Jimbo
sat in his room working on graphs and other details on sport statistics for all
the pay fantasy leagues he had going. The mathematical genius he was, he constructed
graphs of nearly each and every player. He had journals, he had graph paper, and
he had loose notes and his own custom formulas. Jim had been doing fantasy
sports since he was twelve and always did well and won first place 28% of the
time according to his recordkeeping. During those times, he wanted to join pay
leagues, but while under the age of 18 and even after. If he was under his
mother’s roof, he could not gamble. Since his move, with the help of Green Dot
cards and Glen’s investment, he has won money both legal and illegally in the
world of fantasy sports.
Jim perhaps spent at least four hours a day on
fantasy sports and the mathematics of it, and even more on his days off.
His
phone has been ringing off the hook for the first two hours of leaving work,
the first few were from Todd, Jim didn’t answer the phone and he left messages
each time he called. Jim knew those messages were filled with homophobic
remarks and perhaps death threats as well. He went to text messaging next with
at least twenty of them, he read one saying, ‘U queer, u got soc sec, I ain’t
got shit cuz im not retarded like u fag.’
Later, phone calls from Mom were coming in,
but he didn’t answer. All calls were voicemail messages too. Like Todd, she
next went to text messaging and they continued on. For interest, Jim looked at
the text message from his mom that said, ‘I bought that house 4 u and u do this
to me?’
It wasn’t the first time he heard that one.
Jimbo
submerged to his fantasy world. Since his 18th birthday, he would wish
he was in a family with a single-father who happen to be a sports star. He
couldn’t care which sport, hell, he would take an English Soccer father. If he
could have the choice to do it all over again with the family he has with all
events coming to pass without him in any way to stop it, to being born to a
father who was an American playing the sport of soccer in the United Kingdom,
coming out of a womb of a mother who passes on some little time later and he
had to grow up in England, he would accept that. He would give his father a
name, Jim Sr. (like his distant father) who played professional football (in
England), bringing in the cash and he had it good. He could brag, ‘my dad plays
football, what about your dad?’
Sadly,
he has a mother who feels the world will end if he makes a mistake, a father
who runs away from him, an older sister he loved and cared for who passed away
from being a pedestrian being ran over by drunken teenagers, an older brother
who wishes him his death for anytime any disrespect is intended, and a younger
sister who was more worse off than him mentally.
Another text message hit his phone, he looked
at it and said, “I know mother, I’m a very bad guy.”
This time it was from Glen, ‘We might see brighter
passages.’
That made him smile.
Although
his family sure was nuts, he was glad that Glen stayed with him even after
Sheila’s passing. He didn’t have to do that, but he did. Jim appreciated Glen a
lot even before Glen decided to do the gambling and gave him the kind ultimatum
of buying the green dot cards and setting up joint accounts for him and Jim to
share and keep the winnings of fantasy sports going. It would have been a hell
of a lot useful if Glen showed up in his life with that gambling interest when
he was sixteen, willing to compete for money. But, the interest showed up just
a few months of his sister’s passing. However, he couldn’t be that picky,
things were working and he was making money.
Although
out of his mom’s house, he remembered that his mom before moving into the
trailer (that she bought) to not gamble on fantasy sports. She gave that out
sternly with a point of her finger, and then threatened to take the house away
if she caught him gambling. Jim didn’t take the threat seriously and still does
not to this day.
Another text message came up; Jim looked and
hoped it was Glen.
However, it was his mom, ‘Ever since Sheila
died, u been an ass.’
“Jesus Christ… Glen, get me the fuck outta
here.” Jimbo muttered.
Glen
and Tommy entered into Troy on Long Lake Road going east. Passing Fourteen Mile
Road going north in the split off of Macomb and Oakland counties, with
Dequindre Road being the border, Fifteen mile and thereafter would be given a
name. Eighteen Mile Road would become Long Lake once one left Macomb. Also,
Long Lake was a more significant road than its Eighteen Mile counterpart, in
fact, in split into a divided highway with a higher speed limit when it entered
into the downtown area of Troy.
“Are we in Oakland County?” Tommy asked.
“You lived in Detroit all your life and you
don’t know if you are in Oakland County?”
“This ain’t Detroit, nigga. This is rich
asshole land, damn. It’s a good thing you’re driving. I’d get a DWB easily in
this motherfucker.”
