Whenever I hear the words “All-in,” I think of James Bond. I envision the collective eyes of a hazy, casino floor slowly turning in his direction; the cigarette dangling dangerously from the corner of his mouth; the almost imperceptible smirk informing the contours of his lips, born of a certain knowledge only a few fortunate souls possess; a Bond girl on his left flank; a chilled martini sweating in a glass on his right. The slight tug on one French cuff—then the other—serves to acknowledge the room and all those eyes. Only a fool bets it all unless he or she knows something everyone else at the table does not.
All-In is a Losing Strategy for the Cincinnati Reds
