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Last Updated:
Mar 19th, 2008 - 07:43:02 |
Recently, behind a dumpster set between two burned out houses near
Detroit’s New Center area, a group of young men were playing dice.
Handfuls of folded, dirty dollar bills were thrown down with marked
intensity at the end of what used to be a driveway. Short spats of
shouts and insults frequently erupted, but the disagreements quickly
diffused as attentions diverted back to the tumbling dice and the money
at risk.
As I approached this scene, the gamblers took notice. “What up, cuz?”
somebody said in a half-curious, half-threatening way. I stayed on the
sidewalk a good 50 feet from the action and asked if I could come back
behind the dumpster. “Yeah, yeah, come on,” they said. At this point
the gamblers’ ages were discernable. Of the six to 12 young black men
(the size of the group frequently fluctuated in the 25 minutes I was
with them), most appeared to be in their early-20s, with the rest in
their late-teens and two men well into their 30s. All were wearing
standard street couture: oversized white T-shirts that extended well
past their waists, some with basketball jerseys over top, baggy jeans,
sneakers and bandannas with hats perched at various angles.
The bunch stopped the dice and approached me as I neared them. We met
next to the burned out house, halfway between the dumpster and the
street. “What you need? What you need?” came the chorus. They assumed I
was looking to buy drugs. After turning down the offers, the group
turned and walked back to their dice. I was given a reluctant pass to
join them.
Before I could begin to ask about the game’s mechanics or its place in
the boys’ and men’s lives, the money was back down on the slab and
there was no time for any talk but trash. “Come on, motherfucker, you
gonna roll a seven!” and “You think you a shooter? Fuck you!” were
taunts.
As we stood in a circle around the cash and dice, the guys kept asking
if I was “for real.” They now thought I was a cop. My reporter’s
business card persuaded them some, but one observant kid noticed the
tape recorder in my back pocket and got suspicious. I pulled out the
device, showed that it was off, explained that I used it for interviews
and promised that I never tape anyone unless I have their permission.
This seemed to satisfy them for the moment. The gaming resumed.
I asked the group what happened when the cops actually do come by.
“They don’t,” was the first reply. “But if they do,” one guy continued,
“they take our money.” “Yeah, or send us to jail,” the senior member of
the pack added. Initially, he had been the most reluctant to let me
join the festivities and he now explained why: “I’m fightin’ a (legal)
case,” he said. I left it at that.
When I asked what the game was called, the senior said simply, “Craps.”
But his tone indicated that he had just barely stifled the urge to tack
on “stupid.” They also called it “dice” and when chatter or arguments
paused the gambling for too long, someone would inevitably step in and
say, “Come on now, play some dice.”
As the game went on and money changed hands every few seconds, the
rules were explained to me at least three times. I still don’t know if
I fully understand all of what was going on. (I believe it was a
simplified version of casino craps referred to by academics as “street
craps.”) In each round there is a “shooter” who rolls the pair of dice
— and then there is everyone else. All bet. In the games I witnessed,
wagers ranged from $2 to $4 per round per person. A round lasts from a
few seconds to about a minute. The shooter (and those who bet with him)
wins if he rolls a seven or 12 on his first roll. If he rolls another
number on the initial roll, this becomes the “point.” The shooter must
roll this point number again without rolling a seven in order to win.
If the shooter hits “seven-out” then the money goes to those who bet
against him. In addition to this main action, there were numerous side
bets.
Just as I was about to inquire as to how these guys got their gambling
money and where it went (the amounts won or lost on a given day
apparently tend to be $10-50), an informative shout bellowed from
across the street. “There’s some dudes up at the gas station jumpin’ on
people!” a guy cruising around on a bicycle said. This news was met
with mild interest among the gamblers. One of the twenty-somethings
said he was thirsty, and the opportunity to see some in-progress
beatings did make the trip to the gas station slightly more worthwhile,
but no one else seemed to have a mouth dry enough to second the motion.
The dice kept rolling.
I asked the youngest bettor how he had learned to gamble on craps. He
looked at me like I had asked him how he had learned to play basketball
— it’s constantly going on all around you in the neighborhood from the
day you’re born. You pick up betting on dice like you discern how to
dribble.
“We’re pretty much always here,” the elder in the green jersey said of
the gamblers. I watched a few more rounds as dice and dirty bills
swirled about and then felt I should let the pack get back to playing
minus my intrusive presence. As we said our goodbyes and I thanked them
for their time, one of the men prepared to roll with a little pre-shake
of his dice-filled fist followed by a quick blow on the pair. This
shooter was the last I had left to thank.
“Wish him seven!” one of the other guys yelled to me. I complied,
thinking it an equivalent of “good luck.” The shooter almost slugged
me. This was, I then realized, not his first roll but his second; a
seven now would mean a sizable loss for him. “You think you a shooter?
Roll motherfucker!” someone shouted at him. He rolled. I do not
remember breathing, only seeing the pile of money that hinged on his
toss. The dice bounced, spun and stopped. Seven.
In the ensuing commotion, I offered to cover the shooter’s losses as he
prepared to jump me but the instigator leapt between us and to my
defense. “You don’t have to pay that fool,” he told me while giving the
angry shooter a menacing look that saved my ass. “It’s all dice, baby.
It’s all dice.” | RDW
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