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“There is no greater teacher, as the saying goes, than experience. There is only one way to get it in blackjack, and that is to play under fire in every different condition you can find.”
Lance Humble and Carl Cooper,
The World’s Greatest Blackjack Book
I knew that New Year’s would be better than our first experience in Vegas. Gone were the days of teaming with untrustworthy players. D.A., Kyung, and I fully trusted one another. Unfortunately, we noticed that Kyung seemed to spiral into disturbing states of negativity. We assumed it was a combination of often feeling left out, coupled with the grinding nature of our endeavor and the incredible emotional swings that mirrored the fluctuations in our bankroll. It was understandable that it might take its toll. So when small personality conflicts arose, we somewhat expected them, but we never questioned the integrity of one another.
We were at different places in our lives, but when it came to blackjack, there was a mutual understanding among the three of us. Kyung had an established 9-to-5 and lived on the outskirts of D.C. with his wife and dog. D.A. was a little younger, but mature beyond his years. He had married his high school sweetheart right out of college and they were settling down and looking to start a family. I’d divorced shortly before that first seminar with Semyon and was going through a bit of soul searching while enjoying the fruits of bachelorhood. In between blackjack trips, I started to make more time for dating, but I hadn’t met the right person. Brooke and I continued to see each other when I flew into town, but the long distance between us made it difficult to establish any real long-term relationship. She was a Vegas girl and I planned on staying on the East Coast.
My life had evolved dramatically over the two years since I first went to Semyon’s seminar. Blackjack proved to be more than just an escape for me. It became the process for learning about who I was and the person I was capable of becoming. The smoke-filled casino floors and the inherent deceptive nature of professional blackjack had never been what drew me to the game. The camaraderie, the skill requirement, and the opportunities were what it was all about.
The three of us had been gearing up for the trip over the previous months. It had been circled on the calendar. Our bankroll was rising steadily and we’d reached a point where we allowed ourselves to cash out some of the profits as we went along. We were comfortable with maintaining a $100k bankroll and distributing profits periodically.
Meanwhile, I’d been systematically investing most of my share in an investment account and using the remainder for personal luxury items. I paid for everything with cash.
New Year’s in Vegas was more than a spectacle. I’d seen it the year before, but it wasn’t the right opportunity to truly enjoy it. It was the first and only team trip with Mike, and the guys from New Jersey had tested my resolve. This time, we built a couple of extra days into the schedule so there’d be plenty of playing hours. The added time also allowed us the flexibility to enjoy the weekend itself. We’d been invited to several parties at different casino clubs and we were looking forward to attending the UFC title fight between Chuck Liddell and Wanderlei Silva. It was the first UFC event for all of us and we decided to accept tickets from my MGM host, who also put our names on a VIP list to attend Liddell’s private after-party at the Studio 54 nightclub.
The three of us were flying in from different airports and Kyung had planned it so we all arrived within about an hour of one another. I was the last to land at McCarran and as I took the shuttle from the terminal to baggage claim, my cell phone finally showed reception. I sent a text message to D.A. asking where they were. My flight had been delayed a bit due to a snowstorm on the East Coast and I was anxious to find them so we could take the pre-arranged limo to the hotel.
It turned out that my flight delay was the least of our concerns. D.A. had a connecting flight in Atlanta but the leg to Vegas had been canceled, and Kyung’s direct flight from D.C. was canceled, as well. The storm became so severe that the next flights to Vegas wouldn’t leave for at least another day or two. Worse yet, I was stranded in Vegas with only a small portion of the bankroll. Kyung had the majority of the team’s money, which he kept in a safe deposit box in D.C.
“I don’t know what to do,” D.A. said when I called him from baggage claim. “Kyung doesn’t think he’ll be able to get out there for two days and Atlanta is a zoo right now. I’d be lucky to get a flight tomorrow back to Philly.”
I wasn’t sure what to do, either. On the short ride from the airport to the hotel, I decided that all I could do was make the best of it and surrender to the situation. The familiar scent of the MGM lobby came to represent a strange and nostalgic connection that I had with Vegas. Despite the mayhem of New Year’s weekend and the idea that I might possibly be stranded there, I felt a calm as I checked myself into my home away from home.
A few hours later, Kyung called.
“Nothing tonight. The entire airport is shut down. They told me that tomorrow would be standby. Between the flights already scheduled tomorrow and all the ones canceled today, the chances of me getting to Vegas are slim so I don’t think I’m going to make it. .”