“You’re bashing rich people and you want to be
rich yourself.”
Glen met a red light at Rochester Road; he
looked to turn right and waited for a clean opportunity to make the turn.
“Man, if I was rich, I wouldn’t live here. If
I tried to be a guy trying to show that I’m rich and I’m at one of these golf
courses, the people would be callin’ 911 and sayin’” he then went to his
professional white man voice, “nine-one-one, there is a nigger in my golf
course.”
Glen laughed at that while looking away from
the road, he could give it to Tommy; he did the rich white asshole impression
very well. Very well for a good laugh.
Tommy smiled wide, “You like that, Glen?”
Glen shook his with laughter, “Yeah, I like
that.”
The minivan behind them honked the horn.
That got Glen to look at the rearview mirror,
“What the hell?”
Tommy looked forward, “The light is green.”
Glen looked forward, “Oh, shoot.”
That followed by a harsh push of the horn by
the minivan behind them.
Glen accelerated while Tom looked back to see
an obese female driver.
“Easy bitch, you got prince charming balls and
his credit card in your purse. You live in a fuckin’ condo. What the fuck are
you pissed about?” Tommy turned and said to her, only being blocked by a
window.
“I don’t think she heard you.” Glen said.
“Yeah, but she’s raising her arms up, acting
like it’s the worst thing that happened to her. I like to see her with a bunch
of thugs pointing guns at her fuckin’ head.”
“If she doesn’t get killed, she can appreciate
her privileged life a little more.”
“The fuckin’ American dream and that fat bitch
is living it.”
A
few minutes passed and the two drove into the parking lot of Formaris Pizza, a
building built recently as Glen could tell it was modern. It wasn’t as large as
The Post, a place where Glen help Juby beat the man who ran the business he was
about to enter. Formaris had a more modern sign with its Italian heritage
showing up, and a logo of a man looking awfully close to Super Mario with a
pizza. The parking lot was large and kept more space than the building itself.
The two exited and Glen said, “This looks like
a nice place to die in.”
Tommy looked at him funny, “That’s not a good
thing to hear, since I’m going to be the only black man in here.”
The two walked to the restaurant with wide
windows for one to easily see the interiors, the restraint’s insides looked
awfully similar to The Post, only that Formaris was smaller, and the bar filled
aligned the whole restaurant.
And Mario himself had approached the door from
the inside and opened it, “Come on in, my friends.”
For the first time, Glen had heard that strong
Italian accent he had, which gave him a miniature creepy feel that he is
dealing with the mob now. The ending in where Joe Pesci gets killed in Casino
played in his head.
Tommy silently said, “We’re dealing with Joe
Pesci now.”
Glen regarded that but continued the stroll
down to the entrance, to see the smiling Mario wearing a blue Michigan shirt
and black jeans. Glen guessed he was in his sixties, he was slim and probably
worked very hard all of his life.
“Super Mario?” Glen asked.
“Yeah, like the video game, you can call me
that. I see that Amel did as I told him.”
Glen and Tommy got to the entrance.
Mario dropped the smile a little, “Who’s he?”
“Oh, this is Tommy.”
“Tommy?”
“Yes. Or Tom. He a wiz on the college
basketball, he really knows which players are being bought.”
“Ah, you know that I know people who buy those
players?”
“Any from Michigan?”
“A couple, they are all smart people and know
not to fuck around. But some of these other colleges like State, Eastern,
Western, and Northern and even down in Ohio, they are easy buys.”
Tommy nodded with a smile on his face, Mario
noticed.
Mario pointed at him, “He must know about some
of the shit going down.”
Glen looked over, “Yes, he does.”
Mario tapped on Tommy’s shoulder, “I might
have some use for you, my friend. Why don’t you all come on in?”
After Mario turned around, Tommy tapped Glen
quickly with a nod.
“What?” Glen asked.
“I don’t like that guy, especially with him
tappin’ my shoulder and shit.”
“Then tell him not to do it again.” Glen
shrugged and entered, Tommy followed.
The following continued all the way into the
restaurant in which a few people were sitting at the bar, a young woman who
appeared to follow the European standards was running the bar, a
thirty-something white female with blonde hair and wearing all black with a
Formaris Pizza Logo on it.
They continued to follow into the kitchen.
