GAME OF THE YEAR

Dr. Renalla's phone rang at 5 am. He sprung out of bed expecting an emergency call from the Honolulu General Hospital. Being Chief Neurosurgeon was the dues he paid for those kinds of calls in the middle of the night. "Hello, Dr.Renella. Yah, hiya doc, this is Jimmy in Las Vegas calling from Lou Phillips Sports Service, sorry to get you up early doc but I've got the GAME OF THE YEAR here and it's almost kickoff time on the east coast and if we don't get going here we're gonna miss the Titan's game, now I got a calling list here I gotta get going on doc, so how much are you ready to jump in for? This is a lock doc, they don't get any easier than this, we're getting the Titan's and giving up only 3 1/2 to the San Diego Stallers, they couldn't throw a hot dog to the guy in the third seat. This is a lock baby common doc, you take $2,000 and when you win send me $200 and we'll all celebrate tonight. Whaddya say?"

"I say it's five in the fucking morning and I'm a doctor, this phone is for emergency calls you idiot! If you ever call here again… I'll...uh...wait a minute, you say the Titan's and three and a half to the Chargers?"

"Yah doc, how much you want?"

"Put me down for $2,500 and I'll wire you the $200 by noon Honolulu time. Ok?"

"Yah that'll be fine doc, good to talk to ya. I'll have another game for ya next week"

"Ok. Thanks for calling Jimmy."

"Who was that on the phone honey?"

"Uh, it was the hospital, emergency call, they needed a brain surgeon."

If you've ever picked up a Las Vegas newspaper or magazine or sports paper you know what I'm talking about, it's the Las Vegas version of "Psst, hey pal, ya got a minute? Have I got a deal for you. Ya wanna make some easy money? I got a bundle of money for ya, it's practically free, this is a sure thing pal."

This is an old scam; these guys from the sports services are cold hard telemarketers going down phone books and calling everyone trying to put the touch on them for a few bucks to help them pick a football game.

The rap is usually called the GAME OF THE WEEK scam and with today's market for sports betting, especially when it's coming from guys like married doctors with a little money sitting in their examining room somewhere in Des Moines, Iowa, with a 65 year old that craps his pants, and gets a call from a guy with a heavy New York accent sounding like a "made" guy that tells you he's got the game of the week and let's get in on the action. He looks at the four walls, sniffs the fragrant odor coming from the 85 year old lady with a Staff infection, the wife just scratched and dented the family van, and the kids need new Nike's, so he snaps out the yellow pages looking for the nearest Western Union office to wire this guy a few thousand bucks to get in on the action of the "Game of the week."

Now the wife's knows why hubby's glued to the TV set every Sunday and getting so emotional over a field goal. It's called POINT SPREAD lady, he's promised the guy in Vegas he'd wire him $200 if he wins the game and if this guy gives him a winner he's got the doc stuck for whatever he wants to sell him in return for the next "Game Of The Week" And he knows if the doc wins the first game he's gonna knock down this guys door to get in on the next week's game.

The guy on the other end isn't a handicapper, he's a damn telemarketer, he has a print out of what to say and the comebacks to say when the call goes bad, so how does he get his picks? Try ennie meenie miney moe. He just picks up the paper and does the same thing you could do for free. But when he says he's from a "Pro Sports Service here in Las Vegas" and with the New York accent to sound like he must have once ran a "cement" service in Queens, he's got them hooked.

Today they have computer programs to get sports statistics and crunch numbers for you and give you percentages, and it's a lot cheaper than getting in with these guys.

A good friend of mine from work used to be a "writer" for a very well known local handicapper that advertises in all the papers and magazines and this guy handicaps everything from sports to weather Dennis Rodman will join the XFL (probably as a cheerleader), which is right now at +120. Rodman (it's said) says if the money's right, say $10,000 a game, he'll put on some kind of uniform (this will be the first tight end to run for a touchdown wearing lipstick and a pink boa).

