Spat On and Shat On and Raped and Abused: A Gambling Tale
It was bound to happen. There would be no escaping. The Great Scorer always collects. If the ledger is not in balance and you are on the wrong side of it then be prepared. Debts will be called in and payment will not be easy or pleasant. This is a non-cash business. The only currencies accepted are pain and heartache and despair and frustration and gut wrenchingly brutal desolation that leaves you feeling emotionally castrated, financially crippled and mentally fragile to the point that you begin to see midget kitchen ladies roller skating through rat infested buildings every time you close your eyes.
There was a loud banging on the door late on Friday night and I was overcome by a deep sense of fear. There was nowhere to run, no place to turn.
The hour had arrived.
The Karma creditors were calling and they wielded baseball bats and bottles of mace, not collection notices and threats of a legal nature. I was well in Karmic debt and with accrued interest I was in up to my eyeballs. A recent romantic misfortune, the severe inconvenience of being forced to move and a fundamental shift into the strange world of non-smoking have all apparently barely made a dent in my karmic obligation. Payment was going to be heavy.
In January of this year I wrote an article titled “When the Cards Fall Just A Little Too Kindly” Click Here It had been the Summer of Tedeschi but I was full of The Fear and constantly on edge about the timing and method of the ledger squaring. “I am nearly paralysed with fear at what 2009 will hold” I wrote. “The Great Scorer…will almost surely take vengeance on me” I stated with near certainty. “What goes around, comes around, they say. Those words terrify me more than any others right now. The good times have to end and the thud will be heavy and brutal.”
That kind of foresight would once have been viewed as either coming from a deep well of wisdom or the back streets of the occult but to a neurotic with a deep understanding of economics, it was merely the statement of facts. Every action has a reaction and all good is balanced by bad. The invisible hand of The Great Scorer was bound to bring the hammer down hard.
And he did. By the end of the weekend I was left cowering in the gutter, spat on and shat on and raped and abused by the Gods of Karma, to paraphrase Shane MacGowan. I was stomped with such viciousness and brutality that I felt like the Rodney King of the gambling scene. Life tends to be interesting when you ride the wagering rails but rarely does it get so overtly mean spirited. As the words flow from my skull to my fingertips and onto this typing machine I have vengeance and hatred in my heart. Don’t fear the reaper. Fear my wrath. It will be total. There will be bones and bile and blood and brain strewn over roads and carpets and bridges from Geelong to Brisbane.
Friday night was a hugely depressing evening in anybody’s terms but by that stage I was unaware that it was the Karma Gods who were calling. I was too busy wallowing in self pity after the Bulldogs were robbed of their rightful berth in this year’s Grand Final. “Another whiskey” I yelled at the barman, only minutes after telling Vince Sorrenti to go and “sell another fucking house” as he smugly strutted around The Limerick in his blue and gold scarf. I was not a citizen to be fucked with on Friday. Casual observers were abused and threatened. Those in Parramatta jerseys were taunted and then ignored, for the most part. Everyone else was in the firing line. They were unpleasant and unhappy times but even in the depths of such despair I had little idea that the hammer was coming down.
But make no mistake. It was.
And at first he took the form of Max Rooke, one of the few AFL players I actually considered likable. He was a facial hair artist. He talked about a desire to play rugby league. He seemed to go hard, a quality not in oversupply in AFL football.
He is now regarded as a genuine albino lamb rapist who performs illegal backyard abortions and who beats his crippled grandmother by many who indulge in The Gambling Life.
His goal after the siren was the most vicious kick to the balls most bettors have ever felt. My testicles ended up in my oesophagus and they are still located in the bottom of my throat. It could be years before they return to their natural state of being. There was no need to kick that final goal. Geelong led by six. The only thing kicking at goal would do is embitter all those who had bet the plus and had rightfully claimed victory. The match was tight and the rightful margin of victory was no bigger than a goal. It certainly wasn’t bigger than 9 ½ points. Television cameras didn’t even show Rooke’s goal until it was dribbling through the posts. All those on the plus had breathed a sigh of relief believing Rooke would just kick the ball into the crowd and show some man love to the closest Cat. There were no Saints on the mark or in the goal square. Half lay motionless on the ground while the remainder screamed at the heavens, a sort of half-witted, macabre, spontaneous re-enactment of a high school massacre. Attention was totally focussed on new premiers Geelong and the cursed Saints. The game was over. And then Rooke went back, poked a grubber and watched it bounce through the post. At the moment the ball took its last bounce- it seemed to hang in the air for an eternity and a bit more- and went through, every Saints fan who bet the plus exploded into a fit of rage that made Michael Douglas’s attempts to order breakfast in Falling Down look most civil. Lamps were thrown. Windows were broken. Angry telephone calls to political connections demanding the reintroduction of the death penalty were made.
The Gambling Life could not get any more brutal.
Or so I thought. The beating was far from over.
The venue for vicious stomping number two was the Docklands and the cruelty of the Karma creditors was so extreme that even the notoriously nasty female Nazi prison guards like Ilse Koch or Irma Grese would have flinched at its brutality. I was located in a box above the Melbourne Storm coaching area and looked on with great joy as the Storm-Broncos match panned out as expected. After a quick word with Rabs before kick-off and some quality rugby league in good company, my guard had dropped. I had suffered a brutal gambling defeat but so had many other punters and bookies and we would one day look back and laugh. The Great Scorer had moved on and all that was left was for me to contemplate the past and the future and everything in between. And then it happened. The next testicle crushing blow that led me to believe that I had killed some deity in a previous life.
Chasing hard I had bet Billy Slater to score the first and last try in the match. Slater has an outstanding record on the Ethiad turf and it seemed like a good wager. And it was. He scored his second try with only three minutes remaining. The money seemed to be in the bank. I would break even with the bookies. This would not be a day to consider a retirement from the punt. All those around me patted me on the back and uttered phrases like “well done” and “congratulations” and “stick it up those gambling gods”. The full time siren blew and I let out a gasp of relief. It turned out to be premature. A scuffle ensued after the siren and Brisbane received a penalty. Rather than just tap and take the tackle as always happens when the match is over, Brisbane went for touch and put up a bomb. The bomb was caught unchallenged by Israel Folau, who scored next to the posts. Nobody cared but me and my band of brothers who had taken Slater for last try. Brisbane couldn’t even be bothered going for goal. Why they went for a try will haunt me for the rest of my days.
Those who had heard of my day in the ninth circle of gambling hell let out uncomfortable chuckles and attempted to cheer me up. I decided I needed to be around me brethren so I went to the casino and wallowed over whiskey and wine.
Never get on the wrong side of the Karma creditors. They will hurt you. And it will be messy.