The Catch-22 Kaepernick Conundrum

Nancy Armour asked all of the right questions in her September 17 USA Today column regarding the "actively, actively interested" but unsigned Colin Kaepernick. Given the early-season ravaging of the quarterback position, why has no NFL team rushed to sign Kaepernick?

Considering the rash of contender-toppling injuries, even if a particular owner had a distaste for assigning Kaepernick a roster spot, that owner would be insane to not sign the man immediately and use him as trade bait. Allow me to repeat that. If an owner is so committed to white nationalism that it precludes his team from actually playing Kaepernick, why not be the first to sign him and then leverage the signing into a deal that benefits your team? The fact that no team has done this underlines, strongly, that there has been some kind of NFL-wide conspiracy to keep Kaepernick off all rosters.

None of the Kaepernick saga makes any sense, and it never will. Carolina could use him, as could the Jets, the Steelers, Miami, Tennessee, Minnesota, Washington, the Colts, and maybe Tampa Bay. Kaepernick could start for a third of the teams, and he'd be a superb backup for mobile young guns in Philadelphia, Kansas City, San Francisco, Buffalo, Dallas, and Houston.

Instead, he's working out at home. Why is that? Are NFL owners all idiots? For the sake of brevity, let's skip that question and cut to the proverbial chase.

The owners are trapped in a classic catch-22 of their own making. If a team signs Kaepernick, and the man succeeds, the fact that he's succeeded will demonstrate unequivocally to the American public that the owners illegally blackballed Kaepernick from the league for multiple seasons. They deprived him of prime athletic years at peak ability. Conversely, if they do not sign him, and they plug in various and sundry journeymen quarterbacks, they also demonstrate to the American public that the owners illegally blackballed Kaepernick. But at least they aren't paying him.

The only way that the owners look as if they haven't illegally blackballed him is if some team signs him and Kaepernick fails miserably. But here's the catch-22 inside the catch-22:  the fact that nobody has signed Kaepernick and given him an opportunity to fail is because most owners are convinced that he won't fail. It's as simple as that.

Lurking in the back of the NFL owners' minds is another troubling thought. The possibility exists that signing Kaepernick could motivate some of that team's players to go above and beyond to help Kaepernick succeed. That team might perceive themselves as playing for more than paychecks.

The NFL owners' Mr. Magoo business optics just amaze me. Kaepernick sits at home. Ray Lewis is a commentator. How does that work? I keep expecting Lewis to show up on one of the new NFL/Tide detergent commercials wearing his infamous white suit. Peyton Manning could call him to the podium to have Ray explain how he got all of the stains out.

The entire situation is ridiculous. The owners know Kaepernick could start for a third of the teams. It's particularly absurd that the championship caliber team that would probably benefit most from having Kaepernick as a backup is the Dallas Cowboys, deep in the heart of "we don't kneel" Texas.

Personally, I don't understand why any African-American should stand for The Star Spangled Banner. I'm not sure how many owners are familiar with the third stanza, but it's a doozy. I happen to know all of the stanzas because my grade school music teacher used 1920's songbooks. We sang all of the verses.

"No refuge could save the hireling or slave
From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave."

Remind me, the next time the Star Spangled Banner plays, I really need to kneel.



Bob Dietz -- September 19, 2019

Exorcism at Steve Spurrier Field: Part Two

Somehow I had brought unspeakable evil back from Las Vegas with me. The consequences of its possession of eastern Tennessee football weren't pretty. Testosterone levels among Tennessean males fell to an all-time low. A depression epidemic was a real possibility. God knows what the effects of the prior 24 hours would have on opioid use. On the other hand, of course, the University of Tennessee had chosen a fine time to begin selling alcohol in Neyland Stadium. Perhaps the Vols' administration had a hand in summoning Pazuzu. To many Volunteer football fans, that didn't seem terribly farfetched, and it would explain much about the athletic director's office.

I considered what I should do. An exorcism seemed to be in order. But where? And how? And by whom?

I couldn't get through to the Vatican. I don't speak Italian, and the Vatican switchboard didn't seem to take my report of a Football Pazuzu seriously. But I couldn't sit idly by while football in eastern Tennessee was corrupted forever. Although I felt uncredentialled, someone had to do something, and that someone, to paraphrase Travis Bickle, was me. Despite my clergy license plate, which I utilize during Biker Week in Daytona Beach so nobody parks me in, I am not ordained. I do, however, own copies of Demonolatry and Malleus Malleficarum, which were used to identify, convict, and exorcize witches during the Inquisition. The only additional required text was The Rite of Exorcism (Roman Ritual), which one can surprisingly pick up from Target for $22.99 with same-day delivery.

