A Father’s Day Spin on Roulette

I never sat down at a roulette table with my father.  It wasn’t his game.

But, man, we spent countless hours playing blackjack.

Many moons ago, before I was even 21, he and I booked a trip to Puerto Rico to discover where my grandmother, his mother, was born.

Upon arrival, however, we barely made it out of the casino, sitting for hours upon end at the resort blackjack table.

Having practiced our plays for months beforehand, he and I won so much money on that trip that we extended our stay two different times.

As a kid, I would regale in my father’s tales of his trips to Las Vegas.  He always stayed at Ceasar’s Palace.

By the time I was old enough to truly enjoy Vegas, I’d walk through Caesar’s white marble hallways in awe and finally understand why dad chose to stay there over every other place on the strip. It was his style.

I lost my father to cancer a few years ago and as any grown man will tell you, the journey without a father is an arduous one, every Father’s Day kicking you in the teeth despite your best efforts.  You course through all the moments you spent together, both good and bad, hopefully learning from his mistakes and doing your best to live the rest of your life to make him proud.

Gambling runs in our family.

So does faith.

The other night, to celebrate a co-worker’s final night on the job, some friends and I hit the local Hard Rock casino to commemorate his new gig and take my mind off the fact that Father’s Day was once again upon me.  Every Father’s Day brings a new challenge to anyone who has lost theirs.  Best to stay occupied.

Upon arrival, my friends and I bounced from slot machine to slot machine, occasionally hitting big and leaving when we didn’t.

My former co-worker eventually decided to sit down at a roulette table with his remaining cash while I continued to find a few machines that might still be feeling generous.

After a short while, I met up with my co-worker at the roulette table, one that was crowded but dwindling with gamblers.

I placed my player’s card on the table along with sixty dollars in cash.

It was a ten-dollar table minimum bet table.

As it was getting late, I’d resigned myself to the fact that I was only going to play three turns on the wheel, placing a ten-dollar chip on both my father’s birth month and day.

9 and 21.

The first spin came up.  The numbers didn’t hit.

Quickly, I was down to $40.

All the other gamblers had left the table.  Only my friend and I remained.

Again, I placed a $10 chip each on the 9 and 21. I would not deviate from the plan.

The dealer, an older Latin gentleman with a heavy Spanish accent, spun the wheel a second time.

Round that little ball spun, until finally, not landing on either the 9 or 21 yet again.

Within minutes, I was down to my last $20.

Placing my last two $10 dollar chips, again on 9 and 21, I’d committed myself to stepping away from the table once my six chips were gone.

I’ll only gamble what I can afford to lose.

The dealer took the ball in his hand and spun one final time.

But this time, the ball didn’t spin around the wheel speedily like it normally does.  It hit one of the numbers’ barriers and started bouncing abruptly, erratically and prematurely.  Before either my friend or I could say anything, or even think about protesting the spin, the ball landed… on the nine.

At first, I thought it read six.

But it didn’t.

The nine hit… and paid me 36 to 1, almost as if someone was watching.

$360 to the good… but this wasn’t about the money.

Trying my damnedest not to burst into tears, I threw the dealer $20 bucks and went to the gate to collect my cash.  I tried not to rub my eyes with my hands that had been all over slot machines, but rather with my shirt collar that would soon become salty with not only sweat.  I guess Dad and I finally sat down at a roulette table after all.

When I returned to the group with my winnings, we all hugged, my friends not really understanding what had just happened, not that I’d won a nice little take for my efforts, but why I was playing those numbers in the first place.

When you lose a loved one, you move on.  You embrace the grief and choose, if you’re lucky, to remember the good times.

And, man, did we have them. 

To all those who have lost their fathers, remember on this Father’s Day and every one of them moving forward, that our loved ones are still with us.  If you pay close enough attention, you’ll find the signs in the oddest of places.