It’s amazing when you look at some of the professional odds makers and bettors I’ve represented: guys like Bob Martin and Frank Rosenthal and Billy Walters. They were genius-like in their ability to set a line. That’s what it’s all about. The bookie lives on that line, whether he’s a guy working a bar in Chicago, a school yard in Philadelphia, or behind the counter at one of the sports books in the casinos here in Las Vegas. He’s going to make $10 on every $100 bet if the line is set right and the bets are balanced. Out of balance is a different story, but on most days he’s going to win more than he’s going to lose. I should know; I’ve been on the other end enough times. Even still, it’s in my blood.
I played poker all through college, and I was lucky that Carolyn liked to play, too. During a break while I was in law school, we went down to Atlantic City. I was clerking in the district attorney’s office at the time, and one of the assistant district attorneys invited us down for a weekend. His family had a house there. There were several couples; most of the guys were lawyers in the office, and I was excited to have been invited. We started playing poker one night and I made up this stupid rule that only a winner could call the night over.
Carolyn went to bed. We kept playing and I kept losing. It got to the point where I knew I wouldn’t have the money to pay the others when it came time to cash out. Luckily Carolyn came back down in her robe and pajamas, saw what a schmuck I was, and got back in the game. She got us even before the night ended.
But there’s a difference between how I gamble and what a gambling addict goes through. I’m not “sick”; I don’t risk the kind of money that would hurt my family or destroy my life.
This gambling compulsion—and how it can destroy you—was made clear to me shortly after a phone call I got one time from Robin Moore, the bestselling author. I had read several of his books, The Green Berets, The French Connection, The Happy Hooker. He said he was working on a new book about a fellow named Joe Henry Hodges, a brilliant guy who ruined his life gambling. Hodges was well educated, had a lovely wife and two wonderful children, and at one time was the city attorney of Irving, Texas. But he was a compulsive gambler.
He’d say to his wife, “I’m going down to the Piggly Wiggly to buy a carton of milk” and disappear for three days on a gambling bender. He risked and lost it all; he had bad checks all over the Southwest. He got arrested by the FBI at LaGuardia Airport in New York and was brought back to Las Vegas to face charges that could have resulted in a long prison sentence.
Robin Moore asked me to represent Hodges, and I got him released on $100,000 bail. Moore managed to raise the money. Working on that case, I found out how really sick a compulsive gambler is. I had a medical expert testify on Hodges’ behalf. We had to fight several cases, including one in Houston where the prosecutor wanted to send him to jail for life.
Basically my medical expert said that while Hodges realized what he was doing was wrong, he rationalized his actions and came to believe they were acceptable. The doctor used a lot of medical terms and jargon, but the thing I remember best was his comparison to sex. He said a compulsive gambler is like an erect penis during sex—you just can’t stop it.
I was able to keep Hodges out of jail, but he lost everything: his wife, his family, his home, and his friends. You might think he had learned his lesson, but I’ll bet against that.
Not everyone who bets is like Hodges. A lot of people are like me; they like to bet, and they do it within their means. That desire has created a multi-million dollar industry.
Look at the statistics. The Super Bowl is a great example. The amount of money bet on that one game is staggering. In Nevada, where’s it’s legal, casinos take about $90 million in action. Internet gambling sites, according to some studies, do about $2 billion more. And the illegal bookies pull in about $3 billion. That’s more than $5 billion bet on one game.
The thing that the do-gooders fail to acknowledge is that it’s in everyone’s interest to keep that game and all games on the up-and-up. That’s why I have a problem with the heads of most of the professional sports leagues who won’t even consider allowing a franchise in Las Vegas. Betting is a business, and it only functions when the customers think they have a fair shot. We have to build a world-class arena and then take our shot.
I think I’ve already laid the groundwork. One of the first things I did after I was elected was to go back to New York and meet with the commissioners of the NHL and the NBA.
Gary Bettman was very pleasant, and said as far as he was concerned, Las Vegas would be a great site, but the NHL wasn’t expanding and none of the franchises were interested in relocating. I took him at his word. I believe he meant what he said. To me, the most important part of what he said was that he thought Las Vegas would be great. Unlike the commissioners of the other sports, he didn’t say no. So getting a professional hockey team was, however remote, a possibility.
David Stern with the NBA was another story. I always had a lot of respect for him as a commissioner. But when I went to his office, it was like I was the enemy. And his position was “over my dead body” would the NBA ever put a team in Las Vegas.
“I’m never going to allow a franchise in a city where bets are made,” he said. “As long as I’m commissioner, there’s no way in the world that’s going to happen.”
I thought he was ridiculous for saying that. Talk to anyone in the business—and I’ve represented more than my share of those types of “businessmen”—and it’s obvious there are bets taken in every city where the NBA has a franchise. The only difference between those cities and Las Vegas is that the bets outside of Vegas are taken illegally. I’ll wager that there were more bets taken in Madison Square Garden—at least when the Knicks were good—than all the books in Las Vegas.
Has it hurt the integrity of the game? I think the brand of basketball, the school yard, individual style of play, has hurt the game of professional basketball more than any bookie taking a bet. But that’s just my view as a fan of the game.
