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You Can't Lose Them All
Tales of a Degenerate Gambler and His Ridiculous Friends
By Sal Iacono
Foreword by Jimmy Kimmel
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Over the last forty years, Cousin Sal has made bets with doctors, lawyers, teachers, agents, bookies, writers, comedians, radio DJs, tv producers, baseball players, front office executives, bandleaders, movie stars, publicists, weed lab owners, hedge fund operators, and even professional wrestlers. From his early days growing up in Brooklyn and Long Island flipping baseball cards to now hosting podcasts and TV shows and managing several offshore accounts we don't talk about, Cousin Sal has truly become the average American sports fan's go to source for gambling tips.
So here's how not to do it . . .
With hilarious tales of love and loss, winning and (a lot) of losing, crazy family and fatherhood, and a life saga that inspired the Phil Collins' song, "Against All Odds," Cousin Sal has now written THE Vegas super-system, MIT-algorithmic, sharp-approved book for how to gamble like a pro — or at least not how not to go broke and lose your kids to Child Protective Services.
My cousin Sal (yes, he is my real cousin) is unlike anyone I’ve ever known. None of us can figure out how he happened. He misses nothing. His brain is a massive supercomputer jam-packed with memories long forgotten by everyone other than him. He is a mathematical wizard. He is a physical threat, with a trunk as hard as a pig’s. He has wild impulses that he elects not to control. He relishes discomfort; he rolls around in it. He is prone to sudden acts of cartoonish violence. He wrestles strangers. For years he kept his toenails long to use as weapons. He eats room service left on the floor outside the doors of hotel rooms. He gets into car accidents on purpose. He’ll offer you a ride home and intentionally drive for hours in the wrong direction. Once, when I was typing, he tiptoed in and touched the center of my back with his penis.
He is a lunatic. He ate a whole basket of shrimp tails. He is a completely unpredictable, nonstop instigator of nonsense. And yet, somehow, despite a record of consistently antisocial behavior, he is everyone’s favorite coworker, person, and friend. The guy who randomly smashes a lamp on your desk or hangs up your phone when you’ve been on hold with your credit card company for forty-five minutes is the first guy you call when your mother dies (usually not his fault) or when you need a loan you know you’ll never have to pay back.
He deliberately threw a coworker’s aunt’s camera in the garbage. That coworker invited him over for Christmas.
What makes Sal especially hard to figure out is his kindness, warmth, and generosity. These are qualities rarely seen in a maniac. Did I mention he is a doctor of jurisprudence? After he earned his degree at the prestigious Touro School of Law and Lawn Mowers, I convinced Sal to ditch his plan to practice real estate law and move to California to live and work with me in the lucrative world of local radio. What didn’t seem like a wise decision then turned out to be one of the best decisions either of us ever made.
Sal has a totally original sense of humor. Every comment, every text, every email is a reminder that, day after day, no one is funnier. The jokes go deep. He makes you laugh all the way to your bones. The characters he surrounds himself with and cares for are almost as hard to explain as he is. To call it a motley crew would result in a lawsuit from the Motleys. They are his Island of Misfit Toys. The stories you are about to read are true. Some of the names have been changed, but no one is innocent.
—Cousin Jimmy Kimmel
THE FALL OF TROJANOWSKI
Tony B: If I get you the phone number, will you ask her to the wedding?
Me: Sure. Go for it.
Before we get into my stories about the seedy underworld of gambling, here’s a story about how I met my wife. A risky adventure that led to the only real sure thing in my life.
Back in the spring of 1999, my friends were throwing our buddy Donick a bachelor party in Mexico. The plan was to rent a mansion in the hills of Puerto Vallarta. I didn’t drink, so I would watch my pals guzzle tequila all weekend and, at the same time, pray the satellite dish would kick in so I could see the Final Four game between Duke and Michigan State.
I had very little money back then but somehow was able to bid $8,000 on Duke on credit in what is referred to as a “Calcutta pool.” This is where a bunch of people bid on teams and you get money for every round your squad advances in the NCAA tournament. As a result, Coach K’s team reaching the Final Four was a good thing for me.
So a bunch of us flew to Mexico for a weekend of debauchery. Puerto Vallarta is beautiful and the fellas got hammered and I was able to watch a scrambled signal of the game on satellite. Elton Brand dominated and the hated Blue Devils made the finals, which meant I was guaranteed to make money off of money I didn’t have.
