Damn, that hurts!

There are some things you never quite get used to in life. The sting of a bad beat is one of them.

Sure, the manner in which you react to them improves. I used to lose sleep and lick my wounds for a couple of days, and maybe even second-guess myself before firing that next bet.
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Those days are over, as a quicker recovery time is something that comes with experience, and the knowledge of knowing if you are around long enough, you’re going to do your share of suffering.

But there’s still nothing quite like that uppercut-to-the-gut sensation when the gambling gods seemingly giveth, then brutally taketh away.

I’ve long ago learned to take nothing for granted. I don’t start counting the cash before the final buzzer, nor do I toss my ticket in the paper shredder at halftime if my team is getting hammered.

Some of my friends are either more optimistic or just plain naïve. I have a few who will text me as they sweat a game on my behalf. I’ve got one buddy who will text me, “Nice call … cha-ching!” when my 7-point football favorite is up 10 with a minute left and the other team is driving.

The support is nice and all, but I’ll always reply with, “Thanks, but wait … not over yet,” or “I’m holding out to celebrate till the clock hits zero.”

So, despite my vast experience with near-miss heartache and a steely façade that fends off the damage, I still find myself wondering how Duke covered 6 against Kansas last week to kill my first big c... [More]