Lebron James and Kobe Bryant may be super talents, but I’ll take Elgin Baylor and Oscar Robertson and the style of the game they played over what you see today. Give me Bob Cousy over Allen Iverson. You want Shaquille O’Neal? Fine, I’ll take Bill Russell.
But those weren’t the kinds of things Stern and I talked about. This was before the problem with Tim Donaghy, the NBA referee who was accused of influencing the outcome of games to win bets. That was an in-house NBA problem. How’s that for integrity?
I told Stern that his position was draconian and that it made no sense. I argued that the Las Vegas race and sports books have more supervision than any other venue where bets are legal, and that there has never been an incident of cheating. He didn’t want to hear it. When I left his office, I have to say I wasn’t surprised by his reaction. But I was demoralized anyway because he didn’t offer any hope. He was adamant; no way.
But I kept pushing for us to build a first-class arena, and the word started to spread that Las Vegas was going to get an NBA franchise.
Stern called me on the phone. “Didn’t you hear what I said?” he asked. “Under no circumstances are you going to get a franchise.”
But I noticed something in his voice. I could almost hear a smile over the phone. And I knew that some other people in his office were not as adamant, so I thought we might have a shot.
Around that time our Convention Authority got involved in a sponsorship deal with the NBA over “NBA Euro.” This was a plan to create interest on an international level for NBA basketball. And as the chairman of the Convention Authority, I got to go on a trip with Stern and some other NBA officials. We visited three cities: Rome, Barcelona, and Paris. Not a bad junket, as far as junkets go. I love those cities, but we did the trip in five days—five brutal days. We were constantly moving.
The stop in Rome was the greatest. It’s amazing what you can do in one day. Rossi Ralenkotter, the president of the Las Vegas Convention and Visitors Authority and a very good guy, l
ed the entourage to the Vatican. I had been there before, so I passed. I decided it would be a chance to get in some shopping. I called Carolyn at home and asked if there was anything special I could treat her to while I was in the Eternal City.
Without missing a beat, she described a purse made by Prada. I left the hotel and ventured onto the streets of Rome in search of the Prada bag. I had taken Latin in school, but other than “amo, amas, amat,” I didn’t remember very much.
I managed to ask some folks along the way where the Prada shop was, and after several twists and turns, I found myself at the top of the Spanish Steps, one of the truly glorious spots in the city. Prada was on the piazza at the bottom of the steps. The 138 steps descend in stages, but there are no railings. I wear glasses with ground-in bifocals, and I have a devil of a time going down stairs, especially when there are no railings. But being the loving husband that I am, I soldiered on and began my descent.
It’s a tradition in Rome for young people to gather at the Spanish Steps, and thankfully they were sitting all over the place. So as I began to walk down, I reached out and touched their heads for balance. One-hundred and thirty-eight heads; that’s how I got down these famous steps.
When I got to the Prada store in the piazza, I was able to describe the bag. They had it in stock and I bought it. I just knew that when I got home to Las Vegas and told Carolyn of my heroic flight down the Spanish Steps in order to make the purchase, she would love me more than ever.
That’s the image I had in my mind as I walked out of the store. Then I realized that I had no idea where my hotel was, the name of which had escaped me. I panicked. I had a cell phone that didn’t work in Rome, and even if it did, I wouldn’t know who to call or what to say. I broke into a cold sweat. After walking around in circles for about five minutes, I heard someone call my name.
“Mayor Goodman, Mayor Goodman.”
I turned and saw a woman beckoning me over.
“I’m Bill Russell’s wife,” she said.
“I’m lost,” I replied.
We shared a cab to the hotel where she and Bill, the great Boston Celtics center, were staying. I was never so thankful to be recognized.
That night, Rossi and I, along with Julian Dugas, who was the Convention Authority’s sports guru, and Vince Alberta, a public affairs man, were supposed to present the key to the city of Las Vegas to the mayor of Rome, Walter Veltroni, at the arena before a basketball game. But Mayor Veltroni had left a message at our hotel that because of a transportation and media strike, we should go to his City Hall office instead, where the ceremony would take place. I thought there might be a problem since I was traveling with the showgirls, Porsha and Jen. Would they be allowed in City Hall in their suggestive outfits? I called the mayor, and without hesitation, he said that absolutely they would be welcome.
This didn’t surprise me. By this point, the brand—me, the showgirls, and my martini—had been well established. We had come a long way from that first night back in Cashman Field when I “threw” that first pitch.
The showgirls and I had probably made several hundred appearances by that point. And every time we did, people would flock to us. They wanted their pictures taken with us. They wanted autographs. The martini was part of the routine, and after I signed that deal with Bombay Sapphire, it expanded as well. They gave me a watch that only had the number five on it. All around the face there were fives. No other number. Five o’clock was the traditional “cocktail hour.”
If we were at an event at 7 A.M., I’d be holding a martini and I’d wave my watch and say, “It’s five o’clock somewhere. Drink up!”
