David and T.C. were freshmen when Stan got in over his head. Way over his head. It seemed that an especially large quantity of Stan’s “sure things” had not been so sure. He owed some very bad people a lot of money. He needed a major scam and he came up with a beauty.
It was March. Their mother was in the hospital with ovarian cancer. The basketball season was coming to an end. Everyone on campus was excited because the University of Michigan had reached the NCAA Final Four for the first time in God knew how long. There were constant fraternity parties and all anyone talked about was the big game against UCLA. If Michigan could beat them, they would be in the finals.
Michigan was favored to win by three points.
Laura interrupted him. “I don’t know anything about gambling. What do you mean Michigan was favored by three points?”
“Let’s say you bet on Michigan. In order to win your bet, Michigan must win by more than three points. If Michigan wins by less than three points, or if UCLA wins, you lose your bet. Got it?”
Stan came up with a plan on the day of the game—a plan that involved David. Stan reasoned his baby brother would welcome the opportunity to help him out. And he wasn’t asking much. All he wanted David to do was shave off a few points. What difference would it make to David if Michigan only won by two points instead of five? David didn’t have to throw the game. All he had to do was keep it close.
David of course did not see it that way. “I can’t believe you’re asking me this.”
“But I need your help.”
“No way, Stan. You got yourself into this. You get yourself out. Then do yourself a favor. Get some help.”
“I will. I promise. Just do this one—”
“Bullshit. Get help and then we’ll talk.”
The conversation became nasty and David threw Stan out.
“And that’s what happened between them?” Laura asked.
T.C. shook his head. “That’s just the beginning.”
Stan had no money to gamble with. He had hoped to pay off his debt by convincing his rather unfriendly mob friends to bet on UCLA. He had told them that David had promised to go along with his plan. Now Stan was in big trouble. He couldn’t go back and tell the mob that he had lied and his brother had refused to do it. They would have done a slam dance on his ribs with a crowbar.
As one might have guessed, Michigan won big. Nine points to be exact. The mob was really steamed. They had lost major dough in Stan’s scam and someone was going to pay for that. The word went out: find Stan Baskin.
But Stan knew how to survive, no matter what the cost to others. He was already hiding in the boonies of South Dakota. He knew that the mob would track him down eventually, but by then he would have the money. The mob, however, has never been known for its patience. They wanted blood. They wanted to recoup their losses. And they wanted to do it in a hurry. The mob wanted a fall guy and Stan Baskin was not around.
So they chose David.
The championship game between Michigan and Notre Dame was to take place two nights after the UCLA game. Everyone agreed that the teams were even; hence the game would be too close to predict. If you wanted to bet on it, you bet straight up. If your team won, you won the bet. It was that simple. The media meanwhile spent most of its time building up the confrontation between the two freshmen sensations: Michigan’s David Baskin and Notre Dame’s Earl Roberts.
It would be three years before that confrontation took place.
The mob’s plan was simple. Get the money back by fixing the championship game. And how do you do that? Again, keep it simple. Bet on Notre Dame and then make sure Michigan’s superstar cannot play.
The night before the game, David was sleeping in his hotel room—or at least trying to sleep. Who would blame him for tossing and turning the night before the biggest game of his life? This was the game he had dreamed of all his life, and so sleep would come only in small spurts.
Around three a.m., the lock on David’s door was jimmied open. Five men quickly entered.
David sat up. “What the . . . ?”
Before he could move, four of the men pinned him down on the bed. David struggled but he was dealing with professionals who had done this kind of thing plenty of times before. He didn’t have a chance.
“Cover his mouth,” one whispered. “I don’t want anyone to hear him scream.”
David’s eyes widened with fright as someone pushed a pillow into his face. He flailed his head back and forth in panic, but it was a worthless maneuver. He felt one of the men grab his right foot, one hand by the toes, the other on the heel.
“Hold him tight!”
The man twisted David’s foot all the way around until he heard the ankle snap. Then he twisted it a little farther for good measure. The bones in his foot grated against one another. David’s scream was lost in the pillow.
The men quickly left. They had never even turned on the lights, so David had no chance of identifying them. His ankle was badly broken. He was in a cast for two months. That week, David had two of his worst head attacks. They were so bad that T.C. feared for his friend’s life.
Michigan lost to Notre Dame by fifteen points.
“There’s more to this story, isn’t there?”
T.C. nodded.
Stan could not hide forever. He needed to pay back his debt in a hurry. And he figured out a foolproof way of doing it.
The details were not important. No one ever found out for certain how Stan did what he did. But there were a million different ways to go about it. Stan might have gotten power of attorney. Mrs. Baskin might have signed something while on some hospital medication. Who knew? What was important was the end result: Stan stole the money from his mother.
Imagine a son who would wipe out his cancer-stricken mother’s savings account to pay a gambling debt to the mob. Imagine a son who could leave his poor, sick mother penniless and without any way of paying off her medical bills while she lay dying in a hospital bed. It boggles the mind.
After that, David did his best to take care of her, but she was very ill, and now she was also heartbroken over what her own son had done to her.
She died six months later. Stan didn’t even go to the funeral.
“Now do you understand, Laura?”
Laura just sat there. She felt drained by just listening to the story. “But this all happened years ago. I’m not going to defend it, but suppose you just looked at Gloria’s past. What would you conclude? You’d say she’s trouble, right?”
