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Mad Professor's Mini-Table Craps Tour with the Vegas Ghost- Part XI (Read
Part I
,
Part II,
Part III
or
Part IV or
Part V
or Part VI or
Part
VII or
Part VIII or
Part
IX or
Part X )
I
don’t get to play at this next venue very often.
In fact, the last time I was there was when I was picking up a comped
week’s use of a Shelby-American Series 1 automobile, courtesy of the fine folks at
The Stratosphere (see Go Ahead…Pull the Trigger
for that story). That was “B.N.E.”,
(“before 9-11-01”) and I hadn’t been back there since. So welcome back to the
My
absence didn’t have anything to do with 9-11. Rather,
it was related more to the fact that the Speedway is a bit outside of my normal LV travel
range. There aren’t any other casinos
(with craps) within the immediate area, so it takes a dedicated trip to a decidedly
non-compelling location to get there. Where Is It? It is located way up at the northern end of the Las Vegas
Valley in a lower middle class suburb. To get
there, the quickest route is to take I-15 North to the Cheyenne Avenue exit and go east
for one block. You won’t have a hard
time finding it once you turn left on
Civic
Center Drive.
It’s
not big or palatial, but from the parking lot to the craps table, it takes about one
hundred footsteps. This place is small,
friendly and never hosts any of the typical wall-to-wall tourist crowds that you see with
disturbing frequency on the Strip. Even
during the busiest times, there are never more than 200 people in the whole casino, and
that INCLUDES the entire staff. Like
I said, this IS NOT your typical tourist-joint.
The Casino
Let me start by saying that the Casino is NOT associated with the
actual LV Motor Speedway, but they have borrowed the racing theme and “junk
package” that decorates the walls and ceiling as though they were.
This
place started out as the
Cheyenne
Hotel & Casino, back in 1992 and switched over to the Speedway-theme in 1999 when it
became apparent that the 4-racetracks-in-1 LVMS was going to be a roaring success and draw
~140,000 patrons to this neck of the Joshua and Mesquite-tree woods on a regular basis.
The
Speedway Casino is part of a 95-room Ramada Inn that is attached to it.
While there is really nothing memorable about
the casino, other than its small size, the mini-craps table is an entirely different
story.
The
Table
Okay
there is only one, that is indeed a mini-tub, and it offers some very fine
Precision-Shooting opportunities. It
comfortably accommodates 10 people (if they all shower on a regular basis, and 6 to 8
people if one or more of them don’t).
At
first glance, the table seems to be bouncy in an uncushioned sort of way. The liveliness is caused by the use of ultra-thin
pure polyester felt. This is NOT the new-age
microfiber felt that we discussed in detail in my
Conquering Micro-Fiber Table-Felt
article. Rather, it is just a cheap, thin layout over a
5/4-inch plywood base. With a
high-trajectory, high-backspin throw, the dice can sometimes leap more than a foot or two
in the air. I’ve seen many new players
(new to this table) watch with alarm as their “regular” toss rebounds to the sky
like a ricocheting bullet. A
lower-trajectory, lower-energy, lower-backspin throw tames this green-felt beast in pretty
short order.
Table-minimums
are almost always set at $2 with a $200 max-bet. I’ve
never had the courage (read: stupidity and greed) to max-out my bets.
The Pit Monkeys start to fidget like an
over-amped crack-whore if your bets get much beyond the $50 or $60 level for more than a
few tosses.
The
Players
The
regular players are made up of locals whose income is on the lower side of the “I
don’t think we can really afford to be in here, but let’s gamble anyway”
scale. However, this being America, everyone
is entitled to put themselves as far below the poverty line as they wish, and the Speedway
seems like as good of a place as any for them to do it.
The
nice thing is if you go mid-month, the table is almost always sparsely-populated. This has held true since I started playing here
about a decade ago. In the ensuing time,
they haven’t always had a craps table in operation, but the current owners (silently
backed by gambling-investor and former Cheyenne owner Shawn Scott) feel that it is
important to maintain live-gaming so it doesn’t take on the look and feel of a
slots-only grind-joint.
It
does tend to get quite a bit busier, and a lot smokier at the end of the month and for the
first few days of a new month. Unfortunately,
the local gambling-wealth doesn’t last much beyond a week or two around these parts. For the balance of the month, the table is
semi-populated with blue-collar guys, spending blue-collar money in hopes of turning their
blue-collar wages into money that would make Robin Leach eagerly send over a film-crew.
Why
98% of Gamblers Lose
It doesn’t matter whether your craps play is lit by the radiance of a Dale Chihuly chandelier at Bellagio, or the eerie nicotine-stained fluorescent glow at the El Cortez, 98% of ALL casino-players will continually lose.
Your
task, is to ensure that your are in the OTHER 2% minority of whose who DO WIN
CONSISTENTLY. To that end, I would invite you to take a look at
my current 10-part series,
D'ya Wanna Win, or D'ya Wanna Gamble?
