Sideline Satire

Former Lions coach Rod Marinelli recently apologized for his actions at the Senior Bowl in Mobile, Ala. this week. Marinelli reportedly brushed off some Detroit reporters seeking an interview by saying, “Goodbye ladies.”

That wouldn’t have been a problem — had there actually been a female among the reporters. The incident led to a complaint from the Association for Women in Sports Media.

“Please accept my personal apology for the words I used in response to the request of a few Detroit reporters covering the Senior Bowl,” Marinelli said Wednesday in a statement. “In attempting to avoid being interviewed, I understand that my comment was inappropriate and wrong.”

Marinelli also apologized for referring to himself as a “coach,” members of the Lions as “good players” and William Clay Ford Sr. as “a great owner.”

Note: This item originally ran on detnews.com, The Detroit News’ Web site.

Bad coincidence #1: Eagles quarterback Donovan McNabb has an offseason home in Chandler, Ariz.

Bad coincidence #2: The Cardinals beat the Eagles to advance to the Super Bowl.

Which brings us to this bit of fan ingenuity idiocy: According to the Associated Press, two Cardinals fans decided to play a prank on McNabb. They went to his house last Thursday and hung a Cardinals flag.

McNabb’s response: No big deal. He left the flag up. Yes, really.

A couple of days later, the fans struck again, this time leaving a cardboard box on McNabb’s driveway Friday night. They wrote “Beat Philly” on one side of the box, “Go Cards” on the other.

McNabb’s response: He laughed. I would be a little disturbed at this point.

The next morning, McNabb came out to find out the fans used gasoline to burn “Go Cards,” “Go Kurt” and “I heart AZ” into his lawn. The police show up — and find out the box the fans left on the driveway had an address label on it. The address of one of the vandals.

Sigh.

Note: This item originally ran on detnews.com, The Detroit News’ Web site.

As always in Vegas, it was 1 a.m. before you knew it. Mark, beaten up at the tables all day, headed back to his hotel, but I still had the itch to play craps. I found a $5 game at the Imperial Palace and bought in for $100.

Things started out badly. I crapped out on my first roll after setting the point. Neither of the next two shooters lasted more than two rolls. I went through my original $100 in about 20 minutes and bought in for another $80. After yet another shooter crapped after a few rolls, I had had enough. It was time to call it a night.

Then I glanced across the floor, where another craps game was going on. I decided to switch tables. What the heck, I thought – I only had about $50 left.

The casino was pretty dead. Dealers impersonating celebrities took turns performing in between dealing blackjack. Bored-looking waitresses walked around, chanting, “cocktails, cocktails” like robots. I resigned myself finishing my trip in the red.

Then the magic happened.

It started when the dice came to me. Freddie Mercury took the stage and performed “Killer Queen” as I rolled, and kept rolling. I hit a point. Then another. My bankroll was back to $100. A couple in their 20s showed up next. The guy rolled for about 30 minutes, decent but not spectacular. Elvis was onstage now. My chips were at $150.

Another guy, also in his 20s (imagine J.C. Chasez from N’Sync, but with a more-bloated face) had just arrived. He proceeded to go on a phenomenal roll, hitting seven points. A supposed Billy Joel impersonator (not even close) peformed “My Life.” My stack grew and grew. I stopped counting after I got back to even.

After the J.C. lookalike crapped out, and the guy after him crapped out after one roll, I took my stack to the cashier. The final tally: $485, roughly $300 of it profit, in about an hour-and-a-half of play. That’s why Las Vegas will never go out of business. Sometimes, things work out for you like in the movies. Lights, camera – and lots of action.

Note: This item originally ran on detnews.com, The Detroit News’ Web site.

Later that night, Mark and I decided to get back to basics and hit the $3-$6 limit poker game at Bally’s.

Limit poker and no-limit are as different as checkers and chess. No-limit is more about psychology, playing the opponent, not the hand. Limit is a much more mathematical game. You make bets, calls, raises and folds based on position, how much money is in the pot and how many people are in the hand.

Limit is where players are at much greater risk of getting kicked by a donkey. It’s also where good players can clean up.

