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COLUMN: John L. Smith
Martin set the line and set the standard with his professionalism, humor
If there were any justice, the lights from Broadway to the Strip would be dark right now.
The multibillion-dollar sports betting action from the Dominican Republic to downtown would cease out of respect. Every bookmaker worth his ledger would shed a tear.
Bob Martin, the greatest oddsmaker in the history of sport, has died. He was 82.
Martin, who suffered from cancer, died at 4:40 a.m. EDT at his Central Park West apartment in Manhattan in the presence of his wife of 42 years, Carlotta; daughter, Stacey St. Clair; and stepson, Bill Kilgore.
At the old Churchill Downs sports book, Martin reinvented sports betting by preparing a legitimate and reliable line the rest of the country imitated. In the days before computers and cellphones, he was the ultimate oddsmaking oracle.
When Martin's line went up, leg men representing bookies from all across North America would rush outside to the pay phones to spread the word of the Vegas line. The numbers were as solid as the man who made them.
Born Dec. 14, 1918, in Brooklyn, Martin studied journalism at New York University but was destined to become a bookmaker. In New York, Martin was a regular at Bravo Johnny's on East 63rd Street, where the sporting crowd thrived. From Max Courtney and Red Reed to the executives of Murder Inc., Martin charmed everyone he met.
With partner "Crippled Julius" Silverman, Martin gained a national reputation from his office in Washington, D.C., not far from the halls of Congress. Whether taking Joseph Kennedy's bets on sports and the 1960 presidential election or holding court at Duke Siefert's, Martin's reputation spread rapidly. One old friend recalls Martin's office was located in the same building as that of U.S. Sen. John McClellan during his hearings into illegal gambling.
Known for his biting wit, Martin once silenced a loutish Jake LaMotta by turning to him in a crowded restaurant and saying, "Tell me, Jake, which one of your wives took the best punch?"
When Martin moved to Las Vegas, where sports betting was legal, he revolutionized the business in the pre-computer era.
"It's not even close," his friend Jack Franzi wagers. "There's nobody near him. Bob changed everything. When he set the line, everyone knew that it was a legitimate line."
Martin was a walking computer who smoked, drank and told stories.
"You'll have to search the world to find two people who didn't like Bob," Franzi says. "He had a great sense of humor."
Martin never lost that sense of humor, even after a federal gambling conviction sent him to the prison at Boron, Calif., for 13 months. Franzi ate dinner with him every Sunday. Kilgore brought enough provisions to feed half the prison population.
"I was bringing the food down four times a week," Kilgore says. "One day he told me I could stop. He said, `The food's OK now; the chef escaped.' "
Casino owner Michael Gaughan says, "Bob always took everything in stride and never panicked. He never lost his temper, win or lose. He wasn't the biggest bookmaker, but he was the best bookmaker."
Gambler Lem Banker remembers Martin as a consummate professional who all but single-handedly created oddsmaking on NBA games and even managed to credibly book boxing matches in the days when Frankie Carbo and Blinky Palermo were accused of fixing many of them.
At a 1978 tribute to Joe Louis at Caesars Palace, Muhammad Ali got carried away, calling the former champ an Uncle Tom, and Banker watched as Martin stood alone to shout down the charismatic speaker.
"Bob was never afraid to stand up for what he believed in," Banker recalls. "He was quite a guy."
When Los Angeles Rams coach Ray Malavasi howled that Martin was crazy for making his team an 11 1/2-point underdog to Pittsburgh in Super Bowl XIV in 1980, the oddsmaker responded with a challenge: He would take all bets from any NFL coach and gladly refund half their wagers.
Pittsburgh won by 12 points. Martin never heard from Malavasi again.
"Everything he did he was top of the line," Franzi says. "He was the word."
If there were any justice, the action would stop in honor of his passing.
But the truth is, thanks to Bob Martin the action never stops
Martin set the line and set the standard with his professionalism, humor
If there were any justice, the lights from Broadway to the Strip would be dark right now.
The multibillion-dollar sports betting action from the Dominican Republic to downtown would cease out of respect. Every bookmaker worth his ledger would shed a tear.
Bob Martin, the greatest oddsmaker in the history of sport, has died. He was 82.
Martin, who suffered from cancer, died at 4:40 a.m. EDT at his Central Park West apartment in Manhattan in the presence of his wife of 42 years, Carlotta; daughter, Stacey St. Clair; and stepson, Bill Kilgore.
At the old Churchill Downs sports book, Martin reinvented sports betting by preparing a legitimate and reliable line the rest of the country imitated. In the days before computers and cellphones, he was the ultimate oddsmaking oracle.
When Martin's line went up, leg men representing bookies from all across North America would rush outside to the pay phones to spread the word of the Vegas line. The numbers were as solid as the man who made them.
Born Dec. 14, 1918, in Brooklyn, Martin studied journalism at New York University but was destined to become a bookmaker. In New York, Martin was a regular at Bravo Johnny's on East 63rd Street, where the sporting crowd thrived. From Max Courtney and Red Reed to the executives of Murder Inc., Martin charmed everyone he met.
With partner "Crippled Julius" Silverman, Martin gained a national reputation from his office in Washington, D.C., not far from the halls of Congress. Whether taking Joseph Kennedy's bets on sports and the 1960 presidential election or holding court at Duke Siefert's, Martin's reputation spread rapidly. One old friend recalls Martin's office was located in the same building as that of U.S. Sen. John McClellan during his hearings into illegal gambling.
Known for his biting wit, Martin once silenced a loutish Jake LaMotta by turning to him in a crowded restaurant and saying, "Tell me, Jake, which one of your wives took the best punch?"
When Martin moved to Las Vegas, where sports betting was legal, he revolutionized the business in the pre-computer era.
"It's not even close," his friend Jack Franzi wagers. "There's nobody near him. Bob changed everything. When he set the line, everyone knew that it was a legitimate line."
Martin was a walking computer who smoked, drank and told stories.
"You'll have to search the world to find two people who didn't like Bob," Franzi says. "He had a great sense of humor."
Martin never lost that sense of humor, even after a federal gambling conviction sent him to the prison at Boron, Calif., for 13 months. Franzi ate dinner with him every Sunday. Kilgore brought enough provisions to feed half the prison population.
"I was bringing the food down four times a week," Kilgore says. "One day he told me I could stop. He said, `The food's OK now; the chef escaped.' "
Casino owner Michael Gaughan says, "Bob always took everything in stride and never panicked. He never lost his temper, win or lose. He wasn't the biggest bookmaker, but he was the best bookmaker."
Gambler Lem Banker remembers Martin as a consummate professional who all but single-handedly created oddsmaking on NBA games and even managed to credibly book boxing matches in the days when Frankie Carbo and Blinky Palermo were accused of fixing many of them.
At a 1978 tribute to Joe Louis at Caesars Palace, Muhammad Ali got carried away, calling the former champ an Uncle Tom, and Banker watched as Martin stood alone to shout down the charismatic speaker.
"Bob was never afraid to stand up for what he believed in," Banker recalls. "He was quite a guy."
When Los Angeles Rams coach Ray Malavasi howled that Martin was crazy for making his team an 11 1/2-point underdog to Pittsburgh in Super Bowl XIV in 1980, the oddsmaker responded with a challenge: He would take all bets from any NFL coach and gladly refund half their wagers.
Pittsburgh won by 12 points. Martin never heard from Malavasi again.
"Everything he did he was top of the line," Franzi says. "He was the word."
If there were any justice, the action would stop in honor of his passing.
But the truth is, thanks to Bob Martin the action never stops
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