Next I had to figure out the where. Where in eastern Tennessee could football karma be so bad, so horrifically evil, that a maleficent demon would hunker down as if at a Holiday Inn? Then it hit me. The Science Hill football team plays at a home field named for Johnson City native, Steve Spurrier. Spurrier was notorious for all manner of running up the score when he coached at Florida. He routinely threw deep with massive fourth-quarter leads, causing much weeping, gnashing of teeth, and four-letter words that could lead to damnation. More importantly, he often said that "You can't spell Citrus without UT," a reference to how his Gators consistently sealed off the Sugar Bowl from Tennessee football teams and relegated the Vols to the Citrus. If the Football Pazuzu demon felt at home anywhere in eastern Tennessee, it would be Steve Spurrier Field.

The next evening, after procuring The Roman Ritual from Target, I arrived at Steve Spurrier Field at 9 PM. I entered the iron gates while carrying Demonolatry, Malleus Malleficarum, The Roman Ritual, and a life-sized rubber model of a human heart, in case any sacrifices or trades would be required. As I stepped onto the artificial turf field, I was shocked to find that I wasn't alone. Despite my legendary IQ and insightful brilliance, others had figured out the location of Football Pazuzu more quickly than me. Others who devoted their lives to strange beliefs and who were trying to control the demon for their own devious and selfish ends.

I was too late to stop them. I would have to cut a deal.


A week later, most things had returned to normal in eastern Tennessee. The Science Hill High football team played a team from Knoxville called Hardin Valley Academy. Science Hill prevailed 52-14. The ETSU Buccaneers, a 2018 FCS playoff team, went up against something called Shorter, which had lost 29 consecutive games. The Bucs won easily, 48-10. And finally, on Saturday in Knoxville, the Tennessee Volunteers hosted Brigham Young. The Vols, holding a 16-13 lead, gave up a 64-yard pass with 20 seconds left, which allowed BYU to kick the tying field goal as time expired. In overtime, a BYU team that had been pushed around all day played like a team possessed. They muscled in a rugby-scrum off tackle play for a touchdown to pull the 29-26 upset. As Brigham Young celebrated in Knoxville, 90 miles away I heard a deep mournful wail. I couldn't tell if it was the plaintive howling of Tennessee's hound mascot or the cumulative crescendo of Vols' souls in pain. It carried on the wind and drowned out everything else in eastern Tennessee.

Why had Football Pazuzu's curse been lifted from Science Hill and ETSU, but not the University of Tennessee? Well, as I said, I had to cut a deal with those mysterious folks at Steve Spurrier Field. They had already begun their own ritual, and the best I could do was bargain with them as to which locales would be free of the demon. They were, as it turned out, Mormons. Rocky Top could not be spared.


Postscript:  A friend of mine was hiking in Colorado at the exact moment BYU punched in its winning score against Tennessee. He swore he felt a rush of wind and heard a loud wailing somewhere overhead. My deal, you see, was that the Mormons take Football Pazuzu with them to do with as they pleased, with my insistence that the demon stay west of the Rockies. National championship teams, after all, do not live west of the Rockies, so how much damage can the demon do? The Mormons, I've heard, made their own bargains with Football Pazuzu in the days that followed. If BYU somehow goes unbeaten at home the rest of the season, we'll know the true power of the football demon. And if they win as underdogs in overtime again, well, sometimes it pays to have the devil in your corner.

Exorcism at Steve Spurrier Field: Part One

Note:  This entry addresses the aftermath of events described in the previous (8/13) post.


It was, of course, entirely my fault. When my trip to Las Vegas ended and I returned to Johnson City, I assumed all was well with the world. I thought that the strange occurrences and synchronicities that shadowed me for more than a week had ended quietly with my return to the Tri-Cities Airport. I had bidden goodbye to Mickey Bible and deplaned. Nothing unusual happened in the following days. No odd connections or inexplicable resonating events. Things seemed to have returned to simple normalcy.

Just as in the beginning of the seminal film, The Exorcist, however, festering is often a slow, quiet burn. And just as in the movies, animals often detect evil much more quickly than we humans.

