I have taken some bad beats in my time, as all bettors have. I was on the wrong side of the granddaddy of them all: Mets and Braves, Game 5 of the 1999 NLCS. The total for the game was 7½ runs. I had the over. In the bottom of the 15th at Shea, New York Metropolitan Robin Ventura came up with the bases loaded, one out, and the game tied at 3-3. You can see the problem: With any normal hit, the Mets would win but only one run would score, making the total seven runs (and I’d lose by the loathed hook). I had to somehow get out of this inning and into the 16th. (Notice how I went first-person here. This happens when money is involved.) There was another way I could win, and that was if Ventura hit a home run, which was highly unlikely since Atlanta's outfielders were practically standing on the dirt behind second. Any blooper and the Mets would win by one. So what happens? Ventura blasts a 2-1 pitch over the right-field fence, Shea Stadium goes nuts, and the final score is 7-3.
Except it isn’t.
As Ventura rounds first base, the infield is flooded with Mets players and fans. They surround Ventura, congratulating him, cheering him, impeding him. I start to feel sick. Then I hear Costas. He thinks they’ll only count one run if Ventura doesn’t somehow shove the well-wishers aside and finish his trot. This is bad because Bob Costas knows everything. I see him years later and ask why he mentioned this in the midst of the bedlam.
“I knew it was important to some,” Costas says. “My dad was a big gambler.”
There’s an old axiom in sports betting: “You never forget losing a fortune because a guy hit a grand-slam single.” In many ways, this is true.