SAN FRANCISCO, CA -- Sweat poured down my face. People screaming left, right, and center. In my ear, in my face. “7” I whispered to myself, “7 baybee”. I cocked my hand back. Took a deep breath. I unleashed terror on the table. Blinding pain. Searing, deep hurt. The speed clock to my right reads 85 MPH. Not bad. I’m on my knees, cradling my elbow. Dear God in heaven, don’t let my poor form be the thing that brings down the greatest to ever grace this felt table.
The doctor says I need surgery. They will have to rip out a different tendon and throw it on my elbow if I ever want to even blow on dice again. I tell them to take my achilles tendon from my left leg, I don’t need it any more. The doctor looks at me, blankly. He whispers if I have mental deficiencies. I nod, and say I put 50K down on $GME. He just nodded in understanding.
“We can’t fix that,” he says, “but we’ll get you back on the floor in no time.”
I ask him what the surgery is called. He says Tommy John Surgery.
“Isn’t that for, like, baseball players?” I ask
“Well, it is a general reconstructive surgery,” he replies, “Anyone can get it, really. Hell, I had Shooter McGavin in here three weeks ago looking for something similar. Golfers, baseball players, oil rig workers, now craps players. I’ve seen them all. It is a miraculous procedure, trust me!”
I threaten his family if it is unsuccessful. He nods in agreement.
Two weeks later I’m clocking 65 at the table. Not too shabby, but less flare brings less crowds. I may not be the legend I was before. But I can still toss them.