My friend, Tony, was celebrating his birthday. He is a diehard Tennessee Vols fan, so I bought him an orange hat with the trademark white T.  It was a good looking hat. Tennessee was scheduled to open the 2019 season a week later as 26-point favorites at home against lowly Georgia State. Tony was pleased with his birthday present and said he was looking forward to cheering on the Vols.

A couple of days later, I was having lunch with Tony and a few other friends. Tony tapped my arm and pointed to his phone. He scrolled down to a photo of the new hat, which looked as if it had been ravaged by Dire Wolves. I was close. Tony's German Shepherd had found the hat and savaged it. I joked that maybe this was an ominous omen for the Vols' season. It turns out that the hat was a just a portent of disasters to come.

Thursday, August 29, I cleaned out my suitcase from the Las Vegas trip. I took my tan Skechers out of their plastic bag and noticed some debris in the tread. Locust debris. Pieces of the swarms that had flooded Las Vegas during my visit. The same locusts that The Exorcist 2 described as vessels of the demon, Pazuzu. At the time, I did not realize the significance. I simply cleaned my shoes and put them away.

Friday, August 30, I finally understood. The Science Hill High School football team, a local power that plays at Steve Spurrier Field, had never lost to the David Crockett Pioneers. That evening, a few miles away in Jonesborough, David Crockett utterly crushed Science Hill 62-34. The result was beyond stunning. It was apocalyptic.

I began to suspect that something was awry. Had I somehow brought the demon, Pazuzu, back from Las Vegas with me? And was it manifesting itself in eastern Tennessee by corrupting that most sacred of religious traditions, southern football?

The next afternoon confirmed my suspicions. First, the local college team, the East Tennessee State Buccaneers, an FCS playoff squad in 2018, traveled across the mountain to Boone, North Carolina. They played Appalachian State and were crushed like grapes, 42-7. Then came the coup de grace. Ninety miles to the west, in Knoxville, the Tennessee Vols were 26-point favorites against a Georgia State team that had been 2-10 in 2018. That's 2-10 in the Sun Belt. Tennessee, overwhelmingly superior by all personnel standards, lost convincingly 38-30. Not only that, but the University of Tennessee had paid Georgia State almost a million dollars for making the trip. The wailing from Neyland Stadium was carried on the wind, banshee-like, to the entirety of eastern Tennessee..

In the span of 24 hours, the unthinkable had happened twice with the Science Hill and Vols losses, and ETSU's playoff veneer had been stripped as if by a blowtorch. Football Pazuzu had possessed eastern Tennessee.

Travelogue: The Eighth Plague

The story you are about to read is true. I've kept the names the same because, as much as I love Hunter S. Thompson, gonzo journalism isn't my thing. I'm more of a Joe Friday/Dragnet guy.


I'd like to say that my sports futures scouting expedition to Las Vegas started off innocently enough. But that wouldn't be the truth. The fact is, I hadn't even left Tri-Cities (TRI) airport on my flight's first leg, when the weirdness began.

I had ordered a coffee and a chocolate muffin at the restaurant in the gate area. The cashier squinted at the total on the register and hesitated. She seemed somewhat taken aback. The amount was $6.66. She said that she refused to ring it up, and that she would bill me for a different pastry. I shrugged and said okay, and she rang up something else so that I owed $6.24. I thanked her, gathered my change, and sat down to enjoy my snack and ponder the likelihood of a $6.66 bill.

Shortly thereafter, I noticed that my flight had been delayed, although skies were clear and weather from TRI to Charlotte was perfect. I noticed because the gate attendants began rebooking half of my flight's passengers, starting with an announcement for Pastor A and then a second announcement for Pastor B. I can't say that I've ever noticed back-to-back pastor announcements during my hundreds of thousands of miles flown. Luck of the draw, I guessed.

I knew my connection would be tight, but the gate folks assured me that I'd make it. I settled back down with coffee and muffin and finally noticed the news. Las Vegas, Sin City, was being invaded by grasshoppers. Well, that was different. Video from the previous evening showed giant mega-swarms spiraling around an intense white beam cutting through the night sky. The sky-splitting white light came from the pinnacle of the black pyramid casino known as the Luxor. Downtown Las Vegas, which was the original founding point for the city, was also inundated with flitting, flapping clouds of tawny locusts. If the Luxor was the city's southern Gomorrah, then the downtown four miles north certainly fit the bill as a modern Sodom. They were both covered in bugs.