I bought in for $100. An elderly Asian woman named Rita sat to my left. She had one of the bigger stacks at the table. But was she a shark or a donkey?

She and Mark got into a hand. The board was full of face cards, possible flushes or straights. Mark, the best poker player among my group of friends, bet furiously. Rita called, including on the river.

“Good call,” Mark said. “I was bluffing.”

He revealed his pocket cards – some kind of busted draw, I believe. His jaw dropped as Rita turned over a pair of fours.

A PAIR OF FOURS.

Every card on the board was higher than four. The way Mark bet, it was highly likely he had a straight, pair or three of a kind, certainly not worth Rita calling with a pair of fours. What kind of player would make such a call?

A donkey.

Low-limit hold-em is nicknamed “No Fold-em Hold-em” because players remain in hands they have no business playing. Donkeys rationalize it only costs a few dollars more to see the next card, so they pay it. Here’s an example:

The bald gentleman three spots to my right has a big stack of $1 chips, about $300 or so. The flop comes 3d-7s-Ac (diamonds, spades, clubs). The bald guy bets $3, a man to my left raises to $6, a middle-aged woman folded, then the bald guy calls. The next card is 2c. Bald guy bets $6, other guy raises to $12, bald guy calls. River card is Jc. Bald guy bets, other guy raises, bald guy calls. Time to turn the cards over.

The other guy shows pocket 7s, giving him three of a kind. The bald guy turns over 9c-10c. A flush. Bald donkey wins the hand.

Anyone who understands the basics of poker understands how ridiculous this hand was. The donkey had no business calling after the flop. He had no straight draw, no flush draw, no pair, not even two face cards. Yet he called and called, and sucked out a flush on the river.

The good news is donkeys always go broke in the long run. The bad news is they might not go broke on the night you sit down at the table. That was the case Monday.

Mark lost all of his $100 buy-in. I won a decent-sized pot by betting hard with my pocket 5s when the three other players in the hand, including Mark, checked after the flop (Mark said later a player told him he folded pocket 7s). However, I made a big mistake in another hand, bluffing with nothing because I thought only the bald donkey was still in the hand; it turns out an old donkey to my left was still in there and called, which likely encouraged the bald donkey to call (he won with a pair of fours). I felt fortunate to walk out of Bally’s just $34 lighter.

Note: This item originally ran on detnews.com, The Detroit News’ Web site.

Let me start by explaining the term “donkey,” as it relates to poker. “Donkey” means a dumb player, and they’re pretty easy to spot, as you’ll soon see.

Mondays in Vegas can be deadly to your wallet, especially if you’ve been there since Thursday. I set a personal goal of learning to play craps on this trip, which proves crucial later in my tale…

Most of our group left in the morning. Three of our crew – myself, Mark and Justice – had breakfast at the Victoria Room at Bill’s (the only reason I’m mentioning this is because Justice pestered me all weekend to mention him in the blog; by the way, he turned 50 this year and has always made of point of never telling people how old he is. Careful what you wish for).

Before breakfast, I hit their $5 craps table. I had won $260 on Saturday night rolling the dice, putting me about $50 or so in the black for the trip. Monday, I lost about $80 in less than an hour. After breakfast, Officially-Over-The-Hill Justice left for the airport, and Mark and I walked down to the Planet Hollywood casino to play in their 2 p.m. tournament. Buy-in was $70, about 30 entrants, paying to the top four spots, $750 to the winner.

Planet Hollywood has one of the nicest, best-run poker rooms on the strip. Too bad I didn’t spend more time in it – I busted out in less than an hour.

I essentially lost the tournament on one hand, where I tried to bluff on the river, betting $1,000 (at the time, blinds were $25-$50). There were flush and straight possibilities. A loose (makes a lot of calls) donkey called and ended up having a low straight. People at the table shook their heads at the call, but I brought it on myself. A basic rule is, never bluff with the weakest hand on the river. If an opponent calls you and has anything, you’re toast.

The loss, plus craps, plus a fruitless session of Let-It-Ride, had me back in the red.

Note: This item originally ran on detnews.com, The Detroit News’ Web site.