When we arrived at Mayor Veltroni’s office, he introduced us to his wife and daughters. They weren’t interested in the mayor of Las Vegas—they were there for the showgirls, captivated by their class and charm. As the girls were socializing, Mayor Veltroni invited me out onto the balcony. He pointed and said, “There is the Palatine Hill where Romulus and Remus were born.”
It was an awesome sight.
“And Mayor Goodman,” he said, “there’s the Forum where public speeches and gladiator matches took place in the presence of Rome’s great men.”
Then he said, “Look just beneath this balcony where we’re standing. There stood Julius Caesar.”
What could I say?
“Mayor Veltroni,” I said, “when you come to Las Vegas to visit me and we both look out the window from my office at City Hall, I’ll show you U.S. Route 95 and Interstate 15.”
Today, if Rome’s mayor visited the new City Hall, he would see from the mayor’s balcony the Cleveland Clinic Lou Ruvo Center for Brain Health, the Smith Center, the Premium Outlets, and the World Market Center.
After the basketball game that night, the Las Vegas contingent went to the best restaurant I have ever been to in my life. We drank wine and toasted the guests who were there. I handed out “good luck mayor chips” with caricatures of my likeness that described me as the “Happiest Mayor in the Universe.”
We danced like Zorba the Greek. We were served sea bass the size of small whales, and it was delicious. I’d recommend the food and ambience to kings and queens.
Several years later, I told a Las Vegas reporter who was traveling to Rome that the restaurant was a “must” visit. When she returned, she called me. I asked whether the place was as great as I had remembered.
“It was closed down,” she said. “Apparently it had been the front for a heroin smuggling operation. They were hiding narcotics in fish bellies that they brought into Rome.”
Maybe that’s why the sea bass tasted so good!
During that five-day trip, we visited arenas in each of the cities and watched basketball games. The commissioner and his right-hand man, Adam Silver, were always sitting in front of me, and we got along well. I think it helped that they got a kick out of the showgirls. Whenever I travel for the city, two beautiful showgirls are part of my entourage. At each game, I was taking bets. I was just fooling around with the other people on the trip, but I became their bookie. Stern seemed to like my schtick, and our relationship improved. That might explain how Las Vegas was chosen as the site for the NBA All-Star game. It was the first time the game was played in a city that didn’t have an NBA team, so I took that as a good sign. It also was the first time the game was played on a college campus, at the Thomas and Mack Center at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas.
When I heard we had gotten approval to host the game, I thought a miracle had taken place. And I wanted everything to work out. We were to have the game in 2007, and the site was chosen a couple of years in advance. Houston had the game in 2006, so I made a point of going there to check things out. I remember being at the airport in Las Vegas leaving for Houston. I’m standing there and I see all these working girls, call girls, high-priced hookers, waiting for the same plane. I struck up a conversation and asked a couple of them what they were doing.
“Are you going to the game?” I said.
They laughed.
“No Oscar, we’re going to party.”
I got a bang out of that, but I think it said a lot about the All-Star Weekend. Talk to people in law enforcement, and they’ll tell you the NBA All-Star Weekend is unlike any other professional all-star venue. Instead, it’s a weekend party that brings together celebrities, “gangstas,” and athletes. Drug dealers from cities throughout the country show up with their entourage, take up a suite of hotel rooms, and party all weekend. I didn’t know this at the time, so when we were about to host the game, I went to all the casino executives and said we want to put on a full-court press. This was our chance to show off the city and make our pitch for a franchise.
During that weekend, I met with Commissioner Stern. He sat across from me in my City Hall office, and we were talking about a lot of different things. His son was working for the governor of Montana. We talked about family and kids and what it was like living in New York and in Las Vegas; just a friendly, general conversation. After an hour, he got to the poin
t.
“Okay Oscar,” he said in his charming manner. “You win. The ball’s in your court. I won’t stand in the way of you getting a franchise if you build a first class arena and if you’re able to convince the owners.”
I was doing a jig; this was a major movement on his part.
As a concession to Stern, I had gotten the casinos to take the game off the board in the betting parlors, so there would be no action on the all-star game. It was a big concession, but the casinos went along. Everyone was on board.
“We’ll do whatever we have to do,” the casino executives told me.
I felt good they had that much confidence in me. This was great. We did everything we could. But sometimes the best plans don’t give you the best results.
The weekend turned into a disaster.
It was President’s Day Weekend. There was a huge convention for men’s apparel companies in town, and it also was a great celebration of the Chinese New Year.
A group of thugs came up from Southern California for the game. They ransacked rooms, stiffed waitresses, and scared people. When the weekend ended, those same casino owners told me, “Forget about it. There’s no way we want a franchise if this is what comes with it.”
Even though it was a big setback, I knew that over time, I’d be able to convince the casino owners that the All-Star Game Weekend was an aberration. Having a team doesn’t mean that each of the forty-one home games would be like that game. I took their complaints with a grain of salt. I’ve since had discussions with the owners of several franchises, and none of them seem to have a problem with a team out here.
Being Oscar: From Mob Lawyer to Mayor of Las Vegas Page 24