Isn’t this a romantic story so far?
An even better call was heading out with the bachelor party later that evening to a local bar called Carlos O’Brian’s (a name we would later bestow on our family mutt).
It was a wonderful scene. A bunch of well-to-do Hollywood dudes buying shots for the rest of the bar, which happened to be made up of mostly attractive women. My friend Daniel was handing out lemon shots; Adam Carolla was getting recognized as the host of his popular MTV show Loveline. My cousin Jimmy was there, and—having given Adam his start in show business—this was an ironic scenario where Adam was getting celebrity love and Jimmy wasn’t. Suddenly, after a solid hour of Jimmy being ignored, a beautiful young woman in a red dress approached him.
Beautiful young woman in a red dress: Wait—are you the guy on Win Ben Stein’s Money?
Jimmy: Yes, I am.
Beautiful young woman in a red dress: Oh… my father watches that show.
Everyone laughs at Jimmy.
She didn’t realize what a back-handed burn she had just delivered. We all had a good laugh about it, and I knew right away that this was the woman I would spend the rest of the evening with. Melissa Trojanowski was on spring break with her friends from Wisconsin. With a name like Trojanowski, there was only about a 170 percent chance she would hail from the Dairy State. After making small talk with her, I found out that Trojanowski was a grad student at Madison staying with her two friends in a Hyatt in the heart of Puerto Vallarta. I barely got this information out of her before my friend Daniel announced that he was rounding up several groups from the bar to come party with us back at the house. In a master stroke of debauchery, Daniel lined up a bunch of cabs, loaded groups of women into them, and shifted the festivities to the rented mansion.
Trojanowski and I continued our conversation there and even played tennis on the mansion’s outdoor court. I didn’t let her win, mainly because I’m a competitive idiot, but she didn’t seem to mind and, in fact, apologized for hitting the ball into the net for most of the match.
I liked her more and more as the evening went on and even managed to sneak a kiss in when no one was looking. Eventually, Trojanowski and her friends left and that, I felt, was that.
Jimmy and my buddies were annoyed with me.
“How did you not get Trojanowski’s phone number?”
“You finally meet a woman who is not repulsed by you and you just let her go?”
The way I saw it, I lived in California, she lived in Wisconsin. I had just had a miserable time wrapping up a long-distance relationship and didn’t have the stamina to start up another one. I’d be satisfied getting to first base with a nice lady every few years in a foreign country.
Fortunately, us not being meant to be wasn’t meant to be.
A couple months later my friend Matt Silverstein, one of the Man Show writers, was getting married in Chicago.
That’s when my good pal Tony approached me with the bet.
“If I find her phone number, will you take her to the wedding?”
Seemed like not a lot of downside to this bet, so I agreed.
All we knew was Trojanowski’s last name and the fact that she attended grad school at Madison. The Internet was fairly new, so without Facebook or Instagram this was going to be a wild-badger chase.
Somehow, Tony got in touch with the university and used his magic powers to convince the bursar, or whoever, to give him the phone number. That number was then placed on my desk about twenty minutes after the “bet” was made.
Milwaukee was a cheese block’s throw from Chicago, so this could actually happen. I called Trojanowski and told her that I wasn’t stalking her—always a solid way to begin a conversation—and invited her to the wedding, which was a few weeks away. She seemed weirded out and said she’d get back to me later in the week.
I figured I was a 7/1 long shot at this point. This bet was one well-timed excuse away from being bust. Anything would’ve worked. The smart money was on “Sorry, I forgot my uncle Ray is playing lead accordion at the local polka festival that night.”
Much to my surprise, Trojanowski didn’t wait a few days but actually called back in a few hours. “I would love to go to the wedding” was not what I was expecting. I was stunned.
So we went to the wedding, had a great time, and proceeded to alternate flying to each other’s hometowns one weekend a month for a year until she graduated with a master’s in social work and agreed to settle down with me in my cousin Jimmy’s basement. (I know: How?… Why?)
Melissa Trojanowski was everything I could want in a wife and more. I popped the question and she agreed to walk down the aisle to the Fox NFL Sunday theme song.