While I spent Sunday at the sports book, my friend Big J (which is not his nickname, but he asked that I use this instead of his full name) and some of my friends went down to O’Shea’s, one of the hole-in-the wall casinos on the strip.

Big J is a video poker aficionado, so he headed for the machines, while my other friends tried their luck at table games.

Five minutes after they sat down, J showed up.

“I put a hundred dollars in the nickel machine, and it got deleted somehow,” Big J said.

Understandably upset, he flagged down an attendant, and led her back to the machine, complaining it had robbed him. But as J started working up a head of steam, he glanced at the giant “5″ printed on the front of the machine.

It said 5 dollars, not cents.

J, betting the max as usual, had been playing $25 a hand, not 25 cents. He was understandably embarrassed.

The attendant walked off.

“Don’t forget to take your player’s card out of the machine,” she said.

Note: This item originally ran on detnews.com, The Detroit News’ Web site.

Part I: Going for broke at Triple 7

The guys I hang with on my Vegas trip make it a point to visit downtown Vegas at least one night. Friday night started with dinner at Triple 7 Brew Pub (highly recommended), inside the Main Street Casino. After we got the bill, another tradition commenced: Our group of seven paid our share, including tip, then three people took that amount (north of $100) out to the gaming floor. We had voted to put the amount on black. If it hit, free meal. If not, we pay double.

Main Street and the California casino across the street occupy a special niche in Vegas: They cater to Hawaiians. And I don’t know if things are more silent in Hawaii, but the gaming floors are among the quietest in Vegas. So out march my friends — not exactly reserved types — who put all the money on black and explain the bet to the table. The dealer couldn’t have cared less, but an old couple at the table were on board. The man, who already had 10 black, doubled his bet in support. In went the ball.

According to my friend Mark, the ball actually bounced off the wheel at first, but the dealer put it back in play… and it landed on black. Ten black, which made the old man happy. There’s nothing like free, baby! It makes saying words like “baby!” seem natural.

After dinner, we strolled over to Fremont Street, home of iconic gambling halls such as the Golden Nugget and Binion’s, birthplace of the World Series of Poker. What immediately caught our group’s attention: deep-fried Twinkies and Oreos, 99 cents. A search party went off while the rest of us waited, telling scantily clad middle-aged women no, we did not want to go to their gentleman’s club, and no, there was nothing wrong with us for feeling that way.

I asked my friend Chris, a Vegas veteran, if downtown was as dangerous as I’d heard.

“It’s like anyplace,” he said. “There’s good parts and bad. I mean, around here you don’t have to worry about trouble …”

As Chris said that, two guys right next to us broke into a fight. They’re the two guys on the ground in handcuffs in the photo at right. Let me say the Vegas cops do not mess around. The two guys above the handcuffed fellows are undercover cops. Both were on the scene in about two seconds, so fast that I thought they were part of the fight.

After the initial shock, the journalist (and excess of alcohol) in me came out. I started taking pictures. It appeared the fight was over. Until the gentleman in the second picture, wearing a bandana, approached the cop wearing the blue shirt and denim shorts. I can’t repeat exactly what was said because this is a family blog, but let me paraphrase…

COP: Sir, please keep your distance.

GENTLEMAN: My good man, one of those fellows whom you have detained is my brother.

COP: Be that as it may, sir, I again must ask to to keep your distance and let us conduct our work.

GENTLEMAN: Well, I’m a bit hesitant to do that. I have reason to believe my brother is not at fault here. Furthermore, detaining him is — hmm, how do I put this? — the waste product of a bull. In fact, this situation is akin to making whoopee, plus the waste product of a bull.

COP (stands, points Taser at gentleman): Sir, I implore you: Back away, or face the wrath of my electric pain machine. (Note: If you look at the second picture, you’ll see the dot from the laser on the guy’s shoulder).

GENTLEMAN (steps closer): Sir, you are a combination of a punk, a donkey — better yet, an ass — and a female dog. I challenge you to deploy your pain machine on my person. In fact, not doing so would thoroughly confirm you are a punk/ass/female dog.

