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I finally got some free time to myself today, and I decided to blow off some steam by playing my second favorite casino game … Blackjack.

When I got the itch, I happened to be near Boulder Station of all places.  I don’t play Boulder that often, but when you want to play, any casino will do.

I parked my car, strode up to the nearest table, bought in for a little, and began single-chip betting.

My first three hands saw the dealer catch natural Blackjacks.

“Three in a row?  Really?”, I said.

“Sorry”, the dealer said.

This was not a good way to start the session.

My next hand was an 18 vs. a dealer 5.

Her next cards?  9 … 7.

You have to be kidding me?

That was four 21′s in a row.

In the next ten minutes I won a couple of hands here and there, but I would estimate that I lost four out of every five hands, with yet another dealer natural being hit.  I was getting beaten like a homely child who crapped on the carpet.

It wasn’t only me, though.  There were three other people at the table, and all of us were getting nailed to the gambler’s cross.

Then, it happened.

The “it” was a dealer change.

All of a sudden, I couldn’t lose.  Blackjack … twenty … hit 15, draw 6 … for the next fifteen minutes, I was pretty damn unstoppable.

Then, it happened again.

The original dealer from hell returned, and every player at the table groaned “Oh no!”.  Two players actually left the table, with one saying “She’s just too tough to beat”.

“What?  You think she’s actually playing?”, I said.

The player didn’t acknowledge my question, but he did walk a few feet and take a spot at another table.

This is not an uncommon reaction to a bad run of cards.  At one point or another, I have probably played at every table in this town, and it never ceases to amaze me how many people believe that certain dealers are easier to beat than others.

As everyone knows, Blackjack rules are set by the house.  If the table rules say “Hit Soft 17”, then the dealer hits soft 17.  Blackjack dealers are basically card dispensing machines.  Oh sure, their personality can make or break the entertainment value of a game, and a dealer with a winning demeanor is invaluable to the house … but the dealer has absolutely no say in how to play their own hands.

This concept of dealers as “coolers” has always been of paramount interest to me.  It’s hard to believe that in this day and age, people still believe in dealers as having some kind of  “Voodoo” over the player’s hands, but there are a large number of people who feel exactly this way.

Personally, if I have a bad run with a dealer, and that dealer returns, I stick with them if I still want to play.  I don’t think my luck changes in the slightest regardless of who is actually slinging the cards.

Of course, if they have the personality of a stick, or I just don’t like them … I’ll switch tables.

My basic rule is:  Any dealer I don’t want to tip, I don’t want to play against.  I’m sure the feeling is mutual.

Leaving because I have a bad run of cards is another matter, though.

Back when I was a regular at the Suncoast, I would often get the same dealers night after night.  I was on a first name basis with many of them, and I even knew the name of some of their kids.  Hell, one of my regular dealers lived on my block.

Even though I was on stellar terms with these folks, there were nights in which I simply could not win.  I would sit in front of these people, and proceed to lose hand after hand after hand … and conversely, there were some nights in which I could not lose.

I remember one night in 2005 when I sat down with a couple hundred dollars, and left the table three hours later having paid for my living expenses for the entire month.

Other nights, things were not as easy.  I once lost over 20 straight hands, and one of my regular dealers whispered to me “you should probably leave”.

“Why?” I asked.

“I think I am bad luck for you tonight”, she said.

“If I come back tomorrow, my odds are the same as they are if I sit here and continue playing”, I said.

She kind of shook her head, and kept dealing the cards.  I proceeded to win the next dozen or so hands, including a few naturals and some splits, and before her rotation was over, I had almost completed a comeback.

“How did you know your luck would turn?” she asked.

“I didn’t, I just don’t think your dealing had anything to do with my bad run.”

“Thanks”, she said.

Thanks?

It occurred to me that some dealers are just as superstitious as the players.

Of course, I know some people say “This dealer is tough” in jest.  Or they say “This dealer is lucky” in a tongue-in-cheek manner.  I’ve said it myself on many occasions.  It is simply a way of expressing our pleasure or displeasure … and I never actually believed it.

Many people do, however, and they absolutely will change tables when certain dealers come to their table.  They will even desert perfectly skilled and friendly dealers.  They insist that their luck will change somehow if they change dealers, but I am almost certain that their yearly profit/loss would be exactly the same if they sat in the same seat with the same dealer each and every day.

You would be hard-pressed to convince them of this, though.

As for me,  I stuck with the “Voodoo” dealer today, and continued to take a pants-down spanking.

When all was said and done, I headed west back toward The Strip with a decidedly lighter wallet.

As I was driving back, I contemplated the situation to myself.  Should I have tried changing dealers this time?  I mean, it was such a terrible run, perhaps there was something to this dealer-changing thing after all.  “Nah”, I thought.  Such a notion is patently ridiculous.

When I got to Maryland Parkway, it finally occurred to me why I had such a rough session today.

I had left my lucky rabbit’s foot at home.

As everyone knows, a rabbit’s foot can overcome even the most skillful of Blackjack dealers.

I really have nobody but myself to blame for what happened today.

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