“It’s out of your control. I understand. Assuming I hear the same from D.A., can you try to get me back to Boston as soon as possible?”
It was Friday night, the 28th of December 2007, and I was alone in Vegas. I texted Brooke to see if she was around, but she was working overtime that weekend and any meet up would be brief. The distance had become too much for us and we’d drifted apart.
I just wanted to get home. The idea of playing blackjack all weekend by myself didn’t interest me. I had no desire to spend New Year’s alone at a table, with streamers flying and kazoos buzzing around me. I remained calm and prepared for the worst, but hoped to catch a flight and return home.
Kyung called with the results of his inquiry with Jet Blue. “I’ve got good news and bad news. You don’t have to fly standby. I’ve got you on the next open flight out of Vegas.”
“That’s great,” I said, relieved.
“Yeah, but it’s not until Sunday.”
I thought about my ride from the airport and how I’d vowed to make the most of the situation.
The next morning I woke up and decided that I’d enjoy Vegas as best I could. I still had my fight tickets for the following evening and I still planned on attending the post-party at Studio 54. In the meantime, I’d play a couple of hours of 21 at the low-limit tables. My mind wandered as I played the cards and made the bets without thinking. It was like driving home from work. I’d done it so many times that I could become engulfed in deep thought and still manage to make all of the correct turns to get there. I played a $50 unit and capped it at six units. At these numbers, on this weekend, I had no concerns about surveillance.
The stacks in front of me grew and fell and grew again, in usual fashion. I reflected on my career that led to this point in time. I thought about that day at Semyon’s, the first time I connected with Mike, the handoff of money from Billy Blackjack, the last time I was in Vegas for New Year’s, and the many people I’d come to know as a part of this life. It was still a life that few of my friends and family knew about.
“So, where ya’ from?” the dealer asked.
“Boston.”
“Oh, Boston, huh? Don’t tell me you went to MIT,” she joked.
Overhearing the conversation, the floorperson chimed in.
“That’s a pretty amazing story.”
I couldn’t help myself.
“Yeah it is, do you ever actually catch people counting cards?’
“All the time. It’s pretty easy to tell, actually.”
I knew he wasn’t hinting at anything about my own play. He was just a floorperson and it was probable that any detective work for which he sought credit came from the efforts of the eye in the sky, not the keen instincts he was implying he had. Inside I was laughing at the irony.
Throughout my playing days, I’d had several similar conversations with dealers, other players, and pit personnel alike. I enjoyed hearing vague tales of the great blackjack players in history. I feigned ignorance. Not only did I know several of the legends personally, I’d studied them to such an extent that I knew the flaws in the stories and assumptions regular Joes made about them. The errors in recollection never bothered me. It was just a part of the storytelling process. It was inevitable.
There’s only one thing that ever really bothered me, and that was having to keep my mouth shut when other people erroneously cited “the book,” choosing to rely on their false understanding of proper playing decisions interspersed with playing their hunches. It happens at every table, in every casino, during every day, throughout every shoe.
“What does the book say to do?”
The book says you should always double down on eleven.
The book says to stand on a seven versus a ten.
I always play by the book, except with sixteens … I just use my gut.
The book says you can either hit or stand, it doesn’t matter.
The book says never surrender.
The book says to take even money on blackjacks.
The book, the book, the book.
It was a joke, really. Not only did people spout factually incorrect information, but they became furious when they perceived that others were making mistakes, especially if it happened to cost them a bet. It mattered little to them that there’s no statistical correlation between their loss and another player’s decision-making process. Over time I started losing my patience when amateurs would try to correct my play.
I can recall two instances, both in Atlantic City, when I made the mistake of defending my playing decision. Once, at the Taj, the dealer tried to convince me that my hit on an A,7 versus her 10 had “ruined” the cards for the other players at the table. The playing decision, of course, was correct, even if she didn’t know it. Instead of letting it go, she continued to make her case to the other players at the table, who, through the process of group-think, began to believe her. Losses on subsequent hands were blamed solely on my earlier decision to hit that A,7. After one too many comments, I boiled over. I walked to the casino gift shop, purchased a handful of basic strategy cards for $2 each, returned to the table, passed them out to the other players, and gave one to the dealer.
“Take a look at ‘The Book’ and let me know what I should do with ace-seven versus your ten.”
No one said a word.
