John Butlerfinds himself in a game of blackjack with Vinnie Jones
There are hundreds of ways to unwind in Las Vegas, but playing blackjack with Vinnie Jones isn't one them. Unlike poker, blackjack is a kind of team game. Each player is pitted against the dealer, and each player has the opportunity to influence the outcome of another's hand based on the way they play, and the cards they draw. People at your table get angry if you take a card they need, when you should have stuck in the first place.
I'm a rank amateur at the game, and I would walk across broken glass to avoid playing around with the money of a high-roller like Vinnie Jones. But this casino happened to be a dump, at the wrong end of town, and this was a $10 table. Around here, high-rollers were about as plentiful as talking unicorns.
A friend and I were playing for free drinks and getting valuable advice from our Vietnamese dealer, a guy called Tin. It's good to counsel with blackjack dealers for three simple reasons. First, they have read the book. Second, they don't care if the house doesn't win. In fact, like many employees, they want it to lose, because third, if you win, they should get a tip.
The waitress kept stopping by and Tin was helping us win, and there was peace on earth. Then, the baize turned dark and I smelled curry breath at my back. Behind, at the top of a 10-man crush of Keith Talents, was Vinnie Jones, the man who once famously bit a journalist's nose in a Dublin bar. I compared situations. Was this a bar? Kind of. They were certainly serving drinks. Had Vinnie bitten the guy's nose on account of his nationality or his profession? Either way, the odds were bad.
People say celebrities are always shorter in real life, and most of the time, they are. All I can say here is maybe Vinnie Jones isn't a celebrity, because the man is a giant. He sits to my right and stacks up $300, in chips of $25. It's too late to leave without hurting his feelings. The crush presses up against us as if we aren't there, egging him on like it's standing-room only at Millwall football ground. Now we have to play with Vinnie's money, and Tin is already flashing cards across the baize.
The aim of blackjack is to get - or get close to - 21. First up, Vinnie, who draws a five. Five is a bad card, and boos come from the crowd. "Oh come on Tin Tin, you're having a f***ing laugh here." Next up, us two. I shut my eyes and pray for picture cards. If we get picture cards, we may not have to act at all. In fact, we may catch two picture cards apiece, then stand on 20, and not mess anything up for Vinnie and his chip stack. Then, perhaps, he would decide not to crush our testicles in his vice-like hands.
White flash of card, then another. Picture card, picture card. I believe in you, God, your magic is real. Tin deals his face-down card, then deals the second round. Vinnie draws a five, and a cheer goes up. He now has 10; a reasonable chance of making 20 or 21, and saving his money.
Then, my friend gets a four. This two-card total of 14 is a nightmare scenario that divides opinions. The book - that mythical book that Tin was quoting chapter and verse - says take a card. My friend's misfortune is sinking in when Tin deals me a six. My eyes widen in horror. Sixteen is also too low to be a winner, but too high to improve upon by drawing another card. The book says take another card, but you literally need titanium balls to twist on 16 with Vinnie Jones beside you.
Finally, Tin deals himself a king. You always assume that the dealer's first card (the one face-down) is a 10. Vinnie was now looking at a draw, at best, yet he doubles down - he adds $300 to the $300 already in play, making $600 ride on the turn of one card. Six hundred dollars that I could lose for him.
Tin deals Vinnie a 10, and a cup-final cheer goes up. Vinnie stands on 20. Then all cheering recedes and all eyes land upon the nape of my friend's neck. Caught between a rock and a hard place, he calls for a card. Tin deals him a six. The planets have somehow aligned for my friend and he has berthed safely upon the number 20. The boys cheer, but I do not. At that moment, I want to club him on the head and swap places with him.
I take a deep breath and flick my fingers across the baize towards me, indicating that I too want another card. Tin flashes the card across, and for a moment I shut my eyes. I open them. A three!
We're all safe. Now Tin turns over his face-down card and shows a six, making a 16. He is in the same position that I was, but unlike me, the dealer must twist on 16, and you know what? Sometimes the absence of free will is a great thing. Tin deals himself a 10 and busts himself out. We are all victorious, but most importantly, in the battle of Tin versus Vin, Vin wins. Everyone cheers, Vin cashes out and the rough crowd makes for the exit. And I have to report, Tin did not receive a tip from the big winner.
I wouldn't mind playing poker against Vinnie Jones, but I hated being on his team for blackjack. It's the difference between lining up in the Liverpool midfield and pulling on the blue shirt of Wimbledon. I am aware that Wimbledon won the FA Cup that year, but I don't care, because sometimes it's better to be a good loser.
John Butler blogs at http://lozenge.wordpress.com