She knew that gambling and my love for sports were a tremendous part of my life. We honeymooned in Kauai where every morning I’d run downstairs to the business center of the hotel to check on Asian soccer scores. I had a theory that I would profit if I parlayed seven or eight big favorites together to get even money. Yup, this on my honeymoon. The theory, by the way, proved to be faulty.
Now, that kind of behavior would’ve urged almost any other woman to seek an annulment. Not Trojanowski. She took everything in stride.
A couple years after my Asian soccer parlay phase—which ended up being a losing proposition, believe it or not—we planned on having our first child. Anyone who’s been through this knows there can be a lot of preparation involved. The mother-to-be has to figure out when she’s ovulating. She has to pee on a stick to see if she’s pregnant. In solidarity, I would also pee on a stick, by the shed in the backyard. I figured either we were in this together or we weren’t.
We were in full baby-making mode in the fall of 2004. At the same time I was starring in hidden camera comedy bits for Jimmy Kimmel Live! We’d shoot these in Las Vegas, because, at the time, the state of Nevada deemed it legal if one party had knowledge of the recordings. Another reason Nevada is the greatest state in the universe.
We would typically camp out at my friend Ken’s house and screw with delivery people. It was an absolute blast. Didn’t seem like work at all. We made people set up bouncy houses in the living room, had pizza delivery guys participate in wrestling matches, asked locksmiths to help me break into a safe, and so on. A two-day shoot would yield seven or eight comedy bits.
That particular week I shot in Vegas on Thursday and Friday and planned to stay through Saturday night to attend the Oscar De La Hoya–Bernard Hopkins fight at the MGM. I bet a lot of money on Hopkins (a 2-to-1 favorite) and figured it’s always more fun to lose in person.
As I was finishing up the hidden camera bits on Friday, I get a call from Melissa. (She had mercifully ditched the Trojanowski name at this point.)
“Come home, I’m ovulating.”
An interesting surprise. Back at the turn of the century, you couldn’t find out if you were ovulating by asking Siri. You had to make your own fertility calendar out of beets.
It was a pain in the ass to get back to Los Angeles on such short notice, especially with my weekend plans, but you can’t just take months off from the pregnancy quest, so I jumped on a Southwest flight and met Melissa at an Outback Steakhouse by the Burbank airport. After sharing a Bloomin’ Onion and Kookaburra Wings, we made relations in our bed, then I jumped on a plane and flew back to Las Vegas to witness Bernard Hopkins KO De La Hoya with a kidney punch.
This frantic fertility quest worked out. Nine months later we had our first son. As far as names went, we could’ve gone with Oscar or Bernard to pay tribute to the fight. Or maybe throw Outback Steakhouse a bone. “Barbie” or “Ribeye” Iacono kind of had a ring to it. Instead, we got lazy, breezed through the A’s in the book, and settled on Archie, which happens to be the name of my favorite TV character of all time: Archie Bunker.
One month into Archie Iacono’s life, I was scheduled to appear on Jimmy Kimmel Live! for my birthday to present a hidden camera bit I had shot at a jewelry store.
When I got to the couch, Jimmy surprised me by introducing my childhood crush pop star Debbie Gibson. I was infatuated with Debbie Gibson as a sixteen-year-old. Try as I might, I just couldn’t shake… her love. Debbie’s poster hung in my room right next to Genesis, Rowdy Roddy Piper, and Huey Lewis and the News. That was my pubescent Mount Rushmore.
Debbie grew up a few towns over from me and was the same age. I remember going to the Jones Beach Theater with my friend Allison to see her in concert. We had the worst seats. Our backs were literally against the back wall. I brought a sign that said “Kiss Me, Debbie—It’s My Birthday.” So corny, but it actually didn’t matter, since being in the last row in the upper deck, Allison and I were the only ones who could see the sign.
And now here we were, twenty-eight years later to the day, and Debbie Gibson was singing “Lost in Your Eyes” while gazing into mine. It was a ridiculous scene. I thought it would be funny to just get up and leave, but I felt bad that she had come all the way out to do this, so I stayed and let the embarrassment rush over me.
A few miles away, Melissa was watching the East Coast ABC feed at home. She was super-hormonal, having just given birth to Archie, and was very upset about this faux birthday date. But as part of my birthday gift and because she’s a great lady, Melissa didn’t let me know until years later how upset she was. Debbie probably wasn’t thrilled with it, either.
