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“When you win, say nothing. When you lose, say less.”
Paul Brown
A small Turkish kilim hung on a wall in my bedroom. In hieroglyphic fashion it depicted small creatures that reminded me of birds and caterpillars. Something about the motif captivated my senses. Each morning when I awoke I’d lose myself in the design, finding something new every time I re-examined it. In many ways it mirrored the life I was leading, which, depending on who was viewing it and how, seemed to take on different meaning. Something was therapeutic about the way it hung, perfectly still and centered on my wall, in the exact spot where it had replaced a small photograph of the coast of Maine.
I’d bought the kilim at a high-end store in the corridor that connected Caesars Palace to Bellagio following a successful weekend trip by ourselves a month earlier. At the time, we hadn’t yet heard from Mike and the free room offers were rolling in. We bankrolled ourselves, made a one-time trip, and ended the weekend up quite a bit. I chose to buy myself the tapestry as both a reward and a reminder of the success we had.
When I’d moved into my condo a few years earlier, I’d hung the coastal photograph in a lifeless frame, figuring that the emptiness of the wall would be better suited with something, rather than nothing. But I felt more at peace now, knowing that the “something” had to matter otherwise it would be better to accept the emptiness that existed.
My girlfriend of two years had just moved out when I bought the piece and I was embracing the change that was taking place in my life. She had supported my endeavors and the growth I was experiencing, and I respected and cared for her but our paths were leading in different directions and we both knew it. Since college, I’d grown only insomuch as I had some relative success in my career and managed to develop a much-needed confidence as a result. It wasn’t that I’d found myself, like so many young adults seem to do by backpacking across Europe. Rather, I’d come to discover that for the first time in my life, I was willing to seek an understanding into the person I truly was and the person I wanted to be.
The kilim on the wall became a spiritual focus for me each morning as I began mentally outlining my goals for the day and for my life. Through blackjack, my eyes had opened to a unique level of intellectual capacity—not in such a way that I could discuss fine wines or a captivating article in a recent issue of the The New Yorker, but the idea that people have mental depth to explore and cultivate. Unfortunately, far too many people chose not to. It didn’t matter that I’d trained my brain for what some would characterize as an underground parlor game. The very fact that I’d been exercising my mind and was willing to expose myself to calculated risk, it was opening up my world in ways that I’d never dreamed possible.
Awakening to an empty pillow to my left and carving out the first few minutes of every day to gaze at the artwork in front of me offered me stillness in life that had been missing. I was sharper as a result and I was thinking more clearly than I ever had before. It was much more than an ability to calculate math quickly in my head while carrying on a conversation at a blackjack table. It was a clarity that transcended blackjack and affected how I viewed my friendships, my family, my clients, my health, and of course, myself.
While I reflected on the person into whom I’d been evolving, I also recognized that this particular day was unique. It would be just 15 hours before I could cozy up to the felt trying to appear as inconspicuous as possible, while quarterbacking a quarterback about every play to make. And although my play calling would be silent, the signals I would be giving would be demands and not suggestions. I was interested to find out who my temporary teammate would be. D.A. and I had narrowed it down to about five choices—guys who weren’t married with babies on the way or consumed by a legal allegation or being regularly followed by paparazzi. We were mildly curious but for some reason it wasn’t all that important to us. Our primary interest was in perfect execution of strategy and we knew that a successful session later that night could mean that new doors would open.
D.A. had emailed Mike a few days before. We wanted to get the itinerary for the weekend. We’d both assumed that we would first meet in our hotel room at the Palms, one of the handful of casinos that had been bombarding us with free-suite offers. Getting together with our new partner beforehand to meet and review the signals would be helpful. We doubted Mike would attend, but we were certain that he had briefed the athlete on how it would play out.
The day before, our excitement had begun to shift to anxiety because there was no word back from Mike. I called him and left a message and D.A. shot him another email. Nothing. But it wasn’t all that unusual for Mike not to reply right away. His schedule was unlike any we ever kept and we learned to be patient when attempting to connect with him.
After a workout at the gym, I stopped by the office to check messages, finish up a few things from the week, and touch base with my business partner, Todd, before heading to the airport. Not only was I fortunate to work in a flexible career, but I’d managed to build my business with a childhood friend of mine. He and his wife lived in a well-to-do suburb of Boston after having moved there from the prestigious Beacon Hill area of the city. They were settling nicely into life with their newborn son. In many ways I envied the life he was building, but I appreciated having him as my business partner even more. We complemented each other in many ways and brought different skill sets to our firm. There was one way in which we were exactly the same—we both believed in the concept of working to live not living to work. We took time for ourselves and fully supported one another in that philosophy.
I wasn’t surprised by his accommodating nature with regard to my blackjack trips. In most instances I was only taking off Friday afternoons for an early evening flight. Although I dragged a bit after getting back Monday mornings on the red-eye, overall I was never behind on my work. In fact, I’d never been more productive in my career. When I was out of the office, technology allowed me to check messages and emails, and I’d been known to put my time in during unusual hours anyway, sometimes staying late after work and even clocking hours when the rest of the world was asleep.
The workday had come to an end and I had a plane to catch. I was on the Mass Pike heading toward the city when the red light on my cell phone lit up indicating a text message. A sinking feeling came over me and I was afraid to look. I drove a little longer until I reached the tolls. I was about a mile from the downtown highway split. Making a left would take me home. Veering right would take me to the airport. I knew that the pending message would decide which direction I’d go.
Talked 2 mike. Trip postponed. Need 2 rebook flights
Discouraged, I pressed down on my blinker, indicating a move from the right hand lane to the left. As I slowed through the city traffic I managed a reply to the text I’d received.
Bags r packed so let’s go to CT, pick u up in 10