“Boy, if you can’t afford to lose, don’t gamble.” – L. Ray Webb, circa 1953
A generally reserved nature fastened me with a selection of labels during my growing up time. That nature was reinforced by similar sage admonishments from my dad and direct threats of “double-M-belt spankings” for transgressions perceived by my mother.
Caution and care were the “C’s” I sailed in my early voyage on the sometimes turbulent waters we call life.
With regard to chance and conduct, I emulated the conservative behavior equivalent of wearing suspenders and a belt or, to maintain the nautical drift, a firm, stubborn hand on the wheel.
Dad said, “Boy, if you can’t afford to lose, don’t gamble.”
“Gambling’s a sin and don’t ever let me catch you doing it,” Mother said with a wave of that dreaded belt, backed by a Baptist fervor that called for exemplary behavior from her eldest offspring. Secretly, I felt I could erase any transgression by running down the church aisle, tearfully blinded, toward forgiveness as I confessed to giving in to the lures of evil.
Those exclamation points underscored life lessons at every turn in my childhood through young adult years. I wouldn’t even bet on two doodlebugs flipping sand out of a hole in “home excavation and construction.” That’s not a sure thing given the curious eye and nature of an adolescent boy. (“If the hole fills up, will he dig it out again?” The answer is usually ‘yes,’ so, go ahead, cave it in.)
Normally, that sort of “raising” doesn’t tempt one to set sail in other directions, that is, until the admonishments and “double dares” loosen the scared grip on the life course helm.
Naturally, the “nyaah-nayaahs” of buddies regularly negated the always-too-strict parental directions. The liberty in going away to college released the chokehold of morality and freed the yens for freedom. Those repressive chains clanged to the floor with the first sip of the elixir of “I’m grown and on my own.”
Sophisticated sophomores (survivors of that first-year college dunking) lure groups of young and naïve freshmen into the clutches of penny-ante poker.
“My mom said it’s a sin, evil, and I’d better not lose any of my college money,” whines a conflicted frosh.
“Even if you lost most hands, you couldn’t lose more than a quarter,” snorted the soph ringleader. (You could almost hear Beelzebub’s seductive, whispered advice: “Go ahead, boy. You understand cards and you can count. What else do you need?”)
Two hours later, your first week’s $2 for snack money (a fund name later changed to match new tastes in refreshment) has swooshed down the proverbial drain. And, the sophomores had escaped the timid trail of froshdom. Finally, the Big Time.
What was the term Dad used? Sucker?
Some guys were totally seduced by college freedoms and being away from home.
Fortunately, that first week’s loss of snack money was enough to encourage steering clear of even penny ante games for the remaining college time.
Through those times, poker watching was an occasional diversion, but never such a draw as to risk that week’s lunch money. There were a few guys skilled enough to actually pay their way through college with poker winnings. However, for every one of those there were a dozen who dropped out because they drew too many times to an inside straight.
One beanpole guy, a lifetime acquaintance, drank, partied and gambled his way to a college degree. He was extremely bright, but it was never clear how he managed to deal cards, suck down alcohol, and make the dean’s list. But, he did.
It seemed such behavior for others would probably result in flunking out, going home, and working atop those hot brick kilns, while raising five pimply-faced boys in a shotgun house.
There are lessons to be taken from losing early on at poker. Thank God, for being able to pop a suspender with one hand, while thumbing your belt with the other.
Willis Webb is a retired community newspaper editor-publisher of more than 50 years experience.
wwebb@att.net