As I watched videos of the grasshoppers swarming all white lights, I felt compelled to google the number of the Old Testament locust plague. As it turned out, locusts were the eighth of the plagues visited upon ancient Egypt. Remembering how these Moses plagues culminated, I realized that I was a firstborn. Not a good thing. I also knew that I would be turning 62 while in Las Vegas, and six plus two equals eight, and locusts are the eighth plague.

I finished my coffee and boarded the plane, which was running even later than advertised. As I mentioned, I have six decades of living under my belt, so jogging across the Charlotte airport lugging a bag is no picnic. I made my Las Vegas flight by three minutes. I had the middle seat for the nearly five-hour flight, so it came as no surprise that I learned a few things about my seat mates. The young man on my right was heading to Las Vegas for a plastic surgery residency. The older gentleman with the window seat was an avid bowler and world traveler. He was also a minister returning from a mission in Kenya. Something about his build and demeanor suggested James Earl Jones, which set off some locust bell in the back of my head. I had to be wrong. What could a minister returning from Kenya have to do with locusts in Las Vegas? Then I remembered -- "Exorcist II:  The Heretic."

The Exorcist movies were all about the presence of demonic entities. In "The Heretic," the swarming of African locusts was a direct consequence of the influence of demons in the natural world. The locusts, like people, could be agitated by Satan and swayed to do great harm.

I watched more Las Vegas locust videos during the flight. The minister, meanwhile, wanted assurances that the turkey bacon on the airline's club sandwich was indeed turkey and not pork. The flight attendant refused to confirm this for him, but we both ordered it anyway. The plastic-surgeon-to-be fell asleep with his textbook open to something about smiling. I kept wondering what would happen if jet engines encountered swarms of locusts. The flight, however, went smoothly, and we landed in Las Vegas without incident Saturday evening.

Early Sunday morning, while checking the Golden Nugget futures and William Hill futures at the Plaza, I was continually approached by working girls, presumably having finished their money-making overnight Saturday shifts. I was too tired to give cute responses, so I simply asked them if they should be in church.

My numbers surveying, and the trip itself, went about as expected. I found a few bargains here and there. I managed to visit South Point, where iconic oddsmaker Jimmy Vaccaro had returned in time for 2019 kickoff. My diet went to hell, as it usually does when I'm in Las Vegas, and I once again managed to discern the difference between 105-degree days, which I handle quite well, and 112-degree days, which I do not. I almost dozed off in the parking lot of the Orleans at 3 AM, but it was a hundred degrees, and I didn't want to crack the windows. I couldn't afford for a gazillion locusts to swarm the rental car. Dozing in the parking lot was a no go.

The five-day trip was physically brutal (112 degrees usually is), but things went smoothly. I did a reasonable job of surveying numbers and understanding where they were going. When I boarded my final return leg, from Charlotte to Tri-Cities, I had almost forgotten about plagues and $6.66 snacks and Biblical resonances.

I plopped into my seat on the little Embraer for the 45-minute flight. My seat mate introduced himself. He was about my age, and he had just signed a five-year contract to work as a consultant in the United Arab Emirates. His name was Mickey. Mickey Bible.


Bob Dietz -- August 13, 2019


Postscript:  I enjoyed writing this, and every detail is true. What's equally true is that, sufficiently motivated, we can all construct similar stories highlighting pseudo-connections for a synchronicity framework on which we can hang the details of our lives.

Not the Lingerie Bowl

Well, this is embarrassing.  I'm supposed to be a knowledgeable football handicapper, but until 48 hours ago, I knew absolutely nothing about women's professional football. I didn't know that the United States had three professional leagues, I didn't know anything about what the teams looked like on the field, and I did not know that a local team was kicking everyone's ass.

Today I finally learned a few things. I drove to Bluff City (TN), less than 20 miles from my home, to watch the unbeaten Tri-Cities Thunder play the Hampton Roads (VA) Lady Gators for the USWFL Ironwoman Championship.

Evidently the Thunder (8-0) are pretty good. Going into this game, they had outscored their opponents 281-12.Their only competitive contest was a first meeting with the Lady Gators, which ended 24-12. By finishing second, Hampton Roads (6-2) had earned a rematch in the championship game.

