A dinosaur’s introduction
I am a dinosaur.
That’s right, a living, breathing fossil from another time, another era.
You know, the old guys, the ones that have been around forever, who like to yell, “That’s the way we’ve always done it;” “Kid, it’ll never work so don’t bother;” and, “Boy, have you got a lot to learn;” and all those other negative prognostications from we who have seen and done it all.
Old friends, old stories
Lately, I have been enjoying the articles of two other veterans from our industry, Dennis Conrad in CDC Gaming and Richard Schuetz in Casino Reports. I first met Dennis — veteran extraordinaire and, probably, my best friend as well as an old comrade in arms from the early days of building Raving Consulting — back in 1993 when we both attended UNR’s Casino Executive Development program.
We both had come up through the ranks with him starting as a keno writer in the early 1970s after a Stanford education and ending up dealing craps on the Vegas strip. I started as a janitor in the late 1970s after five years at the University of Colorado (the number two party school in the country) and ended up dealing craps in downtown Reno.
At that conference, we also met Richard Schuetz, who came up through the ranks dealing craps and walking the floor in both Las Vegas and Reno. By then, he was a major marketing executive with Grand Casinos.
Learning from the legends
I enjoy both Dennis’s and Richard’s articles for many reasons, not least of which is that they often speak of another day, another era — a time when the gambling world was smaller and everyone knew everyone.
You didn’t learn the business from conference rooms and seminars at gaming shows. You didn’t take classes in Gaming 101 at the community college. No, you sat at the feet of your elders — the legends of the day. Men and women who broke in at after-hours clubs in New York back in the 1940s and 1950s, or who ran Steubenville, Ohio, in the 1930s.
Those were our professors, our teachers, our guides — not in some classroom, but at the bar with an after-shifter. After-shifters were drink tokes slipped into your paycheck envelope so you might stay after work and return some of that paycheck to the tables. But the smart ones weren’t out on the tables (Well, maybe some of the time); we were sitting at the bar listening to the stories, soaking up knowledge, and learning about the business we loved.
“What’s the rate?”
Richard’s article, “Taking Trash and Collecting Cash,” reminded me of our own experiences with the IRS coming after Nevada dealers for not declaring tokes.
When you went to a new joint to deal, the first question was not “Where’s the breakroom?” but “What’s the rate?” Meaning, what’s the toke rate everyone agreed to declare? Ten percent? Fifteen percent? Twenty percent? We all wanted to avoid running afoul of the taxman — and our fellow dealers.
Richard wrote about putting on a coat and moving into management to avoid the taxman, and I realized I had done the same, as did Dennis. It’s funny how executive careers were launched from avoiding the taxman.
Embracing change while honoring the past
Though we three are casino veterans, we try to avoid acting like old-timers stuck in the past. We embrace new technology and new ways of operating. We avoid the “That’s the way we’ve always done it” mentality and try to innovate and adapt. And we pay it forward to the next generation, telling stories at the bar just like our mentors did for us.
But I do miss some things about the old days. I miss the passion we had for our work. It wasn’t just a job — we were part of something unique. We had our own customs, language, and pride in what we did. We wanted to be “Jam Up!” because we believed we were offering something special to players — a chance to win and to be somebody.
The art of the deal
Dealing and running our joints wasn’t just a job; it was an art, a craft to be perfected. I regret the loss of that passion as we move into digital tables and faceless internet gaming. We’re losing the soul of our business: the people, places, and characters.
Oh, and one other thing. Back when we broke in, we really did work for guys named Bruno, Guido, and Mario. And you didn’t argue with them, nor did you accept a ride home from them, but they taught us a great deal. They knew the heart and soul of a gambler and how to create incredible experiences to make them feel like the chairman of the board.
The rules of the game
Mike Meczka used to say, “It’s the gambling, stupid!”
Bruno and Guido had only two rules.
Rule number one: Never get between a gambler and their game. “You’re not the show, kid. The action is the show. So get ’em in, get ’em on the game, and let ’em at it.”
Rule number two: You can give away almost everything — shows, rooms, food — but never, ever, ever give away the action at the tables.
A look at today’s landscape
Now, we’re so afraid our product isn’t good enough that we give away games by the wheelbarrow load to get players in the door (free play). I imagine Bruno and Guido rolling over in their graves. But hey, it’s a new world, and we veterans are just trying to keep up.
Closing thoughts
But you know, sometimes I miss the old days. Sometimes they call out to me in a whisper, sometimes a shout. “Remember, kid, it’s all about the action. Love it, take pride in it, sell it with pizzazz. Take care of your players and give them the best gamble you can — and at the end of the day, the drop box and the toke box will both be full.”
Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed the read. And if you run into Dennis, Richard, or me somewhere down the road, don’t hesitate to buy us a drink. We promise to have a story or two to tell.
