Sporting News, The: Close to the action: a sports book in Las Vegas serves up a buffet of characters

Normally I don't smoke, but already today I've had 748 cigarettes, only one of which touched my lips. "Can I bum one?" I asked my entry into the sordid, seedy and delightfully fun world of the Milwaukee mob--two high school teachers, two sales associates and one custom furniture dealer, smoking, drinking and gambling like fiends at the Paris Hotel sports book in Las Vegas. It's 8:15 in the morning.

Why are we here? Because "this is what it's all about," explains Bob, prompting Russ to stand up and shout, "Let's go one game at a time, baby!" High fives ensue, a goofy, magnificent display that will be repeated several times before the first ball bounces on the opening day of the NCAA Tournament.

What's it like in this room with a view of innumerable television screens, a Lake Mead-sized tote board and a sea of anxious bettors from parts all over (if you can see them through the haze)? Exhilarating. Exhausting. Hilarious. Offensive. Uplifting. Depressing.

There are the three college boys from UConn who salaam before Greg Gumbel's image the moment it flickers on screens throughout the room, starting CBS' coverage for the day. "This is so awesome!" one of them screams, and then they hug ... the guy with "trust me, thousands" in action on the early Thursday games who curses at the server from the back bar because his light beer costs $3.75 ... the cousins from California with money on Marquette who erupt with joy when the Golden Eagles, 10 1/2-point favorites, take a two-point lead with less than 2 minutes to play and, clearly, no chance to cover. "Never count out Marquette!" one of them proclaims. I ask how closely he follows the team, and he replies, "I don't. All I know is they're from Chicago."

There is a profane tirade for every other basket made, and yet strangers unite in victory and defeat; one nice woman squeezes my arm like a vise in the final seconds of California's narrow cover against N.C. State and, when it's over and she's lost, smiles and says, "Oops, sorry. Hey, did you win?"

I hook up with Johnny Avello, the man who runs the sports books at Paris and Bally's. He says all the good books in town, and most of the bad ones, are "wall-to-wall packed, and I mean packed." If it's the opening weekend of the NCAAs, get there at least two hours before the first game tips off or get ready to stand for 12 hours. Only an estimated 3 percent of all money wagered on the NCAA Tournament is done in legally operated casinos, but this event has blown up in Vegas, where it's quite likely more money will be wagered on the Big Dance than the 2004 Super Bowl.

Johnny's been around the block; he's got 24 years in the business and more good tips than you could shake a fistful of losing tickets at. His cardinal rule? "If you don't know which way to go on a game, take the points. You look at all the nine-, 10-, 14-point dogs, there's tremendous value there. You've got to do your homework, but every year underdogs are the play the first weekend of the tournament. They're good the second weekend, too, but not always as good. The good teams--if they're still in it--usually have adjusted by then and play as well as they did all year."

There's a friend of Johnny's back East who bets every single underdog all tournament long and "makes money every year, sometimes a whole lot." I find such a man--"My name doesn't matter," he tells me, "and I'm from everywhere"--sitting alone in a corner of the Paris book, reacting neither to those around him nor to the games in front of him. "Five hundred bucks," he says. "I bet that on every dog today. Sixteen plays. We'll see how I do. I usually do pretty damn well."

He drags on his cigarette and, as if we hadn't been speaking, raises his eyes to the screens and silently shoos me out of his way. Underdogs will go 12-3-1 vs. the spread today, meaning the man from everywhere will win $4,350.

That night, when my eyes are bloodshot, my throat is painfully dry and I'm happy, and sad, my experience is over, I remember something else he said. "I've been doing this forever," nodding to the screens and waving his right hand, the red burn of his cigarette streaking across the semi-darkness. "I'm an old man with cancer. I figure, what have I got to lose?"