There were five cooks inside dressed in white cook gear, two automatic pizza
makers up front and behind is where the pizzas were decorated. A pizza delivery
guy waited on one of the ends of the pizza makers; one could guess he was
awaiting his pizza. There was also a set of steel sinks and where dishes were
washed and pans scrubbed, but no one was present. Glen could guess that one of
the cooks shared that dishdog duty as well. The smells of garlic had filled the
aura inside, a pleasant one for Glen who loves a good pizza, but Tommy hated
it.
“I like that garlic smell.” Mario said.
Tommy shook his head at that.
The following continued to another set of
doors, inside was a door to a walk-in refrigerator that was unusually small for
a typical restaurant. Around the corner was a set of stars going down to a
basement. As they advanced down, the chatter from downstairs came to the ears.
“Party going on down there?” Glen asked.
Mario turned back with a smile, “More like a
sausage fest, it’s all guys down there, about seven.”
“For a sophomore betting man, I don’t see
woman doing much of this.” Glen added.
And around that corner, they were inside the
basement room that looked more like it was supposed to be for storage. There
were other doors leading to somewhere, one could imagine it goes to the
Heater.
The
basement had three large HD screen TVs at 1080p hanging on the wall, all at 42
inches from Glen’s best guess on routing around in the electronics area from
time to time. There were generic restaurant chairs and three bar stools with
beer bottles, glasses of beer and pop and let’s not forget a Supreme Pizza on
two of the stools with slices taken away from each. Like Mario said, there were
seven people, and Tommy appeared a little nervous since he was the only black
man. All patrons of the downstairs bar (as there was a mini-bar at the
southeast corner) were paying attention to the TV’s as all three had a
different ESPN channel, chances were that Mario had the premium deal with
whatever cable company he was using, later to see a screen flicker a little
with a satellite dish logo, Mario was at least for one TV using the dish.
Mario said to Glen, “This is where we do
business, Amel’s number one and number two are here. He told me for you not to
make any seriously big bets.”
“He gave me a $1000 advance for Juby.” Glen
said.
“Augh Juby, that pussy cop. I knew his strings
were being pulled, like Bush with Cheney.”
Tommy strayed away from the nervousness and
said, “Man, fuck Bush.”
Mario regarded that, “Yeah, he didn’t care
about black people.”
“Kayne was sure right with that.”
“Yeah, his father bought him out of Vietnam,
while an immigrant like me got in that shit.” Mario said.
“Vietnam veteran?” Glen asked.
Mario nodded with a smile.
“Well, I appreciate you doing what you did in
your era, opposed to me being a pussy and not signing up for Iraq.” Glen said.
“Ahh, don’t feel bad, it’s all about the oil
money. We could have all cars run on electricity and vegetable oil, but the gas
moguls own this country and some of the world. And people wonder why bullshit
like this goes on.” Mario said.
Glen was tempting to say why he got into the
gambling business, even though Mario seemed like a guy who was rather
easy-going with the diminishing doubt about him being a serious ruthless mob
man. However, he wasn’t about to say the reason why to a man he just met.
“Getting to business, Amel gave me $500 on top
of which.”
“What are you, number three?”
“No, five.”
Tommy appeared confused, “What the hell are
you saying Glen?”
He looked to Tommy, “Amel looks as his five
gamblers working for him by rank, and I just got in it.”
“Oh, I see.”
“You should feel lucky; he never sends number
five over here. You must have a gift, or you made Juby shit his pants.” Mario
followed that with laughter.
Glen didn’t reply.
“Getting down to business, we got three
college basketball games coming up: Houston State vs. Gonzaga, Eastern Michigan
vs. Idaho and New Hampshire vs. Boston College. Get your head bruin’ or ask
your friend Tommy what he thinks, and…” Mario pointed at the two white males
standing by the third TV, looking at each other while holding beers, “that’s
number one and two, don’t go against them or Amel will be pissed, and I will be
pissed,” he then pointed to three older gentlemen sitting at the center stool,
talking among themselves, “those three, your competition. They don’t belong to
me.”
Glen asked about the two other men.
Mario said, “Not this time.”
He then walked away.
Glen went to Tommy, “So?”
“Okay, Gonzaga, if it’s +10, go for it but any
more, go for Houston State. I know that both teams have player’s doin’
bullshit, so it’s just a matter on what goes on. Eastern Michigan and Idaho
both suck, no offense.”