When our second child was born, I bugged Melissa to come up with a silly name. We both liked Jack for a first name and I had the idea of Tripper for his middle name. What a way to honor John Ritter, the late great comedic actor. Ritter played Jack Tripper on Three’s Company. He had passed away a few years earlier and was widely known as one of the nicest guys to ever step foot in Hollywood, let alone the Regal Beagle.
“Jack Tripper Iacono” had a ring to it, but not a ring my wife was fond of. (At this point she was skeptical about the one on her finger, too.)
So we went with my backup plan: “Jack Romo Iacono.” Cowboys quarterback Tony Romo was my adult idol. It’s weird: I have a problem with anyone over thirty-five years old wearing a jersey with a current player’s name on it, but naming your kid after someone younger than you? Totally fine. Besides, Romo hadn’t won anything. I figured it’s easy to name your son after Joe Montana or Wayne Gretzky, but an athlete might be extra-inspired to achieve greatness if he or she hears people are saddling their spawn with their name. Melissa reluctantly agreed and we went with Jack Romo.
Melissa Reluctantly Agreed should’ve been the title of this book.
Melissa has witnessed me pull out my gambling tally sheet tens of thousands of times during meals, recitals, communions, bar mitzvahs, funerals, and any inappropriate time you can imagine.
She has endured me bringing a miniature TV to her best friend’s wedding. To my credit I kept it hidden underneath our table, illuminating the room so that all in attendance could only surmise that there was a spaceship landing by our feet.
She has handled my gift for flatulence with dignity and tolerance.
She has dealt with my insane family for more than twenty years. From cutting my father’s toenails to wiping my autistic sister’s rear end, caring for the Iaconos has not been a walk in the park by any means.
And she lets it all slide with a head shake and a smile that could brighten up a Malaysian cave.
Melissa Trojanowski is an absolute saint—and not the kind that cost me $28,750 by blowing the 2019 NFC championship game. The holy kind.
The only thing I did right by her was allow her to change that horrible last name. Aside from that, I don’t deserve her. It might be the case that no one does. She’s a –10,000,000,000,000 lock to advance to heaven. And that’s the easiest bet there is.
LA DOLCE VITA
When it comes to one-on-one wagers with me, nothing is off-limits. I even bet my editor how many copies of this book I could sell. That’s not a joke. I wagered under 13,500 copies sold. That way, if I “win,” I can say “I told you so.” In fact, your purchase of this memoir could cause me to lose yet again. So thanks a lot for that.
I’ve bet on baseball, basketball, hockey, wrestling (pro and amateur), hot dog–eating contests, horse races, dog races, bird races, presidential elections, all levels of football—including my eight-year-old son’s flag league and, of course, the Puppy Bowl. I’ve wagered on tennis, soccer, golf, and every type of award show that anyone has rented a tuxedo for. Not to mention reality shows like Dancing with the Stars. I’ve risked as much money on Drew Lachey as I have Drew Brees. So, yes, it’s a problem, spread through all genres of life.
But that doesn’t stop people from asking me what my worst beat or the most money that I lost as a gambler was. I think it makes them feel better about themselves to hear the answer. It’s weird: most human beings know that it’s inappropriate to ask a drug addict for their best overdose story, but for some reason the idea of a powerless person losing everything he has on a game of chance is amusing. I actually agree—it is. And the short answer to what my worst loss was entirely depends on how much it hurt. The pain index relies on several factors.
Take the 2019 NFC Championship game, for instance. It was during that contest that I squandered the most I ever bet on a football game (legally) in the final moments, when a Rams defensive back wasn’t called for pass interference after mauling a Saints wide receiver, like, seven seconds before the ball arrived. It was an atrocious noncall—so bad that the following season they changed the rule to allow instant replay of pass interference noncalls. But I still had a little money left over to buy my spawn a burrito at Chipotle, so it could’ve been worse.
Let’s compare that to when I was eight years old and flipping baseball cards on the playground at Connolly Elementary School in Glen Cove, New York. I lost one hundred cards (every other third grader would risk five max) to the local bully, who figured a way to cheat and steal from my pile when I wasn’t paying attention. It was all I had and I wasn’t getting them back even if I had Mets slugger Dave Kingman himself bang down the little thug’s door with a Louisville Slugger. So, in a way, that was my worst and most hurtful beat with many more in my future.
