it I would have trouble making that play. All it does is avoid immediate trouble, while weakening my position.

 

I was rewarded for my play, getting the sort of sequence I hoped for. Steve rolled 53, bringing around his outside spare, and hitting loose. I responded with 63, hitting back and jumping out. Unfortunately, Steve rolled an immediate two, and a roll or two later I faced this position.

After entering I played 14/10, but the correct play is to hit loose on my deuce. Not hitting is a .117 blunder. I am not sure if that was a “hidden” blunder, but I didn’t think it worth a lot of consideration, though I saw the play. Nor did the commentators mention it as an option.

 

I was again rewarded after a fashion, since Steve rolled 42, and could only hit me once, not twice. I fanned, and he next rolled 62, popping out to hit me on my 10pt. I entered both men with 31.

What say you, sports fans? It is 0 – 0 to 7; would you take this redouble? It is scary, but this is actually just barely a redouble by a whisker, due to the score. I can always redouble to kill gammons. Passing would be a huge blunder.

The commentators (Alex had been joined by David Wells) like 11/5, while I liked 7/1. Neither of us liked making my deuce, but it is the right play. Only by about .02 over the other two, but best is best. I was once again rewarded for the wrong play, when he rolled 51. I next rolled 21, a great shot, but after 24/23 I played 13/9, which gives him 63 and 62, but seems better than stacking builders with 6/4. XG says ‘stack,” by .022. He fanned again, and I rolled 64, playing 23/17, 9.5. Stack this, XG!

Steve came out with the 5, but then played 4/3, a .052 error. He was punished when I rolled 42, hitting, and covering. He fanned, and … I rolled 44. Slump! 

He picked up a second checker, after my board had crashed some more. I anchored on his ace.

There are worse rolls that 65, especially when he was forced to close me out.

When we reached this position I was resigned to trailing 0-4 to 7. The he rolled 66. But I could still save the gammon most of the time, especially if I entered quickly.

I entered bar/21, then played 13/8. XG says I should have played bar/16, but my play was only a .01 error. Then he rolled 66 again. I needed at least 18 pips over the next three rolls to save the gammon. And I got 21 pips! Unfortunately, they came 11, 41, 63, and with no men on my 3pt, 63 failed to save the gammon.

Oh, well, I never was good at playing the sax.