The High Life-Gambling in Western Massachusetts

Below is the column for the February, 2019 issue of the Sturbridge Times Town & Country Living Magazine.

We don't make as much stuff in New England as we used to so some believe a casino is the ticket for jobs and urban revitalization.  We are not so sure.

Betting on Springfield

By Richard Morchoe

The Game, shown on Bob Hope Presents the Chrysler Theatre (1965), starred Cliff Robertson and his then wife, Dina Merrill.  He was someone who wandered into the wrong place. Robertson played Quincey Parke who came upon a high stakes game of baccarat at a casino frequented by society.

Parke was a fish out of water in a place of glamour.  Merrill plays Maralise who takes Robertson’s character under her wing.  Parke is on a winning streak, but to stay in the game, must dress the part and wear formal clothing.

Eventually, the high life is too much for him and Parke expires.    It takes a lot to keep up the pretense of being upper class.  Monaco is not for everyone.

During the late 60s when I was pretending to be a college student, a friend and I hitchhiked to Daytona for Spring Week.  Someone told us it was better and cheaper in Nassau and the flight was in our budget.

It was a great time and we were able to stay in a rooming house for $2.50 a night each.   Not the Ritz, it was easier to rough it at that age.

There was a lot going on.  Aristotle Onassis and Jacqueline Kennedy had arrived on his yacht.  Yacht was an understatement.  The vessel was a converted corvette.  No, that was not a Chevy sports car, but a class of small warships used by many navies, though not ours.  Nassau was a place frequented by the wealthy, as well as near derelict collegians on vacation.

Nassau also had a casino in what was known as Paradise Island.  True, it was unlike the grand spots on the Riviera, but it was not without class.  To be admitted, one had to wear at least a jacket and tie.  We put on blazers and our only cravats and went over.

That evening, if we weren’t the least best dressed, it was by accident.  The dealers and croupiers were all formally attired and the guests, though not as well accoutered as Monte Carlo, were making an effort to look good.

We played the slots and I made one pass at roulette.  Even at that age, the realization that all was in favor of the house led us to put a quick end to our participation.  There was enough debauchery going on elsewhere that coming home sunburnt and broke was easily achievable.

Around that time, our nation was still somewhat puritanical.  Here in New England, that is our settlers’ legacy. When New Hampshire instituted its first in the nation lottery in 1964, it was a big break with the past.  Supposedly, our governor, Endicott “Chub” Peabody, had warned the Granite State’s John King not to sign the sweepstakes bill.

Though known as a liberal, Chub was a direct descendant of the stern Puritans who settled the region.  There is only so much one can deviate from ancestry.

Eventually, the Bay State would give over and why not?  In urban areas we already had the lottery. It was just not a government run enterprise.  The logic was inescapable, besides the Commonwealth has never seen a money raising impost it didn’t like and this one would fleece a willing populace.

Still, casinos were nowhere in sight other than in that land of sin, Nevada.  That’s a place anything goes.  The Mustang Ranch, after all, had no wild horses.

That would change.  Tribes of the indigenous nations began fighting back against Caucasian oppressors by taking them to the cleaners at the gaming tables.  Their reservations being at least semi-sovereign, it was difficult to tell them what not to do on their own land.

Tribal nations opening gaming halls were mostly in western states.  Here in Nova Anglia, the descendants of the natives have been much assimilated and in our neighbor, Connecticut, there was no federally recognized tribe.  

The Pequots had been thoroughly defeated in an early colonial war.  Over the centuries they had only held on to their tiny reservation by a thread. Yet, in the 20th Skip Hayward, a one-eighth Pequot would revitalize them, secure federal recognition and, wait for it, get a casino.

That casino, known as Foxwoods, is quite a complex and might compare to those of Europe, except for who they let in.  That would be you and me, folks.  Yup, the great unwashed are welcomed with open arms.  In our family’s only foray into the Southern Connecticut pleasure palace, we encountered a complex to cater to every legal (at least) sybaritic taste imaginable when not gambling.

We had not come to take a flyer on augmenting our meager fortune.  The Peguots have put up a wonderful museum that documents their existence going back to before they arrived and that was our destination.  After, we went to the buffet, traipsing through the gambling areas enroute.  No one was exquisitely attired, but it did look like the tribe was raking it in.

If one New England casino worked, why not more?  That idea had occurred to others.  The Mohegan Tribe, who allied with the Brits to beat up the Pequots in the 17th Century, wanted and got Mohegan Sun.  It looked like the Town of Palmer to the west of Sturbridge would get one, but the voters could not be swayed by the full court public relations press of the backers.

Springfield, though, would succumb.

There is Industrial Revolution history in Springfield.  The famous Armory produced guns for many wars. The gasoline engine was invented there and it was home to the still iconic Indian Motorcycle.  In the prior two centuries it was known as “The City of Progress.”  Less so now.

Would Springfield be nothing without gaming?  The city did work hard to get it.  Maybe there were other businesses that might have served as well.   It would seem a casino is an idea that arises when there is not a better one.

Last spring, with much hoopla, MGM Springfield, opened its doors and has been operating since.  There have been claims that it is meeting expectations while a morning radio commentator said the several gambling dens now available are sharing a market that has not increased.

Though not feeling overly drawn to the experience, my wife and I found ourselves in Springfield on a Sunday afternoon and easily got a parking space on State Street close to the doors.  Upon entering the din of machines was inescapable.  As one got nearer, there were blinking lights to accompany the sound as players poked and prodded buttons.  Everything on the machines that flashed on and off was of bright, garish colors.

Interestingly, for a weekend afternoon, it did not seem even half full.  Among the blackjack tables, not as suffused with the sensory overload elsewhere, there were a few dealers unoccupied and looking bored.

The gamblers at machines were intense.  They seemed to see nothing else other than the banging and ringing going on in front of them.  My wife noticed that none of them, as well as people walking around were smiling.  Unlike Disney World, it was not the “Happiest Place on Earth.”

Of course, there are dining options.  Cal Mare seemed Italian seafood themed, but also had pizza and meat.  It looked appealing and almost empty.  The Chandler Steakhouse was closed up tight.

One spot doing a roaring business was TAP Sports Bar.   The clientele were there to watch football.  Beer, pub food, and sports on TV packed the house.  If there was any deeper meaning than an abiding love for the Patriots, it was beyond us.

The poker room was active, but even there a big table was empty.  As you entered that room, there was a bureau with pamphlets on it.  One read “Anything You Need To Know About Gambling?  The other would tell you to “Know when to step away.”  The positioning was not obtrusive.  No one was looking for the literature anyway, and I was the only customer.

As not to the manor born, it is impossible for me to say why the upper classes would want to while away their time at the tables in Southern France.  Paradise Island was more understandable.  People were away for vacation and escape and would go home remembering that part as well as the beaches and nightlife.

MGM Springfield was no fun.  One supposes it might be, maybe once a year and taking in a show.  The players looked like they were working harder than at a job.  All this despite the management’s efforts to give it some allure. 

In the Twilight Zone Episode, “A Nice Place to Visit,” a man arrives in a casino and wins everything and can have all he wants.  He thinks himself in heaven.  Soon, however, he is bored and tells his guide he would rather go to hell.  The guide tells him he is in hell.