The mystique of the opening line
Chad Millman
ESPN INSIDER
Bob Martin began as a Brooklyn, N.Y.-bred gambler, which is to say he was like every other kid born and raised in the borough during the Damon Runyon era. As a teenager he booked "six-hit" bets, in which he gave odds on any combo of three baseball players getting six hits in their games. By the time he entered World War II, he was so skilled as a bookmaker he was taking bets from his fellow infantrymen. He left France $30,000 richer.
Naturally, Martin eventually moved to Las Vegas, where he was hired by one of the original standalone sports books, Churchill Downs. It's easy to forget that sports books weren't an integral part of the Bugsy Siegel's Las Vegas. It would be more than a generation, after the state lowered the tax rate on handle, before gambling on games became commonplace.
Martin revolutionized how the spreads were made. His lines were so pure they barely moved, no matter how much money he took on one side or the other. He was undaunted by action, and soon enough, the lines outside the door of Churchill Downs were snaking around the corner. Not with bettors, but with other bookies.
"When Martin put up the lines," Vegas historian Peter Ruchman told me when I reported "The Odds," "The people waiting would run to the payphone to call their bosses, so they knew what to post."
Try to understand, this was before cellphones, before the Internet, before desktop computers and software that helped you spy on every other line in the world. It was just Martin, posting his number, and through the gambler's grapevine it became the standard for every bookie on every corner from Los Angeles to St. Louis to Martin's old haunts in Brooklyn.
It was called The Las Vegas Line.
<offer>The Las Vegas Line mattered. It carried a mystique, like something ethereal that floated across the desert. You had to be in the know to hear the whispers, part of a world where information and code sounded romantically illicit. Something is going down.
The truth was, it did. In 1983, Martin was busted for violating the 1961 Federal Wire Act, transmitting wagering information across state lines, and he spent 13 months in prison. His arrest ended an era of wild, independent bookmaking on The Strip. This was when the Feds were doing their damndest to break up the mafia rings running Vegas, when corporations were turning hotels into real businesses, when Vegas decided to go retail. In the void created by Martin's absence, it was the Stardust that became home to the first number posted.
It was called The Stardust Line.
Every morning, when the Stardust posted its number, wiseguys waiting around would stampede the counter for a chance to take the first bite of the fresh line. The maximum bet was $1,000. Eventually, the bookmakers made everyone get in line because the rush was becoming too dangerous. One day, a gambler left the line to go to the bathroom. He came back and tried to reclaim his spot. Another wiseguy named Crazy Jim didn't take too kindly to that and asked him what he was doing. When the guy answered, "I just went to the bathroom, I'm getting back in line," Crazy Jim responded by pulling out a gun.
After that, the Stardust started handing out numbers to the earliest arrivals. Its position as lead oddsmaker -- first line up, first line bet -- became a part of the hotel's lore. The Stardust Line developed into a long-running radio show broadcast from the middle of the sports book on Friday nights, with guests as varied as Michael Jordan and Alan Boston. Crowds filled the seats, watching it live. In big letters, the phrase "Home of The Stardust Line" was proudly displayed on the hotel marquee, towering over The Strip.
"There was a lot of cache," says Bob Scucci, who used to help run the joint and is now the boss of the eight books in the Boyd Gaming empire, "but it got the point where it was lost because there was no true meaning of what that opening line was."
For the better, there is no such thing as a true first line anymore, no single point of origination. That disappeared in the late 1990s, along with the Spice Girls. Technology has democratized the process. Every bookmaker has software showing them what every other book is doing. As soon as one place posts a number, another will post the same, almost instantly. In the media world, it's the equivalent of football reporters using Twitter to break injury news or contract signings and counting a 30-second jump as a win. It's nearly impossible to tell who was first.
The growth of the industry during the past 20 years has increased competition, forcing books to get creative. The M posted numbers for every game during the NFL season in the spring. The Golden Nugget offers college football lines in the early summer, which sends wiseguys rushing to the counter the way they did in the Stardust days. During the season, the Las Vegas Hotel will post lines 10 days in advance of a game -- as Week 2 lines will go up a few days before Week 1 is played.
What you get now is not a first line, but the latest line, adjusted to reflect outcomes, injuries and locker room squabbles. For some bookmakers, such as the offshore giants Pinnacle and CRIS, getting the latest line up as quickly as possible is still a point of pride. They want the wiseguy business that comes. The same is true at a few spots in Vegas. The Las Vegas Hotel will post new NFL numbers every Sunday at 4:30 p.m. PT, just as the late-afternoon games are ending. It's nice to pull in some last-minute tourist money as the squares are checking out. But that's not why they do it.
"Publicity is part of it," says LVH boss Jay Kornegay. "But financially, it's a sparring session with professionals. We will take hits on some of those games. And we will win some too. The publicity and the opportunity [are] worth it."
Around the same time, John Avello at the Wynn is posting his number.
"I like knowing that the number going up is coming from me and our consultants," Avello says. "I feel good about it. Once someone else goes up, you are forced to look at that number and make adjustments. You have no choice; you would be stupid not to. But I like knowing that my number is mine.
"At least for a moment."