My friend and I sat down and chatted about the business and he sits back in the couch and mutes the TV. "There was a guy that used to work with me, he called himself Harry, this guy was from Lincoln Nebraska and sounded like a freakin' Cornhusker when he talked, but when this guy picked up the phone you'd swear he just walked outta Hell's Kitchen in Brooklyn. This guy would talk like he was auditioning for a role in the Soprano's and by the end of the call he'd even have the other writers listening in on his calls and taking notes.

He wouldn't just sell these guys cause he was smart, his typical call would end… "Listen babe, I know guys that know guys, ya know what I mean. You're a smart guy; you think I'd be giving you this inside information cause I wanna make a couple hundred bucks? No man, it's cause I like ya and I wanna help youz out and make you a couple g's. If these guys knew I was giving you this stuff I'd be pushing up sand out here in the desert babe. Now get your ass down to Western Union and send me some money and get this game before someone hears me talking to ya...and don't forget to tell your friends about me."

Well one day he latched on to the wrong guy. He gets a number from a doctor client of his and calls this guy and before he knows it he's getting $10,000 bets and then finds out he's also middling his bets with another "writer" and he calls the other writer from the other service and finds out this guy can be a stiff. Well he gives him the "Game Of The Week" and the guy puts up a $10,000 bet and tells him he's going to send him his $1,000 commission when the game's over, but of course he looses the game.

"Uh, hiya doc, it's Harry, can you believe them fucking Giants, three fumbles in the first half and they never recovered. I can't believe it, I took a bath on the game, shit I lost $2,000 of my own money. Sorry you lost the money but I got the game of the week for ya next week doc, but don't forget to send me the thousand you owe me, just wire to the office when you can sometime today or tomorrow?"

"WHAT! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU, I JUST LOST TEN GRAND ON YOUR FUCKING GAME OF THE WEEK AND YOU WANT YOUR LOUSY THOUSAND DOLLARS? GO FUCK YOURSELF HARRY!"

"Well sorry doc, that's the business, you're buying my service doc, there's no guarantees in gambling doc, but you gotta pay your bills and I want my thousand dollars."

"WELL I DON'T KNOW HOW YOU'RE GONNA GET IT BUDDY."

"Well how would your wife like to know how much you blew this weekend, see I got your home number too remember? Then there's always the AMA and the hospital director that would love to hear that their head slicer is a compulsive gambler, I suggest you pay your bills doc, what do you think?"

"Ok, ok. I'm coming to Las Vegas anyway this weekend, I'll pay you in person." He sounded calm now and Harry was confident he didn't want to push it for a lousy thousand dollars. "Ok doc, I'll give ya the address and just come by with the money on Saturday."

Harry's sitting at work on Saturday afternoon when a guy walks in the door of the sports service. "I need to see Harry, I have some money for him."

"Hey Harry, there's some guy here with some doe rey me for ya, just go in back, he's on the left."

The next thing Harry knows an arm comes around his neck and he's grabbing on for dear life while trying to catch his breath, he's holding on to the huge forearm and trying to pry it away from his neck to no avail. It was the size of a Louisville Slugger and just as hard, as he looked up to what he thought would be the last face he would see in this world, he saw the face of a huge Samoan the size of a Suma wrestler, he takes a wad of bills out of his breast pocket and begins to stuff hundred dollar bills into Harry's gaping breathless mouth, his face was changing from a crimson red to a beautiful shade of purple as he counted down the thousand dollars.

"THE NEXT TIME YOU THREATEN SOMEONE TO CALL THEIR WIFE AND JOB YOU BETTER KNOW WHO YOU'RE FUCKING WITH."

Then he let's Harry go at the brink of death, he spits out the thousand dollars and gasps for breath as the hulking Samoan rummages over the papers on his desk and pulls up a sheet with a few NBA and NFL teams on it. "What are these?"

"Those are my picks for next week."

He grabs the list and folds it up and puts it in his breast pocket and turns to walk away leaving Harry with the thousand and barely sparing Harry's life.

Harry runs to the door as an afterthought and calls out "If ya like those picks, call me we'll do business!" The next weekend a money wire for $3,000 showed up at the office with the words "Rams -4, and keep $300 for yourself," it was from the Samoan.

Wise up guys.

-Ken Pearlman