No one will go on the record yet, jittery as they are about their jobs, about staying in the good graces of one of the country’s most famous men. Did you know that one of Jason’s million-dollar nights could net a dealer a $100K tip? Fuck, I’d keep quiet, too. Folks I’ve spoken with can’t say exactly how high he’s gone (or how deep he’s sunk), but they all remember seven-figure outings—outings, plural—Jason winning some of them but losing more often than not. One of the gals in the count room told me that two nights after he and Carver came in for their afternoon dalliance, the casino cut off his credit—nothing left in the linked accounts, less than nothing, the kind of overdraw that could get them in trouble with the gambling commission. Goody was mad for all of a day, huffing and puffing at the count girls and cursing out their boss, but he came back the next night with a pocket full of thousand-dollar chips. It’s straight out of Dostoevsky, his doggedness.

No one has ever even seen him in the casino’s sports book, and I can’t find any record of him in an online fantasy league or any college hoops bracket. That’s a relief. Things have changed since the time Mickey Mantle was suspended for “association with known gamblers”—A-Rod and his escorts, everything Jose Canseco ever did, the continuing tumble of Lenny Dykstra—but Rule 21, betting on baseball, will still lock you out of Cooperstown quick as a Stan Rogers fastball. In the commissioner’s head, it’s a slippery slope from gambling to cheating to self-destruction and the Black Sox, which will, in turn, lead to the all-out implosion of America’s pastime. Suddenly, that mum’s-the-word divorce is making a lot more sense. Liana might be mad as hell that Jason’s picked poker over her, but she still doesn’t want word of it getting back to league officials—that’d screw her alimony.

For now, let’s stick with history and that ancient, adaptable team, because I know how that part goes: What do you do when the competition disappears? You find a new table; you play a new game. That ancient team, missing their mammoths, did the same: they sharpened their tools, aimed with better precision at new and smaller foes. The deer and rabbits proved to be worthy rivals, not much power but light on their feet, the kinds of guys you have to watch on the base path. It’s still a living, playing the small game. Look at Pete Rose, for chrissake. He became the Hit King, all out of bloops and sprints and so many singles. Though bringing up Rose anywhere near Goodyear and gambling makes me squirm. Charlie Hustle knows plenty about Rule 21.