Glen interrupted, “I’ve seen for myself.”
“But the fucking Mob aren’t at the same town
as Napoleon Dynamite.”
“I don’t know, I’ve heard of mob influence in
small towns in Virginia.”
“Vagina? I bet they buy farmland over there,
but really, go for Idaho +10 or above, trust me on that.”
“I’ll trust you, Eastern Michigan never really
got that far.”
“Hell yeah, nigga, Michigan beat the shit out
of them plenty of times.”
“I’ve seen for myself, what about New Hamster
and Boston.”
“Where the hell is New Hamster anyway?”
“Out in the northeast, I’m personally thinking
the mob may have more hold on Boston than New Hampshire.”
Tommy thought for a moment, “Well, I never
hear anything about New Hamster, I don’t even know where the hell it is. Go
with Boston, I’d say +20 or more.”
“You sure?”
Tommy smiled with a nod, “I’m sure.”
Glen looked away and to the three men at that
particular table, looking at him while drinking beers. They didn’t appear threatening
at all, just regular Joes minus the Arabian man, he said to Tommy, “You could
be wrong, besides I pay if you do.”
Glen made his approach to the three men, Tommy
said, “Don’t worry, you’ll win.”
The approach had shown to Glen that the men
looked on with semi-smiles, one of the white males and the Arabian appeared to
be in their thirties. The other was balding and appeared to be at least his
late-fifties. The Arabian man perhaps just got out of work, he wore a black
sweater and a dress shirt under it of a logo of a technology company with gray
dress pants. The white males wore college shirts, younger man a Michigan, the
other University Of Toledo, whom of which does not compete in college sports.
“You want to bet?” The Arabian man asked with
a heavy accent.
“Yes, I do.”
“I have Gonzaga at +14 and a half. Five
hundred.” He said.
“I’ll go against that.” Glen said.
“You sure, Houston’s in bad shape, my friend.”
“I’m confident in my bet and that Gonzaga will
not go past 15 with them.”
“Can we shake on that?” he said while offering
his hand.
Glen shook his hand and asked, “Eastern
Michigan vs. Idaho?”
“You want two? Fine, I think Idaho will win.”
“I’ll go with Eastern Michigan.” Glen said,
going against Tommy’s advice.
The Arabian man lifted his eyebrows and
smiled, “Well, my friend, you do have a great deal of confidence for one of
your homegrowns.”
“As me taking the Eastern Michigan team?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can we shake on that?” Glen offered his hand.
“How much?”
“Five hundred.”
The two shook hands.
“Boston College vs. New Hampshire?”
“Sorry, my friend, I only have $1,500, I have
another bet pending on that, also 500.”
“I take you up on that.” Said a heavy accent
of a male.
Glen looked at the voice, it was from the
older man.
“Y’know Boston College will win, y’all agree?”
Glen nodded, “Yes.”
“I’d say +15½, I don’t think Boston will go
past that.”
“I’ll go against that.”
He smiled, “Y’all have a deal, five hundred.”
while offering his hand.
Glen shook on that, “Five hundred.”
“But be prepared to pay. Everyone thinks since
I’m from Kentucky, that I’m a dummy. I can highly assure you young man, that I
ain’t a dummy.” He said with a smile, yellow teeth showing.
Glen shrugged, “Did I say that?”
An
hour had passed and the secret bar of Formaris was still rocking. All three TVs
were playing the games each. Glen sat down by the stool closer to the stairway,
eating a slice of Pizza but drinking an Aquafina bottled water. He would drink
pop if he were to tire, but he was wide alive paying attention to all three
games with great detail, but he began to bore on the speed of the answers
coming up. This kind of boredom on ‘waiting of the answers’ as he would refer
to it, was something he was used to. To have time pass by, he’d Google
information on teams and look at any particular details on the teams he was
involved with in the gambling.
Otherwise, he would attempt to may conversation to strangers.
A
wrinkly white gentleman who obviously appeared to be a senior citizen had found
the opposite seat of the table Glen sat at and said with a low and raspy voice,
“Hello, I’m Scott.”
Scott wore a plaid shirt and a winter coat
over it, he had a full set of white hair that was a little wavy.
Glen bided his hello.
“Are your number five?”
“Yes, are you a part of Mario?”
“No, I’m Amel’s number one.”
Glen appeared confused and said, “Well, I
expected you to be an Albanian man.”
