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An inside look into professional baseball during the ’60’s.  BEATING ABOUT THE BUSHES contains amusing, informative and controversial elements about the game.

Excerpt

GAMBLING 101

Reno, Nevada, in 1963, was the Avis of gambling.  Number two behind Las Vegas.  Lake Tahoe had some action but was known more for skiing and few major hotels had expressed an interest in this out of the way stop.  Atlantic City was decades away from servicing the east coast along with America’s changing attitudes about gambling.  State lotteries were still to be invented and Native Americans learning how to take advantage of loopholes inside old treaties.  Now, with the aid of the computer, the hottest topic is Internet gambling and how to tax this potential bonanza.

Each season in the California League, we had three Reno road trips totaling nine days.  My first visit was educational since I had played poker few times in my life and didn’t know there were opportunities called, Blackjack, Roulette and Craps.  I knew about slot machines and played them in Ohio when my parents went to see country and western bands at a tavern outside of Canton, Ohio.  This was a major family trip and on the return home, I was small enough to stretch across the rear deck of the two seat Chevy roadster and stare up at the stars since I was only eight.

When I would get restless at the tavern, mom and dad would give me two handfuls of nickels so I could head to the filling station and the small row of slot machines.  This was illegal and became an early lesson about law enforcement looking the other way.  While I enjoyed watching fruit symbols spin, I knew winning more nickels than I put in was the name of the game.  If there were enough coins to keep the wheels spinning, it was fun and gave my parents time for themselves.

The first trip to Reno was spent learning everything about the action.  I ate at low cost buffets, hung around high stakes tables trying to appear capable of jumping in at any time.  Craps and the fast paced action eluded me and I relegated this game to a time later in my life.

The sophistication and beauty of the hookers around the high rollers was something to observe.  Because they were out of my league, the possibility of enjoying these pleasures never crossed my mind.  I was innocent in these matters and would have had a heart attack if someone accepted an offer.  But our second trip of the year brought a different animal to town.

Now I knew how to play their games.  My speculation at the tables was minimal but, in my mind, I was equal to the biggest spender they had any given night.  I knew how and when to tip, when to accept the complimentary drink designed to get you off your game and all this in only one month.

During a late night wandering I discovered a “sports book” in the rear of Harrah’s.  The sports book now is a big element of the gambling scene, but in 1963 it was relegated to an obscure corner away from the hard-core action.  What fascinated me was an old, dusty chalkboard listing every game in the California League for the next day.  Obviously, they wouldn’t know the starting pitchers so it was a straight bet.  There it was.  Stockton vs. Reno.

I backed away to the safety of a slot machine and measured my next move.  I knew, even at this early stage of my career, gambling on baseball was illegal even if Baltimore hadn’t advised any of us it could be career ending.  We were expected to pick up this information on our own, much like sex education.  Finally I stepped up to the betting window but went mute.  It was three am and I couldn’t engage my brain.

“What’s your pick?”, asked the person handling my action.  At this point, I knew my choice but not how much to bet.  Now I was trapped and instead of answering in the proper sequence, I just put a twenty in front of him and stood there grinning.  “Well, who do you want?”  It was obvious my stupidity was wearing thin with someone who didn’t enjoy the night shift away from his family.  I almost screamed, “Stockton!”  He had to turn and look at the board to determine the match.  To me this was bigger than anything going that night and once the bet was made, I became brazen.

“Do you know who the pitchers are tomorrow?”  “Nah, I never go to the games, I don’t like baseball.” This set me back only for a second and I resisted telling him who he was dealing with.  The easy thing would be to forfeit.  The walk back to the hotel was comforting because this had to be the surest bet I would ever make.

The following night I pitched a complete game winning easily and the fun began.  I can honestly say the wager never entered my mind before or during the game.  But afterwards was a different story.  The urge to tell someone was intense but the fear of being found out was greater.  All I had to do was walk into the club and collect these easy winnings.

While walking towards Harrah’s the realization of what I had done took over.  The thrill of winning was gone, replaced by the original worries when placing the bet.  Suddenly, everyone I looked at appeared to be an agent of professional baseball out to nab me and end my career.  The easy thing would to be to forfeit my winnings, but this was countered by the accomplishment and the competitive nature kicked in.  Somehow, I had to collect and enjoy the short-lived euphoria of a professional win both on and off the field.

I went from club to club trying to build courage before arriving at the casino.  Working my way to the rear I glanced at each player, every dealer and pit boss to see if they were watching.  No one seemed to be, but I couldn’t be certain.  To make sure there were no baseball spies around, I took up a strategic position at a nickel slot with a view of the sports book.  After thirty minutes I felt secure enough to collect the bet.

Stepping up to the window, I handed over the ticket looking left and right.  I must have had the appearance of a bank robber, but the attendant casually handed me two twenty-dollar bills and off to the hotel I went.  Since I still wasn’t totally convinced of having pulled this off, my route back led me down back alleys that could have produced disastrous consequences.

I was in far better shape than one player, several years later, who hid in his closet for a day after being caught slipping extra money onto a winning blackjack bet while the dealer finished other players.  When security started closing in, he bolted to the safety of his room and didn’t come out for the game.  He was convinced if he appeared before a window there would be someone from security watching.

This poor soul had been signed by Baltimore after being discovered playing in a rural area of Virginia.  His education had stopped at the third grade level in order to work the fields to assist in the support of a large family.  His talent was seen on Sundays playing for a semi pro team possessing the live arm all scouts look for.

What none of us knew was he couldn’t read or write.  Something was wrong when autographs had several letters missing from both his first and last names, which were lengthy.  The answer came mid season when someone questioned why he ordered fried chicken every time on the road when a restaurant menu didn’t have pictured food.  His father had given him parting advice that no matter where he went, every eating place would have fried chicken as a fall back meal.

Years later, when Pete Rose was banned from baseball’s Hall of Fame for gambling, my experience and memories came back strongly. I had done something that went against the fiber of professional baseball.  The only thing that could have been more damning would have been placing a bet to lose that game.

Pete stupidly placed bets with a bookie directly from the clubhouse phone.  Several friends were to play with Rose in the majors and described Pete Rose as one of the most ignorant persons they ever met.  Proof positive you don’t have to be intelligent to play this game well.

Pete has now admitted to placing bets on his team in a confession he believes will further his chances for Hall of Fame admission.  This comes after countless interviews denying the same.  This secures my belief about post humus admission as the only option for voters.

Quite often, when people learn of my background, an opinion is solicited as to whether the ban is fair to Pete.  There can be no arguing as to his credentials, but like me, he knew the rules and chose to break them.  My good fortune was not getting caught.

Copyright 2009 Tim Sommer. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.