More on AC

Grubby has just posted part III of his latest Atlantic City installment. Check it out, if only because his recollective abilities and writing flair far exceed my own.

His post also made me think about my brief experience playing blackjack on the way out of the Borgata. Blackjack and I are not friends. I lost $800+ playing blackjack in Vegas the last time I was out there.

I had just cashed out $230 in profits that I had spent 24+ hours earning at the NL tables. What was I doing at the blackjack table, anyway? Was I just delerious from fatigue? Or riding high from winning?

Next thing I know, I’ve bought in for $200. I play ABC blackjack, and end up down $100 rather quickly. I’m heartbroken. I think about how many hours I put into winning that money, and curse myself for playing this coin-flip game. And yet, I still don’t walk away. My breathing starts to increase as I reach for the remainder of my chips. I put $100 down and wait for my cards. Naturally, no one else has batted an eyelash. Looking around, $100 aren’t uncommon at all. But for me, this hand meant everything. A chance to even-up, and escape the grips of this game.

The dealer deals the cards. I look down and can’t believe what I’m seeing. 16. And the dealer is showing…? You guessed it, a 7. God himself has come down from heaven to deal me the most gut-wrenching blackjack hand possible. I agonize over what I should do. I know I should hit. I imagine busting and losing 87% of 24 hours of hard work. I know I should hit. I know I should hit. I hit.

A 5 falls. The table erupts! My fear and predicament must have been palpable. I’m high-fiving people and exhaling for what seems like minutes. I don’t even remember what the dealer ended up with, I just grabbed my chips and ran away, far away from the blackjack tables.