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“The turning point, which made the blackjack team something to be reckoned with, was when a Harvard Business School graduate was co-running the team. He instituted checkouts.”
Johnny C., MIT Team Manager
We stood outside the terminal waiting for Mike to arrive. Our plane was late, but only by a few minutes. Perfect timing, really, for an airport pick up. Today was the day we proved we belonged. We felt like we were as good as anyone. We were ready to show Mike and whatever new teammates we had that very fact. It had been six months since we’d first met Mike and our professional relationship had become more of a friendship, but there was definitely a sense that we had something to prove. Great potential was a thing of the past. It was time to demonstrate that we had realized our potential.
Some people forget that the MIT students had learned their craft in a few short months. We’d been playing for five months now and experienced every bit of what they had as college kids. Sure, our betting levels were lower than theirs, but that didn’t matter. They had dozens of students playing on the team at once, so their bankroll, and any subsequent profits, was distributed among a greater pool of employees. By our estimation, we’d practiced more than any college kid at MIT would’ve been able to. We’d taken our lumps in casinos on the Vegas Strip and in Atlantic City, New York, and Connecticut. We’d seen roller coaster wins and losses, memorized everything required of us, and played through more shoes between home and live casino play than we believed any player ever had during their first year in the game. We believed we were as good as most anyone and we were there to prove it.
“You must be Nathaniel and you must be D.A.,” said the young man behind the wheel of the small SUV. “Mike’s running late and he asked me to pick you up. I’m Kyung. Throw your bags in the back and hop in.”
Kyung lived about 20 minutes away, which gave the fast-talker plenty of time to give us his background and his relationship to Mike. He was a nice guy and had developed a pretty solid friendship with Mike over the past month. In confidence, he told us that he didn’t share Mike’s fondness for the New York guys, nor did he like his tendency for late evening phone calls. Kyung had attended the Connecticut practice the weekend before and was open about his distaste for Teddy and the New York crew, who apparently bolted out of the practice a few hours early. He felt it was disrespectful. They feigned a prior commitment and when Mike was out of earshot, Kyung overheard them conspiring on an excuse to leave. How could Mike think so much of these guys, he had thought to himself. Although the New York guys left early, Kyung, Pete, and Alexei had continued to practice.
At first we really liked the gregarious and affable Kyung. Since our flight home wasn’t until the next morning, he generously offered us guest bedrooms in his home. He admitted that his card-counting abilities were in the early stages but he liked the other guys and would probably commit himself to the game.
Kyung filled us in on the other two guys. Pete was a middle management advertising executive with friendships that granted him access to an unusual network of professional athletes and celebrities. Kyung guessed that Mike was interested in how he could work those connections into our team. Alexei was drawn to card counting the way many others were, after reading about the MIT teams. Aside from Pete, who’d been playing on his own for a few months, Kyung and Alexei weren’t planning to attempt the checkout today. They just weren’t ready.
As we walked in the front door, Kyung introduced us. We all shook hands. Kyung had a large dog that roamed the first-floor kitchen and dining room where two separate blackjack tables had been set up. Felt had been draped over the dining room table and a card table was pulled out from a closet nearby. There was something comforting about a room full of like-minded people gathered around a blackjack felt. Everyone was anxious to get started. The doorbell rang.
“Hey guys,” Mike said in his usual soft tone. We were excited to see our mentor in person. The face-to-face interaction and the amalgamation of a team had me excited. The good energy in the room was palpable, but it quickly turned anxious when Mike got things going.
“Okay, let’s get started. Who’s going first?”
The silence lasted a few seconds with no one offering himself as the unenviable first participant of the brutal MIT checkout. The vulnerability that was felt by everyone manifested into a few uncomfortable laughs.
“Nathaniel, how about you?” he suggested.
“Sure, let’s do it.”
I immediately snapped into a mindset that I rarely achieved outside of blackjack. When I was growing up I’d achieved that state of mind on the basketball court. It was the perfect combination of healthy anxiety mixed with confidence, excitement, and focus. Most refer to it as being in “the zone.” Now blackjack offered me the best opportunity to achieve that state.
After five and a half shoes I was nearly flawless. No basic strategy mistakes, no betting mistakes, and I’d been off on the running count for only a total of two. It was negligible with that many shoes and I was confident that I was going to pass. If I didn’t, the day would become a lot longer than I’d anticipated. It had already taken two hours and Mike patiently continued dealing hand after hand.
The players around me had tried their best to create a chaotic environment, but I easily tuned them out. I knew D.A. would harass me just enough to not seem like he was favoring me, but not so much that it would truly disrupt me. It didn’t matter. After all, we’d been through much worse in our practices together—loud music, Sesame Street videos, dark rooms, and constant banter. It had all been preparation for this moment.
