I’ve spent years writing about the intersection of technology, culture, and policy. When social media is increasingly used to create events, rather than report on them, I find that work increasingly relevant.
It is one thing to write an essay here or a newsletter there. Given the potential harms, utilizing adding additional forms, like narrative, seems warranted. Moneyballer Americana is a seven-part novelette about a struggling bluegrass musician who accidentally ignites a sports-betting media frenzy.
This is the first part of a seven part serialized version of the story. Follow the links for the next section or download a collected version from the Stories page.
~Matthew
Scene 1 - False Start
If the opening segments were anything to go by, this episode would be as many air raid sirens as fart sound effects. Eli wrote down the time stamp. He’d need to check if the audio clipped, maybe compress and normalize, before posting clips to the socials.
He sensed an ad read and tapped a few keys, triggering the queued promotional overlay.
“Real quick, bros, I gotta give a shoutout to our newest sponsor, Gameset AI. Gameset is the revolutionary sports-prediction engine you need to take your winnings to the next level. Trained on every game since 2000, Gameset lets you bet like the pros!”
“I’ve been using it and, let me tell you, it’s scary good. Plug-in your match-up and Gameset will provide you Degenerates with their patent pending insights.”
“Use our exclusive, VIP code, #BetBallers, and get your first month free!”
“It’s like having us giving you personalized advice - for only the price of a couple pizzas.”
“Do it right and you’ll cover those pizzas in no time.”
“No doubt! No doubt. Use our code - #BetBallers - on registration and start winning today!”
Eli sat off stage in the converted garage studio and a battered folding chair that had seen better days. On his lap was his old laptop, called into service to run the livestream’s admin account. It was balanced as precariously as his finances, if he was being honest.
It had been a few episodes since Eli got the Bet Ballers “producer” job. Sports, let alone sports betting, wasn’t his scene and these weren’t his people. He could list least a half-dozen area middle schools with bad reputations he’d rather sub at. However, the money had surprisingly good for what was a pretty straight forward job; running the board at some local churches had been more challenging, by comparison. And it had been steady - something that his bluegrass band, at the moment - was not.
His Outback, and its growing list of worrisome noises, wasn’t going to fix itself. Subbing wasn’t steady enough to repairing his credit deficiency disorder. So every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon he was here, in the “Bet Baller Media Worldwide Headquarters, LLC”, policing diatribes between such chat room luminaries such as JockstrapJestor and BallerBoy06. And pretend he understood what hosts Ty and Lance were talking about.
“Look, they aren’t paying me to say this,” Ty said, looking directly into the camera, “but last week their model was dead on. When the public was heavy on Seattle, as the favorite, the sharp money saw Gameset +7. Sharp players faded the square action, and basically were printing value.”
“It’s simple math,” Lance riffed, confidently. “You can either normalize momentum, adjust for weather, and regress touchdown variance, or let Gameset do it for you. You don’t even need to watch the game!”
“For real, for real. But what we do want to watch? J-E-T-S! Jets! Jets! Jets!”
“Dude, you are so right.”
Eli guessed Ty was in his 30’s. He had that aging college jock look. At least once an episode, Ty would name-check the nearby division II school where he played linebacker (“Go fightin’ Cards!”) Sometimes it was to justify his take, other times it was to establish pecking order. Eli just assumed Ty’s current real estate gig must be pretty boring by comparison if he kept going to the 15-year-old well.
“OH YEAH. Can you say quarterback drama!?”
His co-host, Lance Nowak, punctuated his question with a practiced swig of the sponsor’s energy drink, label out. While Tyler could still pull off a quarter zip, Lance’s fit was more athletic cosplay. And watches so bulky their primary purpose was to be seen more by others than looked at by the wearer. Lance was adamant he was the “numbers guy”. As Eli observed in the ensuing weeks, this meant defending your own stats to the death, while deriding anyone else’s as “nerd shit”.
“Did you see Sunday night’s game!?” Ty was now addressing Lance, “My man, Ali Dettmer once again had a killer game in his third week in relief of franchise hero, Joe Jonson.”
“Two-hundred twenty four yards with two touchdowns through the air,” Lance read off his phone, “and another 86 yards and a walk-in touchdown with his feet.”
The chat was starting to come to life.
“It’s embarrassing. I’m embarrassed for them. The Jets have an embarrassment of riches.”
“Nobody had backup journeyman Dettmer odds on favorite for their comeback player-of-the-year, that’s for sure. But with Jonson set to come back from turf toe, and the trade deadline nearing, you think the Jets should continue to ride the hot hand?”
“Are you kidding? The Jets are sitting on a gold mine.” Ty spammed several party air horn honks in a row to emphasize his point. “You think the Jets front office isn’t already fielding offers?”
“Better question,” Lance countered, “Is what happens to the line?”