“Wrong. I may think she’s weak or self-destructive, but she never meant to hurt anybody but herself. And more important, her past is just that. The past.”
It was March. Their mother was in the hospital with ovarian cancer. The basketball season was coming to an end. Everyone on campus was excited because the University of Michigan had reached the NCAA Final Four for the first time in God knew how long. There were constant fraternity parties and all anyone talked about was the big game against UCLA. If Michigan could beat them, they would be in the finals.
Michigan was favored to win by three points.
Laura interrupted him. “I don’t know anything about gambling. What do you mean Michigan was favored by three points?”
“Let’s say you bet on Michigan. In order to win your bet, Michigan must win by more than three points. If Michigan wins by less than three points, or if UCLA wins, you lose your bet. Got it?”
Stan came up with a plan on the day of the game—a plan that involved David. Stan reasoned his baby brother would welcome the opportunity to help him out. And he wasn’t asking much. All he wanted David to do was shave off a few points. What difference would it make to David if Michigan only won by two points instead of five? David didn’t have to throw the game. All he had to do was keep it close.
David of course did not see it that way. “I can’t believe you’re asking me this.”
“But I need your help.”
“No way, Stan. You got yourself into this. You get yourself out. Then do yourself a favor. Get some help.”
“I will. I promise. Just do this one—”
“Bullshit. Get help and then we’ll talk.”
The conversation became nasty and David threw Stan out.
“And that’s what happened between them?” Laura asked.
T.C. shook his head. “That’s just the beginning.”
Stan had no money to gamble with. He had hoped to pay off his debt by convincing his rather unfriendly mob friends to bet on UCLA. He had told them that David had promised to go along with his plan. Now Stan was in big trouble. He couldn’t go back and tell the mob that he had lied and his brother had refused to do it. They would have done a slam dance on his ribs with a crowbar.
As one might have guessed, Michigan won big. Nine points to be exact. The mob was really steamed. They had lost major dough in Stan’s scam and someone was going to pay for that. The word went out: find Stan Baskin.
But Stan knew how to survive, no matter what the cost to others. He was already hiding in the boonies of South Dakota. He knew that the mob would track him down eventually, but by then he would have the money. The mob, however, has never been known for its patience. They wanted blood. They wanted to recoup their losses. And they wanted to do it in a hurry. The mob wanted a fall guy and Stan Baskin was not around.
So they chose David.
The championship game between Michigan and Notre Dame was to take place two nights after the UCLA game. Everyone agreed that the teams were even; hence the game would be too close to predict. If you wanted to bet on it, you bet straight up. If your team won, you won the bet. It was that simple. The media meanwhile spent most of its time building up the confrontation between the two freshmen sensations: Michigan’s David Baskin and Notre Dame’s Earl Roberts.
It would be three years before that confrontation took place.
The mob’s plan was simple. Get the money back by fixing the championship game. And how do you do that? Again, keep it simple. Bet on Notre Dame and then make sure Michigan’s superstar cannot play.
The night before the game, David was sleeping in his hotel room—or at least trying to sleep. Who would blame him for tossing and turning the night before the biggest game of his life? This was the game he had dreamed of all his life, and so sleep would come only in small spurts.
Around three a.m., the lock on David’s door was jimmied open. Five men quickly entered.
David sat up. “What the . . . ?”
Before he could move, four of the men pinned him down on the bed. David struggled but he was dealing with professionals who had done this kind of thing plenty of times before. He didn’t have a chance.
“Cover his mouth,” one whispered. “I don’t want anyone to hear him scream.”
David’s eyes widened with fright as someone pushed a pillow into his face. He flailed his head back and forth in panic, but it was a worthless maneuver. He felt one of the men grab his right foot, one hand by the toes, the other on the heel.
“Hold him tight!”
The man twisted David’s foot all the way around until he heard the ankle snap. Then he twisted it a little farther for good measure. The bones in his foot grated against one another. David’s scream was lost in the pillow.
The men quickly left. They had never even turned on the lights, so David had no chance of identifying them. His ankle was badly broken. He was in a cast for two months. That week, David had two of his worst head attacks. They were so bad that T.C. feared for his friend’s life.
Michigan lost to Notre Dame by fifteen points.
“There’s more to this story, isn’t there?”
T.C. nodded.
Stan could not hide forever. He needed to pay back his debt in a hurry. And he figured out a foolproof way of doing it.
The details were not important. No one ever found out for certain how Stan did what he did. But there were a million different ways to go about it. Stan might have gotten power of attorney. Mrs. Baskin might have signed something while on some hospital medication. Who knew? What was important was the end result: Stan stole the money from his mother.
Imagine a son who would wipe out his cancer-stricken mother’s savings account to pay a gambling debt to the mob. Imagine a son who could leave his poor, sick mother penniless and without any way of paying off her medical bills while she lay dying in a hospital bed. It boggles the mind.
After that, David did his best to take care of her, but she was very ill, and now she was also heartbroken over what her own son had done to her.
She died six months later. Stan didn’t even go to the funeral.
“Now do you understand, Laura?”
Laura just sat there. She felt drained by just listening to the story. “But this all happened years ago. I’m not going to defend it, but suppose you just looked at Gloria’s past. What would you conclude? You’d say she’s trouble, right?”
“Wrong. I may think she’s weak or self-destructive, but she never meant to hurt anybody but herself. And more important, her past is just that. The past.”
