FEBRUARY 2020 57
For that Super Bowl, in 2017, my tier had been
the cleanest. So as a reward the strip of 88 cells on
the fourth floor opened, and we marched down the
stairs and into the auditorium, where we watched
the game on the big screen and ate ice cream. By
halftime the Patriots were down 28–3. I left early,
crashing from sugar and bummed about losing the
three packs I put down on New England. After
being down like that, it’s beyond losing momen-
tum—the spirit is broken. It’s a little like looking
down a sentence of 28 years to life.
I got back to my cell in A Block, where Brady
haters were on their bars talking all kinds of crap.
Soon, the crowd quieted. I heard my Jamaican
neighbor, who took Atlanta, say, “Damn, New
England just scored. You can’t sleep on this
m-----------, Brady—the mon’s dangerous.”
I watched on the TV in my cell in awe as Brady
led his team to the greatest Super Bowl comeback
of all time. I couldn’t help but view it as a metaphor
for my own life—trying to play a bigger game after
being so down, seeking an inspiration to do some-
thing unbelievable ... like, say, landing a feature
in Sports Illustrated. From a cell.IMMERSING
myself in this story, I played numerous pick-four
tickets and watched the games with intensity,
taking note of all the FanDuel and DraftKings
commercials. I asked guys for their locks. Red
and Little Ant swore the Cowboys would be a lock
against Buffalo on Thanksgiving. They weren’t. I
tried to be contrarian, went with the unders with
bad weather. Still, I lost every ticket.
It’s Wednesday afternoon, and the tickets for
Week14 are in the yard. The sky is blue, and the
air is crisp. The river shimmers under the sun,
which even makes the barbed wire sparkle a bit.
It’s almost beautiful. The sound of a basketball
pounding pavement complements the clinks and
clanks of weights being lifted nearby in the pit.
I’m listening to Red and Little Ant and Joe-Joe talk
fantasy lineups. They’re talking about how Anita
expects a good game out of Steelers receiver James
Washington against Arizona. A guard walks by
and asks what I’m working on. I tell him I’m tak-
ing readers to the fantasy sidelines in Sing Sing.
Red takes off to make a phone call; he wants
to check the injury reports. One of our buddies,
who did 30 years and is now out, is the one who
goes on the internet for Red. When his phone rings
and he hears that it’s a collect call from Sing Sing,
he accepts, knowing the first words out of Red’s
mouth will be: “Hey, go to NFL.com real quick....”
The guy always obliges. After all, fantasy is the
only way his friend can escape. ±“Is that why you called Joe-Joe a scumbag last
week?” I asked.
“Yeah, he picked up Pittsburgh’s D, which I
just dropped the week before.”
Red sucks on a Top cigarette as he talks about
the strange rooting interests you develop when
you play two guys on opposing teams in the same
week. It’s cold, and the ink in my pen seems to
have dried up. I shake it and look up to find Red,
who has the attention span of a puppy, has gone
off to start a game of dominoes. “You know what
I’m saying, Johnny,” he says. “If it’s a high-scoring
game, you’re winning from both sides—it’s crazy!”
“Capicu, m------------,” yells Little Ant slam-
ming his last domino on the table. He and Red
won the game.FAT MAN’S TICKET
was a winner. K.C. came through and covered on
Monday night, forcing Mr.Li to pay out 10 packs.
Cono leaned on Fat Man’s cell bars sporting a cocky
smile, telling him his take: 20 packs, 50 pouches.
Nobody who put up a pack for a ticket won. Cono’s
book this year hasn’t been hit for more than a pick-
four all season. Neither has Mr. Li’s. As I mentioned
before, anything more than a pick four is a sucker’s
bet. A few pouch tickets did hit Cono this week
though, and he had to pay out 40 Tops.
After Cono leaves, Fat Man tells me how some-
times jailhouse bookies do get hit hard. He remem-
bers getting slammed one week for more than 250
packs when he was running a book. That’s more
than two grand. Still, he came out the next week.
“Customers need to see you get hit hard, pay out
and come back out—it gives you cred and makes
them want to keep playing,” he says. “The house
always wins in the end.”
Fat Man tells me that his all-time favorite Super
Bowl was in 1998. John Elway’s Broncos were tak-
ing on the Packers. Elway had previously taken
Denver to the big game three times—all losses.
But on the pivotal play, the quarterback ran the
ball—crack, smack—and helicoptered into the end
zone. “He was not gonna be denied that day,” Fat
Man tells me, frying some chicken wings on the tier.
“It’s a great get-knocked-down-but-stand-up story.”
I ask Fat Man his predictions for the Super Bowl.
The game people would want to see, he says, is New
England versus San Fran, the master (Tom Brady)
versus his former student (Jimmy Garoppolo). But
that obviously won’t be happening.
I tell Fat Man that I’ve had a man crush on
Brady ever since Super Bowl LI, the comeback
against Atlanta. “Tom Brady is the greatest win-
ner in professional sports,” he tells me. “I can’t
take nothing away from him.”John J. Lennon is a
writer whose work
has appeared in
Esquire, The Atlantic
and New York. He
hosts a podcast,
“This is a Collect
Call from Sing Sing,”
and is up for parole
in 2029.