Hand after hand, shoe after shoe, I’d calculated the appropriate bet and signaled to whichever teammate was assigned to me for that shoe. It was far from easy and my mind was on the verge of explosion but part of the checkout required a natural casino image, not one of a player struggling to count cards in his head. I nailed the two times that Alexei placed the wrong bet because he misread my signal. I had tugged on my shirt’s collar, signaling to the teammate that he’d bet the wrong amount. I could tell that Mike was impressed by how far I’d come in six months.
There were two decks remaining. The running count was 20. I was minutes, maybe even seconds depending on where Mike decided to end the shoe, from accomplishing what no MIT player had done in their first try, and what some had never accomplished.
I put out my signal. Left elbow on the table. Four units. I waited patiently for Alexei to put out his bet. When he hesitated, I assumed he’d blanked on the signals like he’d done before. While everyone around the table was required to distract me from my mission, I could feel the collective disappointment among the group.
Mike hesitated as if to give me a second to change my mind.
My split second was up and so was my turn.
“What’s your count?” he asked.
“Twenty,” I said.
“How many decks are left?” he continued.
Fuck. I didn’t have to answer.
Two.
Twenty divided by two was ten and the correct bet was nine units. For some unknown reason, my brain divided 2 into 10, not 20. Hours of mental grinding washed away in an instant of mental collapse. The energy expended by my new teammates in the room over the two hours was wasted, as was all of the dealing Mike had done. I could see it in D.A.’s eyes. “You had it,” they were saying. Overheating, tired, exhausted, and disappointed, I meekly responded, “I’m sorry.”
I had choked.
After a deep breath Mike simply pressed on.
“All right, D.A. Your turn.”
It would be hours before I’d attempt it again. D.A. was playing flawlessly through three shoes before he tired and hit his 11 versus a 5, instead of doubling down. The basic strategy error left D.A. feeling equally ashamed, but fortunately for him, he hadn’t exhausted all of his energies and I was confident he’d rebound without question a little later.
Pete hung in for a bit through the first shoe, making two counting mistakes early on. By the second shoe he was slightly off on the signaling amounts, though not enough to warrant a failing grade. But the overall feat proved too much as he stumbled on a common basic strategy mistake—he stood his 12 versus a 3, instead of hitting.
We all took a lunch break and Mike shared stories from his playing days. Eventually the talk turned to his vision for the team and how he saw it taking shape. He figured with the talent from the New York guys, coupled with D.A. and me, we had a good nucleus to start with. Of course, passing the checkout was the first requirement. After that the sky was the limit. The other guys would fill in nicely as their skills developed. If Pete could work his contacts in the entertainment industry, we could potentially acquire quite a bankroll.
“Okay, back to work. Nathaniel, you’re up again.”
It was getting late. Playing blackjack all day sounded like fun, but I had running counts, true counts, and playing decisions running through my head like something out of The Matrix. I was spent but I knew my time was soon.
I’d come to know challenges in my life. I grew up feeling disconnected between the back-and-forth nature of growing up in two households of a divorced family. And when my father fell to a heart attack when I was in my early thirties, the sadness I experienced was deep. He was more than my father. He was my friend. He’d lived a tough life of his own and struggled with alcohol for years. When I was in middle school he successfully went through alcohol rehabilitation to battle the disease, but his smoking addiction intensified and he spent his last few years struggling with anxiety. I loved my father dearly, but I didn’t want to follow down that path. I just couldn’t. So despite having never run in a road race before, I set out to finish the Boston Marathon in his memory and to jump-start my own life. It was one of the most difficult things I’d ever tried to do physically. With this blackjack checkout, I was attempting the most difficult thing I’d ever tried to do mentally. I wasn’t about to get knocked down without getting back up.
As Mike shuffled the cards, it was a bit like facing Heartbreak Hill, the most tortuous stretch of the Boston Marathon that ran through the high-priced town of Newton, with mansions lining both sides. That section of the course is always filled with race fans supporting the runners. It was a sensational feeling, as pure and uplifting as any experience could be.
You can do this.
I’d said it to myself then and I was saying it to myself now. Hours more had passed. There was probably only one hand left to play. The running count was 9. There was about a half-deck remaining to be played. The true count was 18 and the bet was 17 units. I was sure of it. There was no doubt.
I crossed the finish line and Mike turned over the remaining cards revealing the end of the shoe and the successful completion of the MIT checkout. My heart pounded with adrenaline and I did all I could to contain the joy I felt as the men around me, most of whom were strangers, patted me on the back and congratulated me.
“Your deck estimation is amazing, Nathaniel. Congratulations,” Mike said.
D.A.’s turn was next. He had equal success and I was proud of us both. We showed controlled satisfaction at the time, and it wasn’t until Kyung dropped us off at Dulles the next day that we talked about it for the first time.
“So, let me get this straight,” I began. “You went to an Ivy League school but couldn’t successfully complete the checkout before me?”
“But you went first,” he defended.
“Yeah, but c’mon, not doubling an eleven versus five? What’s up with that?”
“I know. I know,” D.A. said sheepishly.
Now boarding flight 1834 to Boston, all passengers in rows 15 or higher are now free to board the plane.
“Let’s go home.”