In The 21st-Century Card Counter, Colin Jones describes how he started out: [p. 6] “I convinced Grace to let me take a third of everything we had in the bank—$2000—to the casino. If I lost it, I’d be done.” Those two sentences sum up two of the biggest challenges facing a new counter or AP. Achieving social acceptance or support from family, friends, and square work colleagues, and starting with a minuscule bankroll make success incredibly difficult. What business would you dare to start with only $2000? Would you open a yogurt shop with that? Could you set up a B2B online marketplace with that? A high-end driving/limo service?
With only $2000, what would happen if you go to Vegas to become a card counter? You’d be better off getting yourself castrated, going down to Fremont Street, and collecting $10 from every tourist who wants to kick you in the crotch. But fools rush in where angels dare to tread, so CJ took the crazy path of trying to become a card counter.
I like that he mentions that his girlfriend couldn’t accompany him because she wasn’t yet 21. These real-world nuisances crop up all the time, and by including them in the stories, the book thoroughly connects to AP readers who have navigated the same casino jungle. (We baptized a teammate’s son into the fold on his 21st birthday by letting him bet a game for us at Mandalay Bay.)
CJ admits getting lucky in his first outing despite inept play, doubling his $2000 to $4000. On top of that, he admits that having a counting friend who made a fortuitous connection with a competent counter allowed them both to receive proper training with accountability.
My casual observation is that like CJ, most successful APs had some early break that made them continue down the AP path. They could have succeeded anyway if forced down the path, but without that early lucky break, they would have chosen to go in a different direction. For me, it was seeing a hole card on October 31, 1997. That game allowed me to pay off my student loans and credit card debt. For the great Zeljko, it was a juicy sidebet at a casino that stubbornly denied it was beatable. For the great Mr. B, it was a sportsbook so inept that they allowed bets after a game was already over. For many others, the lucky break was meeting the right teammate or mentor. Many attendees of CJ’s boot camps cite social/professional networking as the greatest benefit.
As I read CJ’s origin story, I felt that he was stealing my thoughts. On page 9 [at this rate, we’re going to be blogging for the rest of the year about this book]: “And it wasn’t only the money that was intoxicating; I was also in complete control of my own destiny.” I’ve tried to tell people this many times. A competent person who wants to make the most money possible should probably go into the traditional business world: a high-powered law firm, a plastic-surgery practice in Hollywood, an investment bank, a startup company, a hedge fund—Wolf of Wall Street kinda stuff, minus the crime.
Being a card counter or AP pays okay, but not obscene money. But the freedom of the AP meritocracy is its greatest appeal. An AP doesn’t have to deal with the off-putting political drama that infests government, academia, and big business. If you’ve got the skill and work ethic to beat the game, you’ll make money, regardless of your religion, gender, or the color of your skin. An AP who wants to take a month to travel in Europe can do so, and probably get some work done on the trip.
But freedom can be elusive. The AP lives in a gilded cage, which CJ ominously warns about on page 9: “If I didn’t want to work, I hung out with Grace. But if I wanted to put in extra hours to see my nest egg grow even faster, I did. I’d been bitten by the investment bug and, as I later learned, there was no cure.”
Lazy players might think AP offers the freedom to work as few hours as desired, on whatever schedule desired. There is that, sort of. But for the hard-working AP, escaping traditional employment’s 9-to-5 rat race is not so liberating. The obtuse corporate boss (so epically portrayed in the Dilbert comic world) has been replaced with a new taskmaster: the successful AP becomes a slave to the game. It’s 5 o’clock somewhere, but for you that means you’ve got to scout the tail end of day shift and get ready for swing.
The game. At 4 a.m., there might be a dealer who deals 150 rounds per hour and cuts off only a half deck on a shoe. On Tuesday, the dangerous boss might be off. On Thursday from 8 a.m. until noon, you might have some use-it-or-lose-it free play. On July 16, you’ve got a coupon for a free night in the hotel and two buffets. You’ve got to make money when the cards shine.
Twenty years ago, my teammate and I were at the Palms Casino & Movie Theatre (a Maloof resort!), scouting a known target, but a poster for a new movie caught our eye. My teammate asked “But what if that game is on? That could be a $600 movie!” I told my teammate that if our condition to see a movie is that there be no game on, then we’ll never again see a movie in our lives, because there’s always a game on. Naturally we checked the pit to verify that the immediate target was absent before going to see the movie.
So it will be for you, dear AP. The day will come when you will go to check on a game. A fabulous game. A $500/hour (or more) game. A game that dreams are made of. And you’ll be begging for the game to not be on. And you’ll find a unicorn casino that you’ll play dozens or hundreds of times, and you’ll be begging for them to back you off.
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incredible insight and a fun read, thanks JG
Yes, some very strong information here that can’t ever be known till done or told about by someone who’s lived it.
Did I see a reference to putting away some of the win or score? Great comment. Build up enough to allow you to walk away. No regret.
The second sentence of the second paragraph is my kind of writing!