A Roll of the Dice

“Oh, you've never played?” TJ struggled to hide the excitement on his face. He lifted the wine glass filled with expensive wine to his lips to cover the smirk. We both knew, of course, that the wine would have been free had he not choked away the final match on the last two holes.

But he was right — I had never played the dice game they proposed.

“Get your money out and sit down,” another guy in the group said.

I took out the last $68 I had in cash that I’d brought on the trip. A third of it went into the middle as six players made the initial ante.

I was out of my league. The guys at the table — made up of business owners and financial advisors — had backyard sheds worth more than my 1,100-square-foot ranch in Northern Michigan.

I also knew I was the mark.
A game I’d never played.
Rules I didn’t know.
Stakes I probably shouldn’t be playing for.

But the dice don’t know that. And these guys didn’t know about me honing my craft in the cutthroat Yahtzee games played in Alpena, my hometown.

“How old are you?” another member of the group asked.

“Forty-eight.”

Before I even finished the word he replied, “You look like shit.”

I briefly considered telling him he should eat a cheeseburger, considering he couldn't weigh more than 135 soaking went, but I refrained, I decided to laugh and nod.

My 12-year-old daughter talks better trash than him. I’d wait.

I was given the dice first, which I’m sure was meant to be a disadvantage, along with a fancy rock glass to roll them in.

I refused the glass.

This muni kid doesn’t use the plastic cup in Yahtzee. I sure as hell wasn’t going to use a rock glass from one of the four clubs the six men around the table belonged to.

I’d explain the rules, but there seemed to be new ones every five minutes. But I do know this: I won the first pot easily.

Ty, the former pro pitcher with a bad back (I assume from walking into the weeds constantly to find another wayward drive), laughed as I scooped the pot. It’s always good for the mark to win the first one.

But then I won the third.

And the fourth.

Which was doubled.

The side bets with Tom — the owner of the electric company — I won those too.

Tom was cheery, funny, laughing, and betting. He had more energy than the rest of us. I assume that comes from only playing five holes of most of his matches before losing.

The tall gentleman who asked how old I was suddenly announced he was out of money and leaving. A frantic search for minivan keys followed.

I considered asking if blowing on the dice like he did would help me lose money as fast as he did, but again I refrained. Instead I just thanked him for getting me into the game while quietly stacking my growing pile of twenties.

Then all of a sudden guys didn’t want to play anymore.

The game broke up.

I folded the money together as best I could and shoved it into my money clip — which in its lifetime had never been stretched this far with this many bills. I was honestly afraid it might snap and injure one of my new, cashless friends.

As I type this article from the exit row on my flight home — purchased by several expert rolls of the dice — the extra legroom is helpful considering how bad my back hurts from winning three of my four matches, basically gifting a halve to the Chicago boys.

So what’s the moral of the story?

Dice doesn’t know your net worth.
It doesn’t know you play a muni.
It doesn’t know you’ve never belonged to a country club in your life.

It only knows that a lot of dots equals a lot of cash.

As I FaceTimed my wife last night — drunk on Jack — and held up the money to the camera, Momma knew we were going to Subway when I got home.

What happened next is a memory just for me.

But I will say this:

I didn’t know she could make a entire sleeve of Callaways disappear that fast, and I was impressed by the spin on its way out.

So thanks, fellas.

It was a great trip.

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