If you read this blog, you know my father loved to gamble. Not that he spent a lot of money doing it, but it was one of the few things he did financially that wasn’t thrifty (buying his grandchildren gifts also was on the short list).
We went to the casino together dozens of times through the years. There was the annual trip on Father’s Day to a small one just across the border in Oklahoma a few miles south of Joplin. I refer to that as my yearly $20 soda, at least until the casino stopped comping soft drinks.
There also was occasional stop at Prairie Band just for the hell of it. We even stopped at one in Booneville after watching Missouri beat Kansas in basketball in 2006. On the latter, I just sat at the bar and drank several beers bemoaning the fact that we left that game early before the Tigers rallied in the final minute.
Dad lost more often than he won. I never understood why he played when I saw him get really pissed while losing spin after spin on those rip-off slot machines.
“It’s the one thing I do that is a waste of money, but I enjoy it. That’s why I do it,” he said moments after slamming the machine’s arm down as hard as he could after losing for the 17th straight spin (he kept track, of course).
When he wasn’t gambling in his spare time at the casino, he was playing online poker at home. That ramped up even more after he got tired of the satellite companies increasing his bill and cut off his TV. His only form of entertainment after work was sitting at his desk, searching the Internet for news, then playing play-money poker for hours before going to bed.
I’ll take the blame for his addiction to Party Poker and Poker Stars. When I moved back to Kansas from Texas to work at the Topeka Capital-Journal in 2003, I learned quickly that there wasn’t much to do in Cottonwood Falls, where I lived with my father for several months in 2003 and 2004.
One of the things I did to pass the time when I wasn’t at work as playing online poker. One day in December of 2003 before I left for the day, the old man looked over my shoulder and asked what I was doing. Within 10 minutes, I’d set up a play-money account for him and he was playing.
Dad even stopped worked to play for a bit and was still playing when I left 30 minutes later, at 2 p.m., for the day. When I got home that night at about 10 p.m., I walked in to find the old man still playing poker.
“Have you been here all day? You usually work all day,” I said.
“Yes, I guess I have,” he said.
For the next 16 years, you’d walk into my father’s house to find him sitting at his desk, playing poker. When the work was done, of course. You’d also find a beaten-up mouse, missing keys on the keyboard and a dented chair arm, courtesy of an outburst after taking a bad beat.
I asked once why he didn’t play for real money.
“I’d get too mad, son. They’d kick me out,” he said.
I looked as his keyboard and mouse and said, “You don’t say.”