Over the last forty years I have shared “betting experiences” with doctors, lawyers, teachers, agents, bookies, writers, comedians, podcasters, radio DJs, TV producers, baseball players, front-office executives, bandleaders, movie stars, publicists, weed lab owners, hedge fund operators, and even professional wrestlers. My intention is to detail many of these interactions without getting sued.
The more I think about it, I was destined to be a gambler. The deck was stacked against me.
My parents named me Sal Iacono. I was born in Brooklyn. Sal Iacono from Brooklyn was not going to grow up to become curator of a museum. It just wasn’t happening.
Sure, I tried to buck the trend by graduating from law school, but it didn’t amount to anything, as I failed the bar exam twice. (The over/under was 1.5. I won that bet with myself too… kinda.) After twenty years, I just now paid off my student loans, so maybe I won’t count that as a win.
I was named Sal Iacono after my father’s father and am very proud of this distinction.
Grandpa Sal was a unique soul. Everyone who met him loved him dearly. Friends and family happily endured three-thousand-mile bus trips just to visit Grandpa Sal. He made you feel good being around him. Like most grandparents who grew up in the early 1900s, Grandpa Sal didn’t have a ton of schooling but was wise beyond his education and, most charmingly, shared this wisdom with childlike exuberance.
Aside from being a kind soul, Grandpa Sal was the funniest guy any of us ever knew. I don’t think I’ll get an argument when I say every bit of our sense of humor comes from him. He was a tour de force at family gatherings and mastered even the most subtle forms of comedy. You know that game when you tap someone on the shoulder and try to get them to look? He never once looked up. Undefeated in that stupid game. The most subtle tug of his shirt couldn’t persuade Grandpa Sal to turn. In fact, in an attempt to further mock the tapper, after you attempted to make him look—he would tilt his head up and gaze at the sky. It doesn’t seem like a great feat, but imagine never once getting fooled by the shoulder tap!
As far as practical jokes went, Grandpa Sal was the GOAT. Even the unplanned pranks ended up being pranks. He was in his eighties when he jumped in my aunt Joan and uncle Jimmy’s pool. Everything seemed fine until he lay facedown for a few seconds… then motionless. A signature move he would employ for fun. My uncle Jimmy, in his work attire, jumped in to save him. As he pulled him out of the water and turned him over to breathe, Grandpa Sal spit water in his face. That was one of the few times anyone ever got mad at him.
OK, here’s another one. At a wedding he once “helped” his wife, my grandma Edith, with her coat as they were set to leave. He draped it over her back, at the same time dropping a dozen knives and forks to make it look as if she were trying to steal from the catering hall. “Ah, Eda… why do you have to steal? We got plenty of this stuff at home.”
He had the greatest one-liners, too. Whenever we celebrated his birthday, he would snuff out the candles on his cake with his gigantic golden glove–experienced hands. One by one he’d pinch out the flames while everyone was screaming at him, then turn to us with a smile on his face and whisper, “Call the ambulance!”
That smile was unforgettable. So many grumpy grandpas out there. Not this one. He’d literally fall asleep with a grin on his face. This was even more impressive considering he had to suffer through pain in the same rib he’d somehow repeatedly break over and over for all of the twenty-nine years I was privileged to know him. I don’t know: maybe in the grand scheme of things it was a bad idea for the family to have chipped in to buy him a moped for his seventy-fifth birthday.
In addition to the golden glove boxer thing, Grandpa Sal was great with his hands. He spent his grown-up years as an upholsterer while also working in a film lab. Then, when he retired, he’d paint famous people—usually local celebrities who appeared in TV ads—and family members’ likenesses on eyeglass lenses that he collected and the insides of beer cans. I realize this is bizarre, even by grandfather standards, especially since he wasn’t a big beer drinker and pretty much relied on the same pair of reading glasses for the better part of a half century. But it kept him busy and happy so we never questioned it. We also never questioned when he wore my grandmother’s dentures until he died.