I was really interested in seeing what women's professional football looked like. After all, the players would not have the hundreds of hours of high school training and team practices that male players accrue. How organized would these teams actually be? What about the hitting? Would it be as intense as a men's game?

Here are my observations. First of all, this is not flag football. It's not two-hand touch. It is rock 'em, sock 'em physical football. Second, I was surprised and impressed with the quality footwork at the quarterback and defensive back positions. I'm not sure how many hours of football these ladies have under their belts, but the quarterbacks seem to technically know what they're doing, and the defensive backs look as if they've played a long time. The quarterbacks also generally made the right reads, and there were only a couple of blatant misfires. The hitting, as I mentioned, is solid, and the tackling is good. Defensively, the women get sideline to sideline reasonably well. Some of the running backs have surprising speed. All in all, it's competent, intense football. Don't take my word for it. You can watch the USWFL championship game on YouTube. Both the Tri-Cities/Hampton Roads Ironwoman title game and the Division II Washington (DC) Prodigy/Keystone Arsenal title contest were live streamed.

I haven't yet mentioned what impressed me most about the women in the Thunder/Lady Gator game.  And when I say impressed, that is an understatement.

The game was played in the afternoon in Bluff City, with the temperature a blazing 88 degrees and the dew point around 70. The conditions were absolutely stifling. It was so humid that I sweated through my entire shirt just standing on the sideline. The teams wore full uniforms and pads, and in the case of the Thunder, dark blue uniforms with black helmets.

Now here's the thing. At season's end, with accumulated injuries, Tri-Cities suited up about 18 players. Hampton Roads had 15. So the majority of the women had to play both ways! Most had to play both offense and defense while manning multiple positions on each side of the ball. I was stunned that the teams handled the roster limitations so well in the oppressive heat and humidity. From the late third quarter on, some cramping occurred, but no more than one would see in any SEC game. And while the offenses were not sprinting to the line of scrimmage the second half, the actual intensity during plays never wavered. It was truly an ironwoman display.

The game I saw wasn't perfect. The teams were called for a handful of illegal motion and formation penalties. While no shotgun snaps actually went awry, Hampton Roads snaps did occasionally float back to the quarterback. The slickness of the ball likely contributed to that. Overall, however, the game was crisply played.

As I walked away from the Thunder's 32-6 win, the composure of the teams in the rugged conditions stayed with me. It impressed me so much that when I got home, this old distance runner wanted to verify the heat and humidity, so I went jogging for a couple of miles to check it out. My rule of thumb, after 45 years of long distance running, is to not work out when the dew point approaches 70 degrees. It's a good rule. The humidity killed me. The jog left me soaked and fried. I had not overestimated the brutality of the playing conditions.

I had stood a few yards behind the Tri-Cities sidelines the entire game. I heard almost no comments or complaints about the sweltering heat. In fact, the PA announcer reminded the crowd to stay hydrated more often than the players said anything about the conditions. It had been a real display of toughness in a grueling environment.

The game atmosphere in Bluff City (pop. 1800) reminded me of semi-pro games from my youth. I grew up watching the Schuylkill County Coal Crackers hammer interstate opposition, and the game ambience brought back memories. In terms of style, the Thunder offense hearkened back to another dominant team, the high school Berwick Bulldogs from their USA Today national title days.

The USWFL schedules their games in a sweet spot, after college basketball has ended and before pre-season NFL kicks off. Next season, the league will be expanding. I look forward to familiarizing myself with all of the divisions and reporting back here before the 2020 season begins.


Bob Dietz -- July 13, 2019

Trump, The Eagles, and Reading in the Rain

(to the tune of "Singing in the Rain")

I'm readin' in the rain.
Just readin' in the rain. 
What a glorious gaffe, but
Not my fault, once again.


This is another of those truly absurd bad beat gambling stories. I had absolutely no intention of writing it, but President Trump decided to give a big deal speech on Independence Day, and it was raining. Somewhere in the middle of the speech, the president talked about Revolutionary War airports, and that confused many people, historians and non-historians alike. Did I mention that it was raining? Okay, I guess I did, so allow me to circle back to that in a few minutes. For now, to describe my tale of woe, I'd best start at the beginning. That beginning was 25 years ago.

