BETTING THE OTHER WAY by Peter Nolan Smith

Richie Boy and I bet the Super Bowl according to the Manny Principle, which was that Manny never beat the spread for the NFL's final game and in 1990 the championship game posed the 49ers against the Broncos in New Orleans. All week Googs, Domingo, Richie Boy, and I had been badgering Manny for his pick and on Friday afternoon we intensified the pressure.

"Who you like?" Richie Boy liked to get things out in the open.

"Anytime I tell you, I lose." Manny told us on Friday.

"But we win." Googs had won $1000 betting on the 49ers 19 1/2 point advantage over the Chargers.

"And I didn't see a penny from any of you gonifs." Manny wasn't superstitious, but this losing streak was a joke amongst his friends. "You're invited to watch the game at my apartment. There'll be food booze and a big TV, but you want to make a bet, use your head not mine."

Manny sat at his desk and didn't speak to us for the rest of the day. Richie made two sales on diamonds memoed from the Randolph firm across the aisle. Domingo and I spent the afternoon schlepping orders from the polishers to the setters to the polishers again and back to the store. At closing we locked the goods in the safe and Manny paid our salaries. We got paid in cash. $100 bills. Normally we were out the door a second later, but not tonight.

"C'mon, Dad, give us a break." Richie Boy was pleading on bended knees which wasn't easy since he had popped both ACLs in Jackson Hole a month earlier.

"What?" Manny leaned back in his chair.

We weren't the only ones waiting for his prediction. Mr. Randolph had his hearing aid turned up to 10. The Jamaican guard was eavesdropping at the counter. There was a knock on the door. It was Uncle Seymour. Manny took one look at his brother and said angrily, "You don't come to see me here all year and now you show up like a long-lost shoe."

"Don't have a cow." Seymour was a die-hard gambler. "I was only passing by."

"Passing by, my brother, the ex-cop, passing by on the way back from the track."

"Ain't no racing this time of year." The ex-cop loved the horses and gave most of his pension to the stables via OTB. He turned to Richie Boy. "He's not telling us, is he?"

"No." Richie Boy shook his head. "The old bastard thinks he'll win, if he doesn't tell us."

"Win?" Seymour laughed as only an older brother can laugh at his younger brother.

"What?" Manny was hot. "You think I can win on this bet?"

"Manny, I love you, but you haven't won a Super Bowl bet since the Jets lost to the Colts."

"That's not Manny's fault." I had to defend my boss on this. Maybe he'd give me his bet and I could double up on the $500 in my pocket.

"Ass-kisser." Googs called them as he saw them.

"No, Manny was fucked by a fixed game."

"They don't fix the Super Bowl." Seymour's statement was more a question than a challenge.

"No, four years ago I'm sitting at a hotel in Paris. I run into Bubba Smith of the Baltimore Colts who's promoting POLICE ACADEMY. I ask him after a few drinks, "How you lose that game to the Jets?" At first I thought he would take off my head, instead he whispered, "They got to the quarterback."

"Quarterback?" Seymour remembered his name.

"Both of them." The bookies had threatened to kill their families. Manny's streak in my eyes was intact.

"They fixed the quarterback?" Manny had won a month's pay on that bet.

"Why you think Joe Namath was so confident. He knew the fix was in."

"It was only one game."

"What about 1979? All the smart money went on Pittsburgh to cover the 3.5 spread, then the bookies stretched it to 4.5. You might remember the game but Dallas trailed 35-17 with 7 minutes left, but somehow come back to score 2 TDs and beat the spread, fucking everyone who bet the Steelers."

"I lost that bet too."

"I won." I knew Manny thanks to his brother working with me at Hurrah, a punk disco on West 62nd Street. I bet my salary on Seymour's recommendation of the Manny Principle.

"Dad, you're gonna lose. Nothing you do can stop you losing the Super Bowl." Googs was in debt to his car dealer. "I win and I'm good for the winter. Think of your kids. Me and Richie."

Manny eyed us all. "No."

"Dad," Richie Boy spoke with a soft tone. He used it to close deals. "How much you gonna bet. $500? $1000. You tell us your choice and we'll make good your loss."

"A real hero." Manny shook his head defiantly. "You want me to lose."

"I don't want you to lose, but you're going to lose." Richie held up 10 C-notes. "You lose every yer. Not on everything. Just the Superbowl. We'll make good for you."

"You want me to bet. I lose the bet and then you pay me the money."

"Simple. You come out ahead."

"What makes you so sure that I won't win this year."