About a year later, I was in the high-limit room at the Borgata when a negative count had me hitting my 12 against a 4. I caught an 8 for a 20 and the dealer busted. But the other players at the table pegged me as a mistake player. Later I hit a 12 versus a 3 and the dealer made 21. A Russian guy at first base blamed it on my play and became irate. He wouldn’t let it go. He said things to me in Russian that I couldn’t understand, but knew weren’t complimentary.
Joshua Hornik, one of the players on the famed MIT Blackjack Team, once wrote in his book, The Double-Down Guide to Blackjack, “When you look around a casino at all the gamblers, you will find that everyone you look at is a sucker,” and this guy was no exception. So after several minutes of this sucker questioning my play, I let him know, in English, what I thought of his. He and his friend were dressed as I imagined Semyon was when he played the role of a Russian arms dealer. But any fear I should have felt in cursing at those men had been overshadowed by one thing: my ego. The exchange became heated and ended with pit personnel physically separating us.
I remember those two situations and feel embarrassed that they happened. I was correct on my playing decisions, but as a professional, I had broken the cardinal rule—never act like the expert at the table. That stuck with me for years afterward, and I learned to let go of my ego.
“Yeah, I caught two card counters today alone,” the MGM floorperson continued.
I’d spaced out for a second, but his words brought my attention back to the table in front of me. The idea that the floorperson was bragging about nabbing card counters was laughable. If I’d been in a different mood, I might have played along as I had many times. But I was relaxed, contemplating my career as a blackjack player and what we’d been able to accomplish. I began to reflect on the uniqueness of our system, how we’d been trained by some of the greatest blackjack players in history, how we’d captured pieces from the best blackjack literature, how we’d perfected our balanced betting strategy, and how we’d molded it all into a system that worked for a small team like ours.
The books and people from whom we learned had either played on big teams or as solo practitioners. There were the teams that were run by greats like Al Francesco, John Chang, and Tommy Hyland. Then there were the likes of the MIT blackjack team, the Czechs, and the Greeks. Books written by solo practitioners were plentiful, as well, and they each brought a little magic to the game.
But for smaller, two-to-three-person teams, we’d figured out a way to increase our effectiveness while maintaining our longevity. Our balanced betting strategy was the final piece of the puzzle and we were finding that it offered us some of the best opportunities to win over the course of several sessions.
After one more shoe, I colored up with the dealer, having broken even. I planned to return to the room to clean up before having dinner at Tom Colicchio’s Craftsteak on my way to the fight.
As I made my way from the table to the elevators, I finally had clarity about how our small team had evolved into something other players could benefit from. After all, finding a big team to join wasn’t easy and I knew most people wouldn’t enjoy the solitude of being solo practitioners. Our system was perfect for a couple of people interested in dedicating themselves to the small-team game.
Hours later, a unanimous decision: Chuck Liddell had won the fight.
The excitement and buzz of the Grand Garden Arena and surrounding casino inspired me to make my way to Studio 54 for the after-party. I knew I wouldn’t stay long, but figured that having a drink or two could be fun. The line was long with maybe 100 people waiting. Fortunately, my host had put me on the VIP list, so I walked past the frat boys and scantily clad women who were waiting anxiously. The red velvet rope was the only thing that stood in my way. An attractive brunette with a radio headset and a clipboard approached me.
“Name?”
“Tilton.”
“Three of you, right?”
“It was supposed to be, but my friends got stranded back east, so it’s just me.”
“Oh yeah? That’s too bad. Whereabouts back East?”
Not wanting to explain that we were all coming from different cities, I kept things simple.
“Boston.”
“Boston?! I’m from Boston, too! In fact, I might move back next year when the MGM opens a casino at Foxwoods.”
“Small world, huh?”
“Yes it is. I’m Elena. Nathaniel, right?”
“Yes.”
“Listen, Nathaniel. You’re going to be my date for the night. Here, come with me. I’ll get you a good table upstairs for the VIP party. Chuck should be here in an hour or so. We do a lot of work with him, so I’ll be sure to introduce you.”
She grabbed my hand and directed me through the crowd, like Brooke had done at Green Valley ranch months earlier. She brought me to a table that had a small “reserved” sign on it.
“Here you go, Nathaniel. This is your table. Don’t forget … you’re my date tonight. Anything you need.”
I was stranded in Vegas.
My flight wasn’t for another 16 hours.
I intended to enjoy every minute I had left.