Our
Session
First
Hand
Our
first session started out innocently enough. I
got the dice and threw a passable hand. I
made my first PL-Point of 9, but couldn’t repeat it for the third time after the
second Come-Out roll.
Our
four table-mates didn’t do ANYTHING to make the situation any better. Their throwing didn’t produce a single hand
that went beyond five rolls. Mel was waffling
about whether or not he was going to shoot. He
was still carrying on a protracted conversation with a cute little early 20-something
waitress who looked healthier and more wholesome than any of the three daughters on
Petticoat Junction.
Even
though Mel is married, he still dates, and I can tell you that he dates VERY attractive
women. I’m not talking about ones who
when you first meet them, say stuff like, “Okay, guess which one of my legs is
real?” For some reason, he attracts
arm-candy that is second to none in the looks-department.
Although he is virtually at the age of retirement, he shows no signs of
slowing down in a Paul Newman, “I may be 70, but I still get the broads and I
still win championship car races” sort of way.
In
any event, Mel passed the dice. I’m
pretty sure he was willing to forego scoring at the dice table in the fervent hope of
scoring with Miss Budweiser. Second
Hand
I
got the dice for the second time and redeemed myself again quite nicely. The first PL-winner came quicker than anyone
envisioned. I set the Point of 9 (again) and
brought it right back on the very next roll. My
next new Point was 6, and again, I brought it right back.
HELLLLLLO! Even at the cheap
table minimum of $2 (and with only 2x odds) my fellow crapsters were in their glory. This was good, but none of my heavier Place-bet
action had seen ANY activity at all.
My
third PL-Point fortunately took much, much longer to repeat. I was into my 32nd roll before it
finally showed up for a payout. By then, my
Place bets were generating plenty of profit-activity.
I had taken an early box-number regression to lock-up some income, then I
had pressed them in an aggressive fashion ever since.
Mel was missing out on a great roll, but the two love-birds were so
engrossed in their fawning conversation, that even a 9.2 earthquake wouldn’t have
shaken them back to reality. At
this point, the
gleeful players were squealing like pigs in a Chicago Stockyard, while the Pit Supervisors
growing concern was making him squirm like a priest at recess. The fun didn’t last too much longer. I set the Point of 6 (again) for my fourth Point,
but eleven rolls later, the Red Devil Seven showed up to tell us that this particular
hootenanny was over. Mel had missed out on a great hand, but by
this time, he and Miss Thing were exchanging touches that were on the far side of a PG-13
intimacy rating. Third
Hand
By
the time the dice cycled back around to me, I had made a couple of bucks off of three
random-rollers at the other end of the table. Now,
I’m not talking about a lot of money here. The
couple of shekels that I made here and there on those random-rollers didn’t make me
rich, but it was enough to fill up the Silver Spur Centenary’s oversized 40-gallon
gas tank even with ultra-premium prices approaching $2.50 per gallon.
Mel
had abandoned the table in pursuit of his latest two-legged trophy. She had neglected to take my order, and I knew
that there was no chance that she would somehow telepathically “know” what I
wanted to drink. Having “extra”
sense was not something this girl was burdened with, and that was perfectly fine with Mel.
Nevertheless,
I began my third hand with much optimism and much greater thirst. I didn’t let it distract me, although the
thought was nevertheless rattling around somewhere in my mid-conscious. When I established the “6” as my
PL-Point, I added more money to the Pass Line so that I could pump up the volume on my
2x-Odds. I felt confident about making the 6,
but I was in no hurry, as I hoped I could pull off a decent number of Place-bet winners
again before returning with a front-line payer.
My
plan was semi-successful. I hit the
box-numbers a dozen or so times before returning the “6”. I threw some coinage to the dealer in appreciation
of the good service and patience in handling the hyper-aggressive betting that nearly
everyone at the table was now involved in. In
addition, the tokes were also a silent “thank-you” for permitting my
Precision-Shooting efforts to be carried out on a table and in a casino that sometimes
does not permit such activity.
My
second Come-Out took exactly eight rolls before I established my PL-Point. I started going great-guns hitting my
Place-numbers with disturbing frequency until I felt Mel wedge himself back in between
myself and the next nearest player. As soon
as the dice left my hand, I silently, but assuredly called the “7-Out” result
even though the dice were barely midway through the air.
I
gave Mel an, “I can’t believe you aren’t a little more considerate, you
asshole” look. He just stood there
like an open-mouthed tourist with an, “I’ve never played this game before. Did I do something wrong?” bewilderment. To make matters even worst, he was the only player
at the table that was armed with a cold drink. I
just said, “Let’s go”, as I shook my head and headed for the exit. I figured this was a good point to call this
particular day to an end. The other mini-tubs
would have to wait until I was in a better, less blood-thirsty mood.
Until
next time,
Good
Luck & Good Skill at those mini-tables, and in Life. Sincerely, The
Mad Professor
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