"Manny?" Richie Boy, Googs, and Seymour shrugged sympathetically. They were family.

"I can win with you guys. I bet the Broncos."

"You bet the Broncos?" Seymour demanded incredulously, since the 49ers had lost their two regular season games by only 5 total points. "You know something we don't know."

"Only that John Elway is going to win a Super Bowl some day."

We held our breath. Manny didn't think it was funny and pointed a finger at his son. "Okay big shot, just remember what you said, because this year I'm winning big."

We went to Manny's apartment in Grammercy Park that Sunday. He had a spread from Little Italy on the table. The couch was big enough to take Googs, Seymour, Richie Boy, his wife from Buffalo, and his two high school friends; Werthel and RD. We bet heavy the other way from Manny. The game was a blow-out. Richie Boy paid his father $500 for his loss and we drank the rest of his vodka toasting Manny, but he was in too good a mood for my tastes and when we went out onto the balcony for some air, I asked, "Why you in such a good mood?"

"Because I bet the 49ers."

"But you told us that you bet the Broncos?"

"And you believe everything someone tells you?" Manny liked answering a question with a question. "Don't believe nothing and don't tell anyone this either."

"Why you tell me?"

"Because no matter if I tell you not to, I know you'll tell your friend Richie that I bet on the 49ers. I want to see his face on Monday."

"But you took $500 from him?"

"No, he gave it to me." Manny looked over his shoulder and smiled, "Everyone's much happier thinking I have a curse. Why spoil their good time?"

I felt bad about saying nothing to Richie Boy about his father's bet that day, because he was so happy. Monday would be a different story.

For a related article click on this URL

http://www.mangozeen.com/2010/01/31/fiction/mr-bellers-neighborhood-reading-218.htm

A Jew Canoe

In the 50s crackers from the South christened a Cadillac with New York plates passing through Dixie as the ‘Jew Canoe’. That decade and the 1960s marked the zenith of the glory for Detroit cars. Americans abandoned their boats during the 1973 Oil Embargo for more fuel-efficient foreign cars and the Mercedes-Benz sedans surfaced as the new 'Jew Canoe' along with offerings from BMW. Both companies had close business relationships with the Nazis. Cadillac never exploited this connection to guard their market share of the Jewish-American market.

BMW used slave labor. Mercedes-Benz exploited foreign workers and there are rumors that the company even built death gas trucks for the SS extermination squads. Even the groovy VW Beetle owed its manufacturing to 'guest workers', who learned the lesson of 'arbeit macht frei'.

Both Richie Boy and Manny drive Mercedes-Benz.

“How can you buy a German car?” I have asked them on many occasions. “They killed 6 million of you.”

“It’s a comfortable ride.” Manny loved driving his Mercedes 600 SL to Florida. His annual migration south came in February. His total yearly mileage was less than 10,000 miles. He would have been better off flying to Miami, but car drivers loved the freedom suggested by their automobiles.

“So you’ve forgiven the Nazis?" I confronted Manny on his hypocrisy. Richie Boy couldn't have given a shit. He traded in his Land Rover for the Benz SUV. His head was buried into the phone. Its microwaves were frying his brain to a crisp.

“We’ll never forget.” Manny's brothers fought in the war. One of them came back not the same.

“Never again.” I had a VW Bug as a kid. I bought a BMW 2002 in Hamburg. My last car was a Toyota. I forgave the Japs for Pearl Harbor once Sony came out with the three-in-one electron gun Trinitron TV. Black and white was a thing of the past.

“That is right.” Manny had a long memory. His family came from Poland. He still spoke Yiddish to anyone French, Italian, or Russian. He spoke it pretty good too.

"You know I've been thinking about writing a song NEVER AGAIN centered on a Jewish family driving home for Yom Kippur in a Benz."

"Never again in a Cadillac, you mean." Manny had heard this dreck before. "Cadillac never made a car as good as my Benz."

"No, I don't think they did." It was the truth.

"But I did love them in the 50s. They said style." Manny swooned like the first time he had seen his wife. Hilda had been the best-looking woman in Brooklyn. She was no boat. "Wish I had one now. The old Jew Canoe."

"You know what's the difference between a Jew and a canoe?" Richie Boy got off the phone. "A canoe tips."

It was a bad joke in so many ways that I had to laugh.

Es tut mir leid.

That’s sorry in German.

It’s not inscribed in any Mercedes-Benz or BMWs.

Big surprise, nicht war?

Then again, neither is Sieg Heil on a Mercedes Benz.