Old Guys by Frank Scoblete

I was at the Claridge recently. I have a certain soft spot for the venerable Claridge. I was conceived there in September of 1946. I first played serious craps with the Captain there in 1986. I witnessed some of "The Arm’s" greatest rolls there.

In fact, my octogenarian father still plays at the Claridge and when I hand in my player’s card invariably someone in the pit says, "Say hi to your father for us!" And I do, since it makes him feel good to be remembered and it makes me feel good to know the pit personnel and dealers make a point of remembering.

Time. Time and memories.

The Captain is nearing 80, "The Arm" is in craps retirement, brought low by arthritis, but the Claridge still stands strong, its brick and mortar a distinct paean to a day that now crawls towards the dusty pages of history texts and hardly-visited sites on the World Wide Web. And the Claridge must have a special place in the hearts and memories of the rapidly dwindling WWII generation and in the legions of Korean War veterans who come to Atlantic City to renew their life’s juices at the craps tables because -- per square foot of table space -- there are more old guys playing craps at the Claridge than at any other Atlantic City casino.

Go to any Atlantic City casino in the weekday daylight hours and you’ll see the old guys playing craps in every single casino venue along the Boardwalk. Go to the Claridge and if you are 60 or younger, you’ll be the "kid" at the table. The Claridge pit personnel and dealers have become experts in handling the senior crowds, as they are unlike any craps playing crowd you’re likely to meet in Vegas or other parts North or South. They are enthusiastic, cantankerous, deaf, savvy, argumentative, eclectic and idiosyncratic. And they all know each other! The Claridge pit crews and dealers remember their names, say hi to them like they are old, old friends (which in a way they are) and treat them with respect and dignity – no matter how exasperating they can be. Here’s a slice of a moment at the Claridge when I was the "kid" (by at least 15 years!) at the table:

Stickman: Shooter on the come-out, place your bets.

Old Guy with hat: Where’s my pass line bet?

Boxwoman: You lost it.

Old Guy with hat: How could I lose it, the shooter’s just shooting?

Dealer: That was the other shooter, sir.

Old Guy with hearing aid: Who’s the other shooter? I thought that guy was shooting?

Boxwoman: He is.

Old Guy with bandage on face: Can we get these dice moving? I don’t have much time left!

Old Guy with dark circles under eyes: I thought you were dead already. You weren’t moving there for awhile.

Old Guy with bandage on face: I was just napping.

Old Guy with hat: Him? He’s like a horse. He can sleep standing up.

Stickman: Dice are out. Watch your hands.

Old Guy with dark circles under eyes: See how carefully he sets them? He was a bricklayer. Pete the bricklayer. See, one on top of the other.

Stickman: Five, point is five. Place your bets. Place the nine. Nine goes with the five. Hardways, anyone?

Old Guy with hearing aid: What’s the point?

Stickman: Five, sir.

Old Guy with hearing aid: I thought you said nine. You put the puck on five.

Old Guy in hat: Do I have a hard eight? Where’s my hard eight?

Dealer: You don’t have a hard eight, sir.

Old Guy in hat: So where’s my hard eight? I had a hard eight.

Boxwoman: That was the last shooter sir. He, uh, didn’t make his point.

Old Guy with dark circles under his eyes: His point is five! Can we get the game moving here. Come on, Petey, lay some bricks.

Old Guy who looks like a rodent: Whoof. Ooo. Smell that? Whew! Who did that, he, he, he. Who? Ha!

Stickman: Dice are – oh, Jesus, what the hell, oh, man, God – dice are out.

Old Guy who looks like a rodent: He, he, he.

Boxwoman: Point is five.

Stickman: Sorry, God. Point is five.

Old Guy with hearing aid: I thought it was nine. Didn’t he say it was nine?

Old Guy in windbreaker: Chriss’sake! Will ya listen for chriss’sake?

Old Guy with dark circles: What’cha building Petey? Go Petey!

Stickman: Six, six, came easy.

Old Guy in hat: Don’t I get paid? Where’s my six?

Dealer: You don’t have a six sir.

Old Guy in hat: I had a six and eight!

Dealer: Do you want a six and eight sir?

Old Guy in hat: Yeah, give me a six and eight and don’t forget!

Dealer: I won’t sir. Could I have your chips sir? Your chips…sir?

Stickman: Dice are out.

Old Guy with windbreaker: That’s my come bet! Isn’t that my come bet?

Stickman: Watch your hands.

Old Guy with windbreaker: That’s my come bet.

Old Guy with hat: He says that’s his come bet. That’s my come bet.

Old Guy with windbreaker: That’s my come bet.

Boxwoman: You don’t have a come bet, sir, that is his come bet.

Old Guy in hat: I had a come bet.

Dealer: You didn’t have a come bet, sir.

Old Guy with dark circles: Petey, the bricklayer.

Stickman: Seven out! Take the line, pay the don’ts.

Old Guy who looks like a rodent: Whoops! He, he, he. Whoopsie! Ha!

Stickman: Oh, God, oh, Christ.

Old Guy with bandage on face: That’s how we won World War one, don’t you know, mustard gas.

Old guy with dark circles: That was the Germans.

Old Guy with hat: Where’s my pass line bet?

And so it goes. Those men, hard of hearing, somewhat forgetful, exhibiting all the foibles of remorseless age, had fought the wars that kept my generation free, built the economies that kept my generation materially contented. For some, their manhood may have begun in Atlantic City, where many World War II soldiers received their training, and now it culminates in Atlantic City as the dice roll down the table awaiting the stickman’s final call. I was proud to be in their company. I was happy to be at the Claridge.

Frank Scoblete is the #1 best-selling gaming author in the country. His books and tapes have sold over a million copies. His latest book is Forever Craps: The Five-Step Advantage-Play Method! His website is www.scoblete.com. For a free catalog of his books and tapes call: 1-800-944-0406 or write to: Paone Press, Box 610, Lynbrook, NY 11563.