Being a massive pussy does not run in my family. My dad worked as an E.R. doctor before starting up his own GI practice. My Jewish great-grandpa was in the mafia (… as a bookkeeper). My great-great grandpa made the courageous decision to leave his wife and child behind in England as he travelled across the pond all by himself to start a life for them (before saying, “Fuck this shit, I’m out,” marrying some harlet named “Minnie,” and completely breaking off ties to my great-grandpa and great-great-grandma). Is my lineage glamorous? Hell no. But while I may come from a family of butthole fingerers, overly-stereotypical Jews, and adulterers, one thing that doesn’t run in my bloodline? Being a massive pussy.
Then I came along.
I’m a massive pussy in nothing but the traditional sense. There’s no absurdly lame thing I consistently do or have done that would make you think I’m some extraordinarily huge bitch. I don’t hate all spicy food, I can take shots without grimacing (though that one did, admittedly, take a while), and I get my Raising Cane’s Texas toast buttered on both sides because I’m not afraid of calories. Hell, sometimes, when I’m feeling extra “fuck the world!,” I don’t even wear a seatbelt when I’m in a taxi. I’m a massive pussy strictly because, in arisen situations in which I can elect to either go big or go home, I always book myself a one way ticket from Big Dick Junction back to my humble studio apartment in Pussyville (where I pay too much in rent because I didn’t want to bother the leasing agent by haggling with her to get a lower price).
This tendency of mine to take the road more travelled has never been more apparent than it was this past weekend, when I decided to put some money down on the Wisconsin-Iowa game. I placed two bets — one on my Wisconsin Badgers to beat Iowa by 4 points, and one on the under hitting (O/U 42.5). In a move that serves to further exemplify how the part of my brain that holds courage isn’t merely a bowl of alphabet soup that spells out “GIGANTIC CHODE,” I parlayed that bet. That’s a big boy move! It was the first time I’d knowingly increased the amount of risk in my life since I decided to pull the trigger on a post-Taco Bell 50/50 fart/shart two months back. I’m still not sure why I parlayed; I must’ve been feeling like a real big dick badass at the time. Atypical behavior for me, for reasons that will become painfully apparent soon.
As luck would have it, Wisconsin covers and the game hits the under. Money in the bank for J-Bone! I’d been on the biggest cold streak of my life, and needed this hit like Totino’s Pizza Rolls need time to cool down. But when I checked the “Open Bets” tab, my parlay still sat there, looking back at me as if to say, “Not so fast, Ponyboy.” I took a closer look at my bet, and saw that my 2-team parlay was actually a 3-team parlay, with the third pick being “Open Play.” This meant that before I could close out this parlay and cash in on my 2 hits, I had to go in and add another bet.
I was faced with two options: go big by adding in a third bet that might not hit but would increase my payout if it did, or play it safe and take a very low odds moneyline in an attempt to cash in with minimal risk. In the most obvious decision ever (in my eyes), I, a massive pussy, grabbed the latter by the pussy, and chose UTSA -410 as the bet that would close out my parlay.
On paper, this was a great bet. UTSA were only 3-3, but their opponent? 1-5 UTEP, and it was a home game for UTSA.
In reality, this was not a great bet. Not only because it was such a close game all the way through regulation, but because I couldn’t even watch it anywhere — and boy, did I try. But alas, it wasn’t on TV, and there were no live streams I could find despite scouring the darkest depths of the internet in an endeavor that almost made my computer crash via an influx of pop-up ads. I wanted to watch this game more than the players playing in it wanted to be on better teams, and I couldn’t. The sense of deflation I felt from this was a sign of things to come.
Relegated to watching the game via ESPN’s GameCast, I watched as regulation ended in a tie. Then 0T1 as well. Then 0T2. And 0T3.
I see “4 OT” appear on GameCast’s screen, which I’m honestly surprised at considering for about 5 minutes during one of the OTs (they all blend together after 3), nobody updated anything for about 5 minutes in a testament to how meaningless this game was to everybody in the world but me.
BUT A STROKE OF LUCK in OT4! UTSA recovers a fumble, and are now driving in UTEP’s half of the field. All they need is a field goal to end this ganglion cyst of a game at this point, and GameCast predicts they have something like an 86.4% chance of winning. After getting stopped, UTSA lined up for a 40-something yard kick. But when I saw that UTSA’s kicker’s name was “Victor Falcon,” I knew all hope was lost. Dude shanked it (I assume; all GameCast’s shitty commentary said was that he missed). UTEP ends up winning in OT5. I lost my 3-team parlay by betting on the favorite while keeping up with the longest game in Conference USA history via ESPN GameCast. And I deserve all of it.
The moral of the story? Don’t be a massive pussy. Go for broke, even if you’re rich. Leave it all on the table. Don’t settle for anything less than the best possible outcome. And also, I guess, that you can still find love even after ditching your wife and kid and moving to another country.
Fuck my great-great-grandpa, and fuck the UTSA Roadrunners..
If you want to hear me tell this story directly into your earholes, check out the latest episode of Back Door Cover, our college football gambling podcast for people that fuck, below this paragraph. The story starts at 10:27, and when you’re done listening to it, listen to my award-eligible podcast segment “The Bone Zone,” which starts at 53:30, then listen to the rest of the ‘cast, THEN subscribe to Back Door Cover on iTunes.