</offer>
Chad Millman
ESPN INSIDER
Bob Martin began as a Brooklyn, N.Y.-bred gambler, which is to say he was like every other kid born and raised in the borough during the Damon Runyon era. As a teenager he booked "six-hit" bets, in which he gave odds on any combo of three baseball players getting six hits in their games. By the time he entered World War II, he was so skilled as a bookmaker he was taking bets from his fellow infantrymen. He left France $30,000 richer.
Naturally, Martin eventually moved to Las Vegas, where he was hired by one of the original standalone sports books, Churchill Downs. It's easy to forget that sports books weren't an integral part of the Bugsy Siegel's Las Vegas. It would be more than a generation, after the state lowered the tax rate on handle, before gambling on games became commonplace.
Martin revolutionized how the spreads were made. His lines were so pure they barely moved, no matter how much money he took on one side or the other. He was undaunted by action, and soon enough, the lines outside the door of Churchill Downs were snaking around the corner. Not with bettors, but with other bookies.
"When Martin put up the lines," Vegas historian Peter Ruchman told me when I reported "The Odds," "The people waiting would run to the payphone to call their bosses, so they knew what to post."
Try to understand, this was before cellphones, before the Internet, before desktop computers and software that helped you spy on every other line in the world. It was just Martin, posting his number, and through the gambler's grapevine it became the standard for every bookie on every corner from Los Angeles to St. Louis to Martin's old haunts in Brooklyn.
It was called The Las Vegas Line.
<offer>The Las Vegas Line mattered. It carried a mystique, like something ethereal that floated across the desert. You had to be in the know to hear the whispers, part of a world where information and code sounded romantically illicit. Something is going down.
The truth was, it did. In 1983, Martin was busted for violating the 1961 Federal Wire Act, transmitting wagering information across state lines, and he spent 13 months in prison. His arrest ended an era of wild, independent bookmaking on The Strip. This was when the Feds were doing their damndest to break up the mafia rings running Vegas, when corporations were turning hotels into real businesses, when Vegas decided to go retail. In the void created by Martin's absence, it was the Stardust that became home to the first number posted.
It was called The Stardust Line.
Every morning, when the Stardust posted its number, wiseguys waiting around would stampede the counter for a chance to take the first bite of the fresh line. The maximum bet was $1,000. Eventually, the bookmakers made everyone get in line because the rush was becoming too dangerous. One day, a gambler left the line to go to the bathroom. He came back and tried to reclaim his spot. Another wiseguy named Crazy Jim didn't take too kindly to that and asked him what he was doing. When the guy answered, "I just went to the bathroom, I'm getting back in line," Crazy Jim responded by pulling out a gun.
After that, the Stardust started handing out numbers to the earliest arrivals. Its position as lead oddsmaker -- first line up, first line bet -- became a part of the hotel's lore. The Stardust Line developed into a long-running radio show broadcast from the middle of the sports book on Friday nights, with guests as varied as Michael Jordan and Alan Boston. Crowds filled the seats, watching it live. In big letters, the phrase "Home of The Stardust Line" was proudly displayed on the hotel marquee, towering over The Strip.
"There was a lot of cache," says Bob Scucci, who used to help run the joint and is now the boss of the eight books in the Boyd Gaming empire, "but it got the point where it was lost because there was no true meaning of what that opening line was."
For the better, there is no such thing as a true first line anymore, no single point of origination. That disappeared in the late 1990s, along with the Spice Girls. Technology has democratized the process. Every bookmaker has software showing them what every other book is doing. As soon as one place posts a number, another will post the same, almost instantly. In the media world, it's the equivalent of football reporters using Twitter to break injury news or contract signings and counting a 30-second jump as a win. It's nearly impossible to tell who was first.
The growth of the industry during the past 20 years has increased competition, forcing books to get creative. The M posted numbers for every game during the NFL season in the spring. The Golden Nugget offers college football lines in the early summer, which sends wiseguys rushing to the counter the way they did in the Stardust days. During the season, the Las Vegas Hotel will post lines 10 days in advance of a game -- as Week 2 lines will go up a few days before Week 1 is played.
What you get now is not a first line, but the latest line, adjusted to reflect outcomes, injuries and locker room squabbles. For some bookmakers, such as the offshore giants Pinnacle and CRIS, getting the latest line up as quickly as possible is still a point of pride. They want the wiseguy business that comes. The same is true at a few spots in Vegas. The Las Vegas Hotel will post new NFL numbers every Sunday at 4:30 p.m. PT, just as the late-afternoon games are ending. It's nice to pull in some last-minute tourist money as the squares are checking out. But that's not why they do it.
"Publicity is part of it," says LVH boss Jay Kornegay. "But financially, it's a sparring session with professionals. We will take hits on some of those games. And we will win some too. The publicity and the opportunity [are] worth it."
Around the same time, John Avello at the Wynn is posting his number.
"I like knowing that the number going up is coming from me and our consultants," Avello says. "I feel good about it. Once someone else goes up, you are forced to look at that number and make adjustments. You have no choice; you would be stupid not to. But I like knowing that my number is mine.
"At least for a moment."
</offer>
