Confession: I’ve long loved the lexicon of a dice game happening on a street corner or in the basement of an after-hours spot or in the parking lot of a strip club or, an eon ago, in the halls of my high school: “Fever in the funkhouse, and I’m looking for a fin . . . Nina Ross the new boss . . . Box cars . . . Lil Joe out the back door . . . Six, eight running mates. Seven come eleven . . . Aces . . . Snake eyes . . . Mama need clothes. Baby need new shoes . . . Taking all side bets . . . Bet it back.”
Have also loved the sound of dice knocking in a fist, a dude blowing on them for luck with high flair, the pop of the finger snap that stressed each roll.
But…