“Nope, just a Polish-American who fought in
Nam.” Scott said.
“Well, I’m glad to meet the man himself, I’d
imagine two, three and four are Albanians, but I don’t want to take a wrong
guess.
“Two is also American, young guy, perhaps
younger than you.”
“He must be better than me at this.”
“Perhaps.” He said while waving the downstairs
barmaid over.
Glen saw the female waitress with long black
hair, pretty with soft skin and wearing a classic white blouse. She handed
Scott a Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, then asked Glen if she wanted one; Glen shook
his head and said, “thanks anyway.”
Scott opened the can of beer and said to Glen,
“I’ve been doing this since before Nam.”
“You going to retire soon?” Glen asked.
Scott laughed then took a good drink of the
Pabst, then said, “I could, but I rather not.”
“Have you been in trouble for this?”
“At best, I’ve spent five years in the pen,
been in Macomb County jail a few times, Oakland County, to name a few.”
“I’ll probably be in one of those places
pretty soon if I keep continuing.”
“I’d watch for that Juby guy. Even though he’s
easily manipulative, he can be trouble. Especially, since you took his spot
away from him.”
Mario took the seat between the two, facing
away from the TV’s. Scott and Glen regarded him.
Glen said, “I imagine he’d be.”
“How long have you been doing this?” Scott
asked.
“Year and a half.”
“You must have some natural ability.”
“Tragedy can make you motivated, if you wish
not to think of it.”
“Tragedy?”
“Rather not go into it, really.”
“So, you got people working for you?” Mario
asked.
Glen reminded himself that he didn’t want to
talk about why he got into gambling just yet, so he was glad that Mario came by
to change the subject, and he said, “In the gambling department, two people.”
“The black kid and who?” Mario asked.
“A black man and a white man.”
“He may be in his twenties, but when you get
old like me and Scott here, people in their twenties look like they are in
their teens.”
Glen shrugged to that while drinking his
bottled water as the chatter in the bar was still filled in the air, with the
Kentucky man cheering on one of his bets.
“How are your bets?” Mario said.
Glen made a quick look at all three screens
and scanned the scores, then said to Mario, “Two I’m winning, and the other one
doesn’t look good.”
Mario pointed with a smile, “Keep the winning percentage
up. You won’t win every game, but if you win more than 60 percent, you’re
good.”
“I’m at 78 percent, keep book for a while.
Even the cops give me my books back when I get caught.” Scott said to Mario.
Mario asked Glen, “What’s your winning
percentage?”
Glen wondered on that and said, “I don’t keep
track, I go by profit.”
“If you can do math, it’s best to keep that on
record. Just go by wins divided by attempts.” Mario said.
“I should.”
Mario was slowly turning his attention to
Scott to further the convo, but his eye was caught by Tommy standing against
the wall and talking to the barmaid, the two were smiling and chatting.
Glen looked at the Eastern Michigan vs. Idaho
game to see on the display that his college was winning by ten. He couldn’t
help but to look over to the Arabian male, who looked the same screen. He could
tell that the man wasn’t trying to show emotion, but he face expressed some
frustration. He took a drink of his beer
with a shake of his head.
Glen looked back and thought, ‘I wonder how
long he’s been in this business.’
An
hour and a half of watching basketball games, all three came to an end within
minutes with no overtimes and no serious drama. The final scores were Eastern
Michigan 83, Idaho 77, and a victory for Glen, Gonzaga crushed Houston State
77-45 with a four quarter push, another victory for Glen. He lost his bet on
Boston College staying within 15½, the whipped New Hampshire 87-67. However,
importantly, profit was made. He walked forward to collect a thousand and pay
five hundred, first approaching the Arabian man who also stood up, he shook his
head but took the pill by counting his Benjamin’s.
Tommy approached, “Dude, looks like we made a
mistake on that Idaho game.”
Glen smiled, “I went for Eastern Michigan, we
won two, lost one.”
The Arabian man handed Glen one-thousand
dollars and said, “Congrats, young man. I like to try to win the money from
you.”
Glen shook his head, “You won’t win it.”
Tommy got in his face, “You got fucked!”
Glen looked over to Tommy, “Easy, this isn’t
the place.”
Tommy complied while the Arabian man shook his
head at that.
Glen apologized on his behalf, “Sorry about
that.”
“Keep your friend on a leash.”