COP: Alas, you leave me no choice.

The cop fired the Taser and missed, chased the bandana-wearing man across the street, then dropped him like a penny in a slot machine. The crowd cheered.

As the cops hauled off the bandana man, I looked back at the guys who started the whole thing. They still were handcuffed, sitting side by side, talking and joking with each other and the cops like they were old friends. By this time, our friends returned bearing Twinkies and Oreos (the former was delicious, the latter so-so), which we ate as we looked up at the giant video screen arched over the entire street, powdered sugar getting all over my shirt. In all the excitement, I completely forgot to ask for advice for my NFL sports bets. More on that later.

Note: This item originally ran on detnews.com, The Detroit News’ Web site.

Why is this a slot machine?

Note: This item originally ran on detnews.com, The Detroit News’ Web site.

Bill’s Gambling Hall has a pretty nifty morning poker warmup. From 10 am to 2 pm, they offer $1 no-limit, with a $50 bonus if your pocket kings are cracked, $100 if your aces get cracked.

I bought in for $60, playing with my friend Mark. One guy got his kings cracked, but no such luck for us. Again, the table skewed older, so very tight play. Also, the blind was only a dollar, so there wasn’t a lot of action. Any time I bet, everyone folded. Here was my final hand: playing to the left of the big blind, I called a buck with Q-10 offsuit.

The flop: Jd-9h-8c. Three other people in the hand. One guy bet $2, next guy calls. I call. Next card: Ks. I still have the nut straight, no flush or straight draws. First guy bets $2, next guy calls. I raise to $10. First guy folds. The second guy stares at me.

“I know you have the nuts,” he said. He was a big guy, wearing a baseball hat, Bluetooth headset in his ear, wearing a red hockey sweater that said “Las Vegas.” “Every time you play, you have the best hand.”

I said nothing. He hemmed and hawed, then finally called — and cursed himself for a good half-hour. He had flopped two pair. Should have trusted his instincts.

Note: This item originally ran on detnews.com, The Detroit News’ Web site.

I got things started with an $80 sit-and-go (a one-table tournament) at the Imperial Palace on the central strip. For the uninformed, the Imperial Palace is an Asian-themed casino best known for having celebrity-impersonator dealers who take turns going up on stage and singing (or lip-synching) in between taking people’s money. There’s nothing quite like having your hand get outdrawn on the river while a Shakira impersonator sings “Hips Don’t Lie” behind you.

The poker room at the IP skews mostly older, which also was the case for the tournament. Loose players rule the poker rooms, but that wasn’t the case here: Everybody played tight, except for the elderly guy to the right of the dealer. He looked like an older version of Martin Landau. More on him later.

Everyone got $3,000 to start, blinds starting at $50-$100. I spend most of the first hour watching the USC-Oregon State game on the plasma next to the table. There are a husband and wife to my right, both tight, solid players. The early front-runner for Most Annoying Player at The Table is a middle-aged dude three places to my left; he “Hollywoods” every hand. A player who takes too long to fold is known as “Hollywood”; he takes a long time to fold, looking at his cards, sighing, etc. Dude, just fold already; everyone knows you have rags.

The tournament also has a $10 bounty: Every player gets a bingo-sized chip with “BOUNTY” printed on it. Using that chip means you’re all-in, and if you knock a player out, you get his bounty chip. A nice little added incentive.

The blinds start rising, and people start dropping. The Martin Landau guy is ridiculously loose. He calls pretty much everything (example: a player goes all-in, and the old guy calls him wih 7-5 OFFSUIT). I can’t wait to get in a showdown with him, and I get my chance, eliminating him in fifth place when my pocket jacks hold up against his 9-4 offsuit.

I continue to play tight, bet aggressively, and get down to the final three. Me, the husband guy and Hollywood. I start getting blinded out ($4,000-$2,000) and finally have to go all-in with Jd-9d. Hollywood calls with a low pocket pair. I’m finished.

Third place — not too bad, huh? Not if they only pay out for first and second. I cash in my bounty chip. I need a drink.

Note: This item originally ran on detnews.com, The Detroit News’ Web site.