The Imperial Palace Casino (today The Linq) was a very interesting place in 1994. It had a one-way escalator from the strip sidewalk directly to the sports book, and the owner threw massive private parties celebrating Adolf Hitler's birthday. The IP had a wonderful little snack bar and a nice quiet buffet where you could retreat from the cacophony of Las Vegas Boulevard. My German heritage, in case you were wondering, provided no discounts, although it may have explained my credit line.

Jay Kornegay, who made the Westgate SuperBook what it is today, was running the Imperial Palace sports book back then. The IP sponsored a nice football contest for the masses, and that's where my story really begins.

The weekly contest required that you select the outright winners of every NFL game. No point spreads were involved. You also had to decide whether each game would go over or under 37 1/2 points. The contest didn't use the actual NFL totals; it used the 37 1/2 figure for every game. The first place weekly prize was 4K. I liked the contest because it paid smaller prizes to the top 50 or so. You didn't need a miracle week to make money.

The particular October week in question, I had gotten off to a strong start in the contest and was watching the Dallas/Philadelphia game. I had picked the Cowboys to win. Late in the second half, Dallas had the game well in hand, leading 24-7 in a driving rain. My totals selection for the game, however, was Over 37 1/2, so I needed someone to get another touchdown and kick the extra point. The rain fell harder as the game wore on, and I was getting concerned that there wouldn't be any more scoring. But as the weather intensified, Philadelphia put together a drive and punched it into the end zone, closing the gap to 24-13. I looked down at my contest tally sheet, anticipating that I'd win the total. And no, Philly did not miss the kick in the rain to break my heart. That would have been an acceptable, every-day kind of loss. It would not have been something I'd remember 25 years later.

But let's leap forward to July 4, 2019. President Trump, in front of the Lincoln Memorial, inexplicably mentions the American army seizing airports during the Revolutionary War. Did I mention that it was raining?

I figured, when Trump said it, that he was simply going off script for a moment and made a mistake while winging it. I thought that he had probably transposed the word "airport" for "sea port." People with the beginnings of Alzheimer's often swap syllables in similar sounding words. Alzheimer's or not, it would have been an understandable error.

When the president was made aware of his blunder afterwards, did he say, "I made a silly mistake?" Nope. Did he apologize with, "Forgive my elderly moment?" or "I lost my concentration there for a bit?" Not a chance. He explained the gaffe by saying that the rain had somehow affected the teleprompter, and it had shut down too soon. He also added that it had been hard to read the teleprompter in all of the rain, anyway.

I have no idea if the rain had messed up the teleprompter electronics or if our president simply couldn't read the words. Frankly, I don't much care either way. The only reason that Trump's mistake and excuses flipped my switch is because it sent me back, deja vu style, to that 1994 Eagles/Cowboys game.

Philadelphia had scored to cut the Dallas lead to 24-13. To win the contest total, all I needed was the extra point. I looked down at my contest tally sheet, then looked up to see the Eagles...doing what? Going for two? What?!? I sat there flabbergasted as Philly inexplicably attempted a two-point conversion. They failed. The rain continued. The final score was 24-13. I lost the contest total by half a point.

I kept doing the math in my head. Somehow I must be adding wrong, I thought. But nope. The score was 24-13. Going for two made zero sense.

Rich Kotite was the Philadelphia head coach. He wasn't the best NFL head coach; he wasn't the worst. I couldn't wait to hear his answer in the press conference.

Well, the question was quickly asked. Did Kotite say, "I made a really silly, stupid mistake?" Nope. Did he apologize for losing his concentration, his presence of mind, and his ability to add? No. When asked, Coach Kotite said the rain was so hard that it had made the ink run on the chart that tells him when to go for one or two. I'm serious. Kotite sat at the press conference and blamed his gaffe on ink running and his inability to read it.

Simple addition had evidently not been part of his job description.

It wasn't official until after the Monday night game, and the Imperial Palace's posting of the first place contest ticket on Tuesday afternoon. Then it was official. Coach Kotite's reading in the rain had cost me four thousand dollars. Funny as hell now. Not so funny that Tuesday in 1994.


Bob Dietz -- July 6, 2019

The Borg Have Been Assimilated

The Past

Harrah's Entertainment acquired Caesars Palace in 2005 and shortly thereafter went on an east strip buying frenzy that included Bourbon Street, the Imperial Palace, the Barbary Coast, and Planet Hollywood. I believe I may have been the first, but not the last, to dub Harrah's as "The Borg." Assimilation was inevitable, and resistance was indeed futile.

