LAS VEGAS — It was 1:30 a.m., and Chris Andrews, sportsbook director for the South Point hotel, was asleep at home when an unfamiliar customer approached a betting window at the casino, wanting to wager 300 grand on the 49ers to beat the Chiefs in the Super Bowl. A supervisor woke Andrews to approve the bet, only for the customer to realize he didn’t have enough cash on hand.
Andrews got to work Friday morning eager for updates on “Mr. 300,000,” who returned about an hour later carrying a cone from the hotel’s ice cream shop as well as the money, converted to South Point chips, and this time opted to bet $243,000 on San Francisco. Andrews chatted briefly with the man before wishing him luck.
Andrews and his right hands at the South Point, Jimmy Vaccaro and Vinny Magliulo, have a combined 147 years of experience taking bets in Nevada — and a philosophy that dates from a time when relationships and a human touch ruled an industry that has rapidly changed. For them, bookmaking remains a blend of art and science, in which odds are adjusted depending on what respected “wiseguys” are betting. That means being able to size someone up in an instant and know whether they’re sharp or square.
Around town, sharp money mostly backed San Francisco at this year’s Super Bowl, while recreational bettors heavily favored Kansas City. Yet Andrews suspected “Mr. $300,000” was a square, albeit an exceptionally deep-pocketed one, and his wagering history supported that. He had lost about $22,000 to the South Point last Super Bowl, a colleague relayed to Andrews. In other words, the colleague said, “He’s just a gambler.”
Getting a six-figure bet from a square “is like finding a diamond ring,” Vaccaro quipped in the sportsbook’s back office, where the South Point gave a reporter a rare opportunity to observe some of Las Vegas’s most respected bookmakers in action during their busiest weekend of the year.
The South Point doesn’t have the
bottomless advertising budget needed to get Peyton Manning or Jamie Foxx to hawk its sportsbook. It doesn’t pay media stars like Bill Simmons and Pat McAfee to promote elaborate
same-game parlays that benefit the house. Instead, the hotel’s distinctly old-school sportsbook, located about six miles south of the Strip, lures customers with reasonable odds, friendly service — and $1.50 hot dogs.
One of the last family-run hotels in town, it’s owned by Michael Gaughan, 80, who sat in the sportsbook’s office two days before the Super Bowl with a hint of mustard on his lower lip from a lunchtime frank. He enjoys hanging out there, seated next to a sign on the mini fridge that reads, “Do not drink the Dr. Brown’s root beer. They are for Mr. Gaughan only!” The fridge also contains a jar of Grey Poupon that Andrews keeps for a professional bettor who once complained that the hotel only serves yellow mustard.
Nationwide, the vast majority of sports betting now occurs online, but Andrews said his sportsbook does roughly three-quarters of its business in person, while still managing to take more bets than any operator in the state.
Marveling at the sight of thousands of bettors passing through the casino to wager on the Super Bowl, Andrews reminded Magliulo, “We don’t do it with advertising and other sh--. Value, value, value. That’s our thing.”
Gaughan supports anything that can boost foot traffic, such as serving $2 Budweisers on NFL Sundays or Andrews’s idea to offer -105 odds on the Super Bowl point spread instead of the standard -110 — roughly a five-dollar discount on every $100 wagered.
Ahead of
Vegas’s first-ever NFL title game, greed was a frequent topic of discussion in the back office. Corporations “want to kill the golden goose yesterday,” Gaughan said, grumbling about a hotel on the Strip charging $160 for valet parking that weekend.
Five years ago, some Nevada casinos feared that the spread of legal sports betting would threaten their bottom line. Now business is booming here like never before. Nevada took a record $185.6 million in bets on the Super Bowl — more than any of the 37 other states where sports gambling is regulated. Andrews had expected to handle around $10 million of that.
But while sports betting might be more popular than ever, Andrews and his peers are dismayed by much of what the industry has morphed into: shrieking ads, deceptive promotions,
astonishing margins. They vent about the “European model” of bookmaking that’s taking hold across the country, in which
customers who show winning tendencies are aggressively limited on how much they can bet, sometimes down to pennies.
“It’s not gambling,” said Richie Baccellieri, a former South Point bookmaker who now works at the downtown hotel Circa. “Everybody just wants to fleece the customer.”
The South Point welcomes big bets from sharps so that it can refine its odds accordingly. Last weekend, Bill Krackomberger, a baby-faced, heavyset pro bettor who wears Kangol flat caps, showed up to bet several thousand dollars on Super Bowl props, which involve player and team statistics. Magliulo and Andrews spent a few minutes schmoozing with him and offered to comp a meal.
“This is the old Las Vegas,” Krackomberger told The Post. “I beat them every Super Bowl, and they still want to take care of me.”
Andrews, Vaccaro, Magliulo and several supervisors occupy a small office adjacent to the betting counter. The walls are covered with memorabilia from Andrews’s beloved childhood team, the Pittsburgh Steelers, as well as a poster from the 1939 comedy “The Day the Bookies Wept,” about a racehorse that wins by drinking beer, and a letter to Andrews from Harry M. Reid (D-Nev.) , the late U.S. Senate majority leader. Congratulating him on joining the South Point, in 2016, Reid wrote, “The impact of your work in our community is admired and appreciated.”
Andrews, 67, sits in the middle of the office. Two of his four computer monitors display incoming bets, color-coded by dollar amount. He faces a grid of nine mounted TV screens, one of which was dedicated, until moments before kickoff, to Turner Classic Movies. While booking millions of dollars, Andrews and his confidants got much more animated debating the acting performances in “Roman Holiday” than they did over any oddsmaking decision.
Andrews learned the game, and the customer service that comes with it, from his uncle Jack Franzi, a revered sports bettor who also wrote a little action in the back of a candy store. Andrews was booking classmates by fifth grade and taking bets in the stands when his high school football team defeated Joe Montana’s squad.