Tommy was walking away, rapping about making
money.
The Arabian man walked away and the man from
Kentucky appeared behind him.
Glen sighed with a smile, “You were right.”
and he swallowed his own pill and handed him five hundred from the thousand he
received from the Arabian man.
“I’m Darrell.” The man from Kentucky said.
“Glen.”
“Who’s your black friend? He’s going to get
his butt kicked if he acts like that here.” Darrell said.
Tommy stood by the stairs, dancing with his
quick syllables flowing in the air. But those who were near him, including
Mario who frowned upon this. The barmaid smiled on to it and approached Glen,
but he didn’t notice.
“I see that. He’s good with the college
basketball, he knows most of the mob mentality.” Glen said.
“You use him for your gambling?” Darrell
asked.
“Just college basketball and some of the NBA.”
Glen said.
“Ah, he was wrong about Gonzaga.”
“He was.”
Glen looked off with the victory and with some
urge in his voice, “Tommy, were going.”
He stopped what he was doing and said, “Okay,
Glen.”
Tommy led the way upstairs, toning down the
volume of his amateur rapping skills that sure wasn’t impressing the older men
coming from cultures that would disagree with his.
“You shouldn’t do that here.” Glen said while
the two walked upstairs, not noticing the barmaid behind them, following with a
smile.
“Why not? We got victory.” Tommy said.
“I think you know why.” Glen said.
The two kept walking through the kitchen and
through the restaurant arguing on why a celebration just right after was necessary.
It wasn’t until the two left into the parking lot and Glen said, “Mario is mob,
plus you are surrounded by people who don’t agree with your culture.”
“Man, fuck him.” Tommy said.
“You want your riches, stay calm.”
Tommy stopped while the front door opened,
“Man, if they won, they would be ragging on us.”
The two then looked towards the door to see
the barmaid exiting.
Tommy smiled and quickly to Glen, “She likes
me.”
He then walked towards her, but as they got
close, she gave a disappointing look to him and went to Glen, “I think you’re
cute.” She said with a thin Italian accent, but she sounded more American than
the latter.
“Oh, well, thanks.”
She approached him a little closer and began
to feel the chill of the cold Michigan wind with black dress paints and a thin
white blouse to shield her a little, “Let me give you my number.”
She pulled out a little scrap of paper and a
ball point pen and wrote, ‘Francesca’ followed by a 586 number.
Glen looked and asked, “You live in the 586?”
“Madison Heights.”
“Hmm, pretty boring town.”
“Yes, real boring, I got to get inside, It’s
too cold. Call me.” She said, finally giving up on the wind and rushing inside
while others began to exit.
Glen looked on to her rushing inside the
restaurant that was still open, despite the idea that kitchen staff was
wrapping up. Perhaps they stop serving food at a certain time and 10pm on a
weekday is the case.
“Damn, what the fuck.” Tommy said in silence
while looking at that, he walked a hard walk to Glen and said, “I was talking
to her all day.”
Glen walked to his Focus and signaled for him
to follow, “I guess she wasn’t that interested in you.”
“She was smiling at me all the time.”
“I don’t know. She gave me her number.”
The
barmaid rushed herself down the stairs, but she was stopped by a foul-looked
Mario.
“Cosa diavolo stai facendo?” Mario asked.
She began to fickle and shook her head,
“Please.”
“Detto di no per I giocaroti!” Mario said
furiously.
Scott who was still present watching ESPN
Sportscenter, but he turned over to notice.
“Non e italiano, si prega padre. Voglio essere
con un Americano.” Francesca said.
“Non. Vi sara un uomo europeo che non gamble.”
Mario said ruthlessly.
Francsesca screamed, “Essi tutti gamble. Qual
e la differenza?”
Mario stopped to wonder, then with a calm
voice, “Stare lontano da questo uomo di colore.”
Francesca rolled her eyes and stomped her feet
upstairs.
“Don’t be a smartass, you’re my daughter.”
Mario said.
“You break the law.” She muttered before
exiting the basement altogether.
Mario turned around to see Scott drinking his
beer, looking at him while the only TV was on doing Sportscenter with a lone
male reporter, which is the case most times.
Scott asked after drinking his beer, “What’s
wrong, you lost?”
Mario approached, “No, I didn’t bet. I just
don’t want my daughter dating any gamblers, especially a black man.”
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