My Wife Confesses

My wife, the beautiful AP, is an accomplished woman in every way. I say this not just because she is my wife but because the truth is the truth. She is an avid reader and she loves to write articles on the contemporary scene, and on the religious and philosophical issues of today and of "all our yesterdays," as Shakespeare had Macbeth so aptly put it.

The beautiful AP is sharp in her critiques and has a probing mind. She's also one of the few women I've met who hates Seinfeld and isn't afraid to say so. Such courage! She also hates network television. Her big show is the BBC news on PBS each night.

Of course, her writing about culture, religion and philosophy is lightweight stuff, let's be honest here. People have been writing about those issues for centuries and what's come of it? Nothing. Ever since someone put pen to paper, or rather, chisel to rock, we've been fascinated by the nature of life and the spectre of death. But we still have no idea about the meaning of life and we certainly aren't any closer to solving the puzzle of death. Perhaps because these mysteries can't be solved, merely speculated at.

That's why, when the beautiful AP gets really serious, she likes to delve into heavyweight matters -- like casino gambling. She writes columns for several magazines and newspapers on casino games and, in one, she made a startling confession about something we gaming writers should never admit to -- not being able to actually "do" what we write about.

I expected the wire services to pick up on this as it was a landmark moment in gambling-writing history. But not a peep was heard. The papers were too busy covering frivolities like global warming, the Mideast crisis, and the exploding Firestone tire debates. This shouldn't be surprising, I guess, since the mainstream press, by and large, ignores the intricacies and delights of casino gambling or, worse, looks upon it as just several inches short of a damnable sin.

So her confession has only been seen by relatively few eyes. I think you should see it too. It might give hope to those of you struggling with the same horrible problem she is struggling with. It might also let you know that you are not alone. If the beautiful AP isn't perfect, the rest of us don't have to even pretend to be! Which is a real relief to me.

Here's her confession, it's every bit as compelling as St. Augustine's and one one-hundredth the length!

I have a confession to make. It is a simple one, really, and not something I should really be all that ashamed of but -- I am a lousy crapshooter. Literally. When I roll the dice, if roll is the right word....Actually, let me change that sentence's wording to this wording: When the dice leave my hand, I really have no idea where they will wind up.

I have hit more stickmen, boxmen and dealers in their eyes, ears, heads and shoulders than any dice player in history -- or, as my husband says: "AP, I have never seen anyone as dangerous at a craps table as you are." I once landed a die in a person's mouth at Showboat in Atlantic City! She was busy talking and the die just went sailing right in. Thankfully, she didn't choke.

I hit one stickwoman in the eye at Trump Marina in Atlantic City and I landed a die inside the blouse and bra of another female dealer at one of the Station casinos in Las Vegas. I won't say which because she gave me such a dirty look that I wished it had been her eye I had hit!

Now, you might find this confession somewhat puzzling as I have written about dice control and my husband, Frank Scoblete, has based his whole craps philosophy on the premise that some shooters, by their careful sets and deliveries, are physically changing the nature of the game. He has advocated the Captain's 5-Count as a means of eliminating bad shooters and only risking money on the potentially good shooters. He has explored the idea of rhythmic rolling. He has counseled me. Yet, here I am, having played craps for many years, having attempted to control the dice; here I am, completely out of control. I once had one die go over the boxman's head and the other die go off the table over the stickman's shoulder. People can't do that if they try -- and I wasn't trying! I only wanted to land the dice against the back wall.

I am not exactly sure why I am so horrendous. I think it is because I tend to use too much shoulder in my delivery. Or, I used to use too much shoulder. For past few years I have consistently passed up my turn to roll because what's the point? If I were to bet on myself I would not only lose money, I would probably lose the lawsuit brought by the person I injured with one of my throws. Or, worse, I might get prosecuted for a crime.

I can hear the lawyers for the prosecution now: "Your honor, this woman knew beforehand that she was a danger to all around her when she took those dice in her hands. She deliberately and with intent sent them flying into the skull of my client here who has been permanently injured. She should be found guilty of attempted murder with a deadly weapon -- dice!"

So I confess. Although I, too, am a firm believer in "rhythmic rolling," I also am a firm believer that I can't and never will be able to do it. I am like a dentist that is missing some teeth, or a doctor who doesn't exercise or eat right.

Dear readers, thank you for letting me get this secret off my conscience.

Yes, with this confession, the rest of us gambling writers are off the hook. Even if we can't do something, that doesn't mean we can't write about it.