Anyone who’s read even a few measly posts on this site knows that I’m not a professional blogger. Nor am I a professional “sports writer” in any sense of the word. And over the last few months, ever since online sports gambling became legal in Massachusetts, it’s become painfully obvious that I am the furthest thing from a professional sports bettor.
The problem? That’s easy. I bet with my heart, not my head. Which is why pretty much every time he’s been in the line-up since the start of the season, I’ve bet cash money on Triston Casas coming up big. And I mean big. Like home runs and multiple hits per game and countless RBIs. Once, under the influence of pure conviction and sixteen Coors Lights, I bet the man would hit two home runs, record over 3 RBIs and steal a base. He went 0-for-4.
By conservative estimate, my faith in Triston Casas has cost me about 500 bucks. But I won’t take my foot off the gas. Not now.
Why do I do this? Because I can’t help but think my man is on the verge of a major, major breakout. He is six-foot-four and over 250 pounds. He should be mashing baseballs over the Wall like it ain’t no thing. He should be starring in every MLB pitcher’s nightmares, his painted nails gripping a bat the last thing they see before waking up in cold sweat. There should be a city ordinance in place to shut down the Mass Pike whenever Casas strides to the plate, lest drivers have their windshields shattered by a Casas Special leaving Fenway at 155 per. Opposing teams should be granted an option to simply allow the run rather than pitch to Casas and break their players’ spirits.
Also: I am really, really bad at betting.
And like one of those casino lizards who refuses to leave their “lucky machine” for days on end for fear the minute they walk away some schnook will plop in a quarter and win the jackpot, I must keep on keepin on. Because I believe in Triston Casas. And I will continue to put my money where my heart is.
In the end, one of two things is going to happen: I will be starting a GoFundMe for meals and living in a hollowed-out tree, or I will be driving my Lamborghini Huracán down the Mass Pike, dodging Casas home runs while Guerin Austin adjusts the radio from the passenger seat.
I am all in, people. All in.