Lines. Spreads. Overs. It felt like running the sound board in church where everyone was speaking in tongues. Eli was trying to keep up with the chat, which was a challenge. It was always a froth of unfamiliar terms and locker room innuendo. But when they sensed a incoming prediction, it was like chum in the water.
“Spill it! Gonna play or gonna lay!”
“what’s the move???”
“got a hundo for a line grap. Gimmie gimmie.”
A more polished presentation would have a picture of the player overlayed on screen. Eli opened up a new browser tab window and searched for “Ali Dettmer” to find something to insert.
“With Ali’s mobility,” Ty continued, “he could come in and be productive for a new team on day one. Forget learning the playbook. He’s a scrambler. Run some simple option plays that’ll set up the play action and you’re in business.”
“Instant offense wherever he goes.”
There were a few offseason stories speculating about Dettmer joining the Raiders. Eli liked the hero image on one story. The site had clearly mocked-up a different picture so that it looked like Dettmer was wearing a Raider’s jersey. The player, eyes wide, was hurdling over the head of a defender who missed low. It was all dynamic motion and would look great.
Like he had done several times previously, Eli flipped the laptop around and pointed to the screen. Eli would catch Ty’s eye, he’d subtly indicate to whether to include the image or find something else, and then Eli would act on it.
Except, today Ty wasn’t so subtle.
“BRO. BRO! RAIDERS ARE MAKING A PLAY.”
Eli shook his head. “No, that’s not-“
“That’s huge! Degenerates, that’s HUGE. That’s going to move.”
Ty triggered the air raid siren. “EXCLUSIVE BREAKING NEWS ON THE BET BALLERS PODCAST - Ali Dettmer is going to the Raiders!”
“LOCK! IT! IN!”
Eli looked studied the screen in shock. Checking twice, he confirmed that this was, indeed, an article from pre-season.
“HAMMER RAIDERS +7”
“OMG OMG OMG”
“LINE MOVING!!”
“PUT 1000 ON IT LFG”
“I’ve been saying this for WEEKS. Weeks, people.” Ty pumped his fists.
This was the first time since starting a month ago Eli had heard about this.
“A chance to take the house like this is once in a blue moon opportunity. Smash those lines and then tell your friends you heard it here first!”
Ty pointed at the camera, “We are plugged in and here for you! When you get your jackpot, make sure you like, subscribe, and draw an unsportsman-like conduct penalty on that alert button!”
“And don’t forget to join our exclusive Discord! For subscribers only, we go even harder with the kinds of advice and insight those Vegas insiders won’t let us say on stream.”
“You know we’re going deep on this Dettmer news. Subscribe now so you don’t miss out!”
The hosts were on wind-down auto-pilot.
“And be back Thursday, when we break it wide open.”
That was Eli’s cue. He cut the mikes and cut over to play the final sponsor clip.
Ty and Lance hopped up and chest-bumped.
“Dude,” Ty said, turning to Eli, “That was amazing! That was the shot in the arm this show needed.”
Eli was thoroughly confused. “But it’s not actually happening. That was an old article.”
“But it’s too good not to be right, right?” Ty navigated the narrow space around the desk. “I mean, if it makes sense to enough people, it becomes real. It’s like wisdom of the crowds, like that book, The Secret-“
“-that’s not-“
“DUDE!” Lance furiously flipped between apps on his phone. “We seriously just moved a line. Totally. We’re gonna see it.”
Ty high-fived Lance.
“But-“ Eli was still missing something, “-but it’s not real.”
“Ya know,” Lance said, still scrolling, “when the universe makes a connection like that, you just go for it, you know? Trust your gut.”
“Engagement makes it real. And if doesn’t happen,” Ty squinted, trying to read over Lance’s shoulder, “We just say we got some bad information or whatever.”
“Nobody remembers when you’re wrong. But call your shot and have it work out? That’s what legends are made of.”
“That was an insane connection, but so obvious. What are the degenerates saying?”
Eli refreshed the chat window. The messages were flying by so quickly, they were hard to read.
“just put $200 on the Raiders”
“Free money boyz”
“rent inda bag”
Ty watched the comments scroll. “This. Is. Awesome.”
“We got a runner.”
The message about the rent caught Eli’s eye and he chuckled nervously. “Are they… talking real money?”
Ty and Lance looked at each other, and then exploded into a fit of laughter.
#
Eli put the extra mic cables and his laptop bag in the passenger seat of his Outback. He was parked on the curb outside the cookie-cutter split level where they recorded the show. The lackluster effort at clearing the recent snow left the sidewalk icy and treacherous. Eli gingerly circled around the front of the wagon, the crunch of his steps reverberating across the cul-de-sac. He exhaled, as though he had been holding his breath this entire time, and took in the suburb. Yesterday’s pristine, white blanket had become today’s rutted, frozen mess.
Eli climbed in and turned the ignition. The check-engine light was still on.
- End Scene 1 - Click here for the next installment of Moneyballer Americana.*