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TIME: Almanac 1990
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1990 Time Magazine Compact Almanac, The (1991)(Time).iso
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1990-09-22
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ESSAY, Page 92Did Pete Do It? What Are the Odds?By Tom Callahan
The race is not always to the swift. The battle is not always
to the strong. But that's the way to bet.
-- Damon Runyon
Since the celluloid Gipper has repaired to California and the
call to win things for him has happily left the language, maybe it
is not too impolite now to remember that the real George Gipp of
Notre Dame was a low-life gambler who openly bet on his own
football games and everything else from cards and craps to flies
landing on sugar cubes. Gipp seldom attended class and only
occasionally graced football practice. The sentimental writer Red
Smith, a Notre Dame man himself, used to refer to the great dead
hero as "the patron saint of eight-ball pool."
While it is possible that on his deathbed young George
beseeched coach Knute Rockne to win one someday for the Gipper, it
would have been more in character for Gipp to want to get $500 down
on the streptococci. Myths, legends and lies are the beams and
girders of games, but isn't it a bit much the way the country has
been getting ready to be appalled by Pete Rose? O.K., he's a
plunger. Everyone knows gambling pervades sports. It pervades life.
"Why don't the newspapers run whores' phone numbers?" Indiana
basketball coach Bobby Knight would like to know. But he is an
excitable character. "They run odds and point spreads on all the
games. Is betting on basketball, football or baseball less illegal
than prostitution?" It is, judging from the easy patter heard at
every corner of sports. Make that every corner of society.
When golfer Lee Trevino was leading this year's Masters
tournament, he proclaimed to a press assembly, "If a man had walked
up to me and bet I couldn't break 76, I wouldn't have taken a
quarter of the bet. And I'm a gambling man." As the New York
Yankees began the baseball year in a slump, owner George
Steinbrenner pledged that manager Dallas Green would last the
entire season. As he put it, "If you want to go out and make a bet
. . ." Given Steinbrenner's way with managers, cordons of nuns
might have burst from cloisters to cover that one. Once, a U.S.
Secretary of State breezily invoked the name of Jimmy ("the Greek")
Snyder in gauging the odds on a successful summit.
Snyder lost his respectability and his job as a television tout
when he branched out into anthropology and started handicapping
black athletes' thighs. Previously, neither CBS nor its audience
appeared to mind his old gambling conviction. (Nobody cares or even
recalls that President Ford also pardoned Jimmy.) Softened memories
are measures of attitudes.
Doug Moe, the flamboyant coach of the Denver Nuggets, got to
thinking a few weeks ago that pro basketball shouldn't let Kareem
Abdul-Jabbar slip into retirement without somebody standing up and
saying what a "jerk" the Laker center had been "his whole life."
Abdul-Jabbar let it go, but the obvious rejoinder, if he remembered
the headlines of 1961, was to say at least he never accepted
carfare from a fixer for listening to the pitch. That was Moe's
only confessed involvement in a point-shaving mess at the
University of North Carolina, but it was enough for the N.B.A. to
deem him an undesirable player. Naturally, all is forgotten now.
The way Jake LaMotta was featured in every pretty piece on the
passing of Sugar Ray Robinson, he might have been taken for an
elder statesman of boxing, a figure of charm and standing. As a
matter of fact, when Robinson made a Spanish omelet out of LaMotta
in 1951, the New York Herald Tribune called it "the first
believable knockout of (Jake's) life." LaMotta swears he never
took a dive except the one against Blackjack Billy Fox, and that
was so long ago.
Denny McLain, the Detroit Tigers pitcher, had a delightful
alibi for two mashed toes that cost the 1967 pennant. He said he
hurt himself shooing a raccoon away from a garbage can. Whether the
raccoon had a Mob connection was a matter of speculation, but
McLain was definitely the garbage can. When his bookmaking sideline
was uncovered, he blurted, "My biggest crime is stupidity."
Actually, it was just the thing at which he was most accomplished.
"I can read gambling between the lines of a lot of my hate
mail," says Georgetown basketball coach John Thompson. Bill Walsh
of the San Francisco 49ers speaks of "those low, throaty, ominous"
boos when the home football team sits on a small lead, the point
spread be damned. "I think there's an element of it everywhere,"
Bobby Knight says. "I think there are coaches who bet. I think
there are referees who bet. I think there are plenty of
sportswriters who bet."
In a Super Bowl press box, a writer let out a small whoop as
the Raiders blocked a Redskin punt in 1984. "I'm sorry, that was
really unprofessional," he said sheepishly. "But I've got $2,000
on the Raiders." Win or lose, does the two grand get into the
story, affect the quality of the praise, increase the vitriol in
the criticism? What do you bet?
With picturesque characters like Sorrowful the Bookmaker,
Philly the Weeper and Harry the Horse, Damon Runyon made gambling
a rollicking game. Americans bet $32 billion with bookies every
year, and an additional $17 billion on legal lotteries. Gamblers
will always gamble, the states often say when they enter the
racket, just before they start advertising for more gamblers.
Speaking of myths, legends and lies, the Government's famous plan
to supplant Harry the Horse in the bookie business should never
have been taken seriously. Harry has always given the customers
something that Lotto and OTB never will. Credit.
In Cincinnati, where Procter goes on associating with Gamble,
the Reds are still waiting to learn whether Rose bet on
Thoroughbreds or himself. All around, the Lotto jingles play
accompaniment to the mystery. At the next World Series, whether
Rose is there or not, one thing is sure. The mayors of the
competing towns will wager a bushel of rutabagas against a barrel
of pistachios on the great American pastime.