I wasn't too pleased with Harrah's acquisition addiction, for a number of solid reasons. When an overarching entity buys up properties containing sports books, all of the books under that particular umbrella become, in effect, one large-volume book. They usually have a single linked bookkeeping system for all of the properties, and each property has identical lines and all of the same futures odds. For a professional gambler, this is not a good thing. Gamblers prefer a range of lines. The wider the range, the better.

The Harrah's takeover of Caesars Palace's sports book shook me to my history-appreciating core. The Caesars sports book, along with the Stardust sports book, were the two iconic football locales during the 70's, 80's and early 90's. I spent my Saturdays at the Stardust and most Sundays at Caesars. These two places, along with the Mirage (1989 opening) and Binion's downtown did the highest volume of action with the highest limits. Harrah's takeover threatened the Caesars cachet. The Caesars Palace sports book was, after all, a famous sports betting destination. It was hallowed wagering ground. The Caesars book had 20 huge helmet chairs at the front of the seating area. Every Sunday, those chairs were filled with a veritable who's who of heavy hitters. In 2005, Harrah's, with its mathematically challenged Branson-esque clientele and tight-fisted comp policies, invaded Caesars high class kitsch. Nothing good could come of it.

My fears turned out to be justified. Harrah's co-opted the Caesars name. Despite a massive linked sports betting pool for the Harrah's properties, the wagering limits actually went down. Comps were cut, and niggardly nabobs of negativity ruled the day.


The Present

Fast forward to 2019, and we have big news. The evil Borg have themselves been assimilated. El Dorado Resorts has announced that it's made the deal to acquire what today is called Caesars Entertainment. The Borg failure doesn't surprise me. During the last 15 years, Harrah's/CET has downgraded video poker, reduced blackjack payouts, and capped sports book bets in a paranoid attempt to reduce expenses. Yet the company designed and built competing multi-million dollar nightclubs within stone's throws of each other. Plus (for some God forsaken reason) a giant Ferris wheel. Not much they've done has made sense, so here we are.


The Future

Do I think that the assimilation of the Borg is a good thing? Well, not really. From a sports gambling perspective, once again this means a likely reduction in range of numbers. From a general gambling and comps perspective, it's quite likely that El Dorado Resorts will not be one iota of an improvement over Harrah's/CET.

The July 2019 Las Vegas Advisor featured an ominous quote from the Wall Street Journal, "Part of El Dorado's success is its management's ability to slim down on unnecessary guest inducements, such as free drinks and hotel stays. Caesars has done better in this regard, too, cutting its perks about in half to roughly 14% of revenue since 2016. But El Dorado is better; its similar metric is around 10%." My reaction to the phrase "unnecessary guest inducements" was almost identical to the Las Vegas Advisor. The LVA author simply said, "Uh oh." I blurted out a Scooby Do, "Ruh Row." It sounds as if those Total Rewards slot club addicts may get slapped around pretty good. The Borg have been assimilated, and something worse than the Borg figures to replace them. It's the circle of life.

I'll close with some practical advice for those Harrah's/CET slot club members, who will be told repeatedly in the months ahead that their Reward Credits are safe and sound and that their comps will be better than ever once El Dorado officially takes the reins.

Back in 2005, I had a race/sports comp account at Caesars Palace. In advance of the Harrah's takeover, I asked seven or eight times what would happen to my accrued comps and the comp rate. The answers I received from all Caesars personnel were the same. Regardless of whether I asked ticket writers or assistant sports book managers, I was told that my comps were quite safe, and that the comp rate would actually improve when Harrah's took over. Being familiar with casinos, and also being a cynic, I didn't believe those answers. I quickly used all but $80 or so of my comp account.

The takeover day came, and not only were comp rates for sports bettors reduced, but comps that had already been banked were massively cut. Some players took hits of literally thousands of dollars in comps. Obviously, I wasn't shocked. I later learned that, depending on your status, some of the bigger players were able to negotiate to regain a portion of their gutted comps. The bulk of the smaller players, however, were left high and dry with no recourse. The fine print in players club rules gives the house carte blanche, and certainly gives a new owner mega carte blanche.

My recommendation for Total Rewards members is therefore "Player Beware." If you couldn't trust the Borg in 2005, why trust whatever assimilated them in 2019?


Bob Dietz -- July 3, 2019