Grandpa had bigger projects as well. Much to the family’s chagrin, Grandpa Sal once invented a device that would turn your television into a projection device, or “mechanism,” as he loved to explain. The idea was you’d place this cockamamie magnifying glass over the television set and it would blow up the projected image on the nearest wall.
The only problem was, in order to take advantage of this invention, you had to be willing to pull the tube out of your TV and turn it upside down, and none of the grown-ups in the family were willing to offer their twenty-one-inch Zeniths as guinea pigs.
My cousin Jimmy and I did invert a spare television while no one was looking, and I have to say: it kind of worked as we watched the enlarged projection on Jimmy’s bedroom ceiling. But that masterpiece didn’t land him a job at Caltech. It just served as a fun project he could drive everyone crazy with—which I kind of think was the point. Creating bizarre and sometimes infuriating works of art was how he was going to live out his golden years. And then something miraculous happened.
In 1975 my uncle Frank, a retired police officer, inexplicably moved my aunt Chippy and my three cousins Ann, Sally, and Micki from Brooklyn to Las Vegas. Uncle Frank, a fun-loving man who later served as my cousin Jimmy’s television sidekick, was very impulsive, and the move came out of nowhere. No one in our family ever left Brooklyn. I mean, it was the only place in the country where streaking down your apartment hallway while bringing trash to the incinerator was acceptable. Why take a chance anywhere else?
But Uncle Frank did it, and, interestingly enough, my grandparents followed. This was a really nice change of pace for my grandfather, who was now introduced to a town that specialized in hard-core gambling. As a New Yorker, maybe he’d bet on a horse or two, but I’m not sure he had a passion for horse racing; it was more something little old Italian men were supposed to do while chewing on a De Nobili cigar.
But Las Vegas was a different story. Now if he wanted to hide from everyone screaming at each other, he could take the bus downtown and gamble all day. Grandpa didn’t have a lot of money, but he would make $20 last a good eight hours—and that included splurging for the senior citizen lunch special at the Silver Nugget.
Keno was his game. He’d take the pen and run over his favorite numbers—birthdays, anniversaries—much like everyone else does. But his casino play really jumped to another level when he moved to slot machines, because when it came to the one-armed bandit, Grandpa Sal had a system.
He would approach a machine where the jackpot was one line off from where the wheels were in the rest position. So if an unattended slot machine had three jackpots on the top line instead of the desired middle line, he claimed it as his own. Once he settled in at that machine, he had a process for the physical pull. He would yank on the one-armed bandit, but only partially—never all the way down. When it didn’t work, which was always, he’d explain to his detractors that he wasn’t doing it right. This is what he did all day long. And then he’d go home and watch Letterman and paint on more eyeglass lenses and beer cans until he fell asleep.
WHAT A GODDAMN LIFE!
- "If you think the way I do, then you must be asking yourself if this truly is the most ridiculous cover for a book you've ever seen. Just wait...when you open the book, it actually makes the cover look normal. It's not dark yet, but it's getting there. Cousin Sal is a very smart and brilliant man with as humble a heart as I've been around. He wants to make others happy and sometimes he does with his checkbook. But I am truly lucky to call him a friend. For life. You will love this book."—Tony Romo
- "For the last two decades, Cousin Sal has been the Gambling Butch Cassidy to my Gambling Sundance Kid -- and that's a crucial analogy, because they both died at the end of the movie."—Bill Simmons
- "I swear to God you little shit, if you wrote anything stupid about me I’ll kill you."—Aunt Chippy
- "Sal's a good father and husband, and I have never seen him take a drink. But he makes up for it by being the most degenerate gambler I have ever seen."—Johnny Knoxville
- “Sal has embarrassed me on live television, in front of Jon Hamm, in restaurants, on the golf course, etc. The fact that I am still here recommending this book is a testament to how great a friend he is when he's not making my life miserable. I've never met a man that's as mad about sports as he is and I think he's endured enough pain, the least we can do is read about it. Also, Jon, if you're reading this: I'm not crazy!”—Rachel Bonnetta
"Rachel. I don’t think you’re crazy. Sal, I think you’re a real Pal. Also, you owe me $400. I will not accept books as payment."—Jon Hamm
- "A rollicking...account of the foibles of a man who’ll bet on anything."—Kirkus
- On Sale
- Jan 12, 2021
- Page Count
- 256 pages