Bingo and the Battle of the Springs
Early in my relationship with my wife I realized we had a permanent scheduling problem. You see, since her childhood—since her father’s childhood—her family has gone to Capon Springs, West Virginia, for the second week in August. (“Capon” is a shortening of Cacapon, a Native American word meaning “medicine waters.” The springs in the name are real, and people still come to take them. The water itself is delicious, rumored to contain trace amounts of lithium.) Capon Springs is an all-inclusive Appalachian mountain resort run like a summer camp for children and adults alike — 4,700 wooded acres, no in-room TVs, no cell service, limited internet, and a menu that hasn’t changed in decades (BBQ chicken, berry pie, corn bread—country cooking for the win!). The same family has owned it since 1932, longtime guests earn seating seniority in the dining hall, and everything runs on the honor system.
For a normal partner, this week away in August would pose no issue at all – in fact, it would be a feature of the relationship, not a bug. But you see, I’m a horseplayer.
For a New York horseplayer, the second week in August means one thing: Saratoga Springs. Saratoga, nestled in the foothills of the Adirondacks, is a nearly magical place. A (mostly) preserved Victorian town where the best horses in the country convene to compete for several weeks each summer.
Despite the siren call of Saratoga, I try to get to Capon every few years. The place has its own magic, the food is terrific, and it’s a rare chance to catch up with family. Plus, my daughter loves it. Capon offers our Brooklyn-raised kid a rare opportunity to be “free range.” And Perrin loves all the time she gets to spend with her cousins, and all the fun annual activities: hot dogs by the bonfire, the porch dance party, the talent show, and bingo.
It’s the last of these that’s the focus of this piece. Capon bingo is a blast. Held mid-week in an open-air pavilion with a view of the sunset, it’s a highlight of the summer. Everyone plays, from preschoolers to nonagenarians. And for any regulators reading, have no fear, there is no cost to play and prizes are not money – instead the lucky winners receive jars of Pearle’s Piquant — Capon’s special-recipe salad dressing, named for the longtime cook — or her famous apple butter.
I have never won in approximately 10 bingo nights. Susan, my wife, who has competed for decades, has won a grand total of once. Somehow, heading into this summer, my thirteen-year-old daughter had won four times. I understand that mathematically all of that is well within the spectrum of potential outcomes, but last year I did a little research on the subject.
At the start of bingo there is what you might call a card selection process. At first, I was amused at the concentration and effort Perrin put into the process: “Pick a card already, kid!” But then I noticed what she was doing: handicapping. Not the front of the cards, but the back of them. Many of them were marked up by previous users. Some with detailed info, like dates and wins, others with general notes like “this card is NOT lucky.”
My first thought was that the whole thing was silly. Lucky cards? Surely it was all down to random chance. It reminded me of those mug punters at the track who use lucky pens or have lucky spots they’ll watch from as long as they’re winning – OK, full disclosure: I am a “lucky spot” guy.
But later that night, after her fourth bingo win, I got to thinking: Those cards look old. Watching the bingo master put away the cage and bingo balls, which had clearly been in rotation for a long time, I thought to ask, “Do we know if any of the balls have gone missing over the years?”
“I think we’ve lost a few of them, but we have most of them,” he replied.
The penny dropped.
Fewer balls in the cage meant certain numbers simply never got called. The cards that kept winning were the ones built from the survivors.
Perrin’s studious approach to recent winning cards was actually brilliant. Which cards were likely to be winners wasn’t a function of mathematical variance but of track bias — one that had been building, quietly, one lost ball at a time. She was like a card counter in a casino – not guaranteed to win, but definitely giving herself the best chance.
I’ve scarcely been prouder.
And so we move on to this summer. I couldn’t get to Capon this year but I was following the saga closely. Susan reported that Perrin had kept to her usual routine and picked a “lucky” card.
And I’ll be damned if she didn’t win again. Five wins in 10 summers!
Saratoga Springs might be nirvana for a horseplayer, but Capon Springs has something to offer a savvy bettor.
