Footballs are pointy and bounce funny. I guess that\u2019s what makes football so much fun. Watching a grown man chase a fumble is like watching a child chase a duck, it\u2019s enough to make a cow laugh, really.<\/p>\n
Betting on sports is popular these days, but you don\u2019t want to bet on football. No, save your money for March Madness where the balls are round and the games are determined by something the fat guys in Las Vegas cannot measure or predict, that of the heart.\u00a0<\/p>\n
My good friend Pilarski RIP and me, used to carry money out of the Hyatt Sports Book in wheelbarrows in March. Of course, we would give it back over the balance of the year, but, hey, we had a few free drinks and one merry hell of a good time along the way.<\/p>\n
There was one season in my hoary old days of sports betting where I actually made a small fortune by adding up the total tonnage of offensive lines, and betting on the heavy side to best protect the quarterback and the running backs. That proposition vaporized however when my swaggering stats got swallowed up by an even heavier defensive line.<\/p>\n
Then for a while, I rode comfortably along with the Tooth Fairy by betting strictly on the strongest kickers, as so many games are determined by a field goal. That manifesto served me well until my favorite kicker got turf toe and kicked me out at the next homeless shelter for escaped sports book apostates.<\/p>\n
Every little surefire sportsbook scheme that set me on fire from head to foot soon enough left me grasping for a Little-Three-Team-Prospect-Made-in-Heaven.\u00a0<\/p>\n
For a few short weeks I actually made money on the flip of the coin. I figured the captain of the team who won the toss would be so jacked-up as to continue his good fortune with a dead-center win, and there was still time to get in on the action. That prediction market held me over for a few weeks of euphoria until I got puffed up big as a Kauai Bufo and bet the farm on one single provocative toss. I am limping still from the loss.<\/p>\n
At the end of my string, I turned to that Oracle of Prophecy, my ex-wife, whose favorite team is the Bengals, though she calls them the \u201cBagels.\u201d\u00a0<\/p>\n
\u201cHoney, who do you like in this Sunday\u2019s feature game?\u201d I asked over the phone.<\/p>\n
\u201cWho\u2019s playing?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe Bengals and the Rams.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, you know I love my Bagels, so bet against the Lambs.\u201d<\/p>\n
You might wonder why I might consult my ex-wife for advice on football bets.<\/p>\n
Well, when her attorney called to tell me I was late with my alimony, I excused myself by telling him, \u201cBut she told me to put it on the Bagels!\u201d<\/p>\n
I shall leave the last word about football to Mark Twain\u2019s astute observation of 1900,\u00a0<\/p>\n
\u201cFootball beats croquet. There\u2019s more go about it!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u2014\u00a0Want to hear McAvoy Layne tell it?\u00a0Go here<\/a>\u00a0for an audio version of this column. For more than 35 years, in over 4,000 performances, columnist and Chautauquan McAvoy Layne has been dedicated to preserving the wit and wisdom of \u201cThe Wild Humorist of the Pacific Slope,\u201d Mark Twain. As Layne puts it: \u201cIt\u2019s like being a Monday through Friday preacher, whose sermon, though not reverently pious, is fervently American.\u201d<\/p>\n Like this:<\/p>\n Like Loading…<\/p>\n