Figuring this was the best week in the year to take a break from my sports-consumed existence, I packed a duffle bag and left the betting-friendly but sweltering confines of Nevada and headed to the coast.

The timing was far from an accident. With only the MLB All-Star game and the British Open on the sports menu for the bulk of the week – neither of which had my wagering interest – I decided I could get away without suffering from that last-kid-to-the-Christmas-tree feeling that I was missing out on something while on hiatus from my home state’s betting parlors.
But I soon learned there was a lot of truth to the old adage, “Wherever you go, there you are.”

Sitting in a soothing hot tub on a pleasant chilly evening cooled by a tinge of coastal breeze, I looked in one direction and saw the ocean. Turn 180 degrees and I saw the resort’s palm trees illuminating the sky with festive lights.
 
My peaceful, sports-betting free existence didn’t seem so bad after all. Then, the hot tub’s motor turned off and one of the other spa-goers declared, “I’ll take care of it.”

I turned to where the hub of the spa’s control panel was located and saw the following image:


My reaction was one common among those in the trade: I had to wonder if this was a tip from the gambling gods for a futures bet on the AFC East. I decided the serendipity of the moment would have to be taken into consideration at the sportsbook.

The next night at dinner, one of my non-sports-betting buddies declared, “Odds are, I am going with the linguine and clams.” Naturally, it got me thinking, “I wonder what my odds are?”

I love a good piece of fish, and there’s no better place to get one right on the wharf, where they take the catch straight from the saltwater to the kitchen. The fresh-herb salmon caught my eye, but I couldn’t deny that the stuffed chicken breast – a daily special the staff was promoting – was starting to get my attention. I resolved to make my decision at the moment it was my turn to order, and I put my own odds at Salmon -200 and Chicken at +175. The underdog took the cash.

Later that night, in a candy store on the boardwalk, I heard a kid ask his parents how they make licorice. But I could have sworn he said “vigorish.” I was about to jump in and give the tyke his first lesson in sports betting, until I heard his mother ask the teenager behind the counter what went into the rubber-like red and black candy they were making.

Next, I found myself handicapping the father-son miniature golf match in front of us on the course. They had both been talking trash since they reached the registration desk. Junior, who I put at about 12 years old, was brash and predicted an easy victory. But I could tell Pops hadn’t lost his competitive drive, and I had a hunch he wasn’t going to soft play the kid, especially in light of Junior’s non-stop taunts.

My buddies all sided with the kid. Suckers. After one hole, I could tell Junior had underestimated his opponent, and wanted to win so badly that he lacked proper focus and was pressing. Senior had the poise and technique of a grizzled mini-golf veteran. He was easy money. I put him at about -300 and Junior at +240.

When I offered my pals a “friendly” $5 wager on Dad, all three of them jumped on the kid at even money. Cha-ching! My round of golf and celebratory Dole Pineapple smoothie were on them, with a couple of bucks to spare.

All told, the vacation was terrific. But it also served as a reminder that when you’re a gambler, you can always go somewhere, but the gambler within never really leaves.

Not that this is necessarily a bad thing.