It’s been a week and a half since I went to Vegas, tested out with a pro I look up to, had my first several back-offs, and crushed every session to finally fly out of a -$4,000 downswing. Looking back is both exciting and exhausting—but man, what a ride.
I wasn’t sure if the test out was even going to happen as I made the five-hour drive to Vegas. Two weeks before, I’d already paid $500 for a two-hour test with a Blackjack Apprenticeship certified pro, but I was holding out for a test with Spartan. He’s known for running the most brutal, no-nonsense tests out there. I’d read his stories, listened to his interviews on podcasts and YouTube, and I really respect his whole “hold yourself to a higher standard” philosophy.
He said he was available that weekend, which gave me about five days to prep and travel to Vegas. I immediately booked a hotel and started planning. But as I got on the road, I couldn’t stop wondering if I was even going to get the chance to meet him—he hadn’t confirmed a time or date yet. Part of me thought maybe this was a test itself. Maybe I just needed to show up and make it work.
Right as I pulled into my hotel’s parking lot, I got an email. I held my breath, hoping I hadn’t just wasted the whole trip.
Spartan:
“Sorry for the late replies. I should’ve given you my phone number earlier—text me and we’ll schedule a time.”
I exhaled every bit of air in my lungs. I’d been stressing about this the entire drive. Honestly, if this was a test of commitment, I think I just passed. He explained he’d been busy doing test outs with his team for an upcoming trip, and we scheduled a time to meet. I wandered around downtown Vegas afterward, watching everyone get drunk at noon while I sipped a good old Diet Coke.
Also, check out this shark tank by the pool—my girlfriend loves aquatic life and now wants to come here for her birthday.
Later, I headed over to the address Spartan sent. A lot was riding on this. The ride there was dead silent. This test felt like the culmination of 350 hours of practice on training software and 25 to 50 hours dealing cards to myself. I’d worked so hard to get to this point.
I knocked on the door, and Spartan let me in. The first person I saw inside was none other than Steven fucking Bridges. I was standing in a room with Spartan—the card counter I look up to most—and Steven Bridges—the guy who inspired me to start counting cards. Saying I was starstruck would be an understatement. They were working together with eight or nine other APs prepping for a two-week trip. I met the crew, and then Spartan and I headed into a different room with a blackjack table for the test.
We started by chatting about card counting, my goals, and some general getting-to-know-you stuff. Then we got to it. He handed me a deck and asked me to count it down. I finished in 22.5 seconds. That passed—but it was slower than I’d hoped. I’d been hitting 21 seconds consistently before. Then he had me count starting from 10 and from -10. I was off by one on both. I could feel my nerves getting the better of me. Inside, I thought I’d already blown it. But Spartan didn’t seem fazed, which honestly surprised me.
Then we moved into some double-deck shoes. He showed me the spread I needed to follow and dealt in two other hands to simulate real play. We started off slow, keeping a steady conversation. Then, mid-shoe, he started dealing lightning fast—and then just stopped. We ended up having a 10-15 minute conversation right in the middle of the round. I knew this was part of the test. I stayed calm, kept chatting, and when he finally asked me the count, I answered without hesitation: 9. He looked impressed. I still remember that count to this day. After the first shoe, he said, “Either you’re naturally talented, or you’ve worked really, really hard.” I told him it was all hard work. My confidence shot through the roof.
We kept playing, and he kept testing me—mispays, overpays, trying to snatch chips after busting, random distractions, speed changes. He caught me once during max-speed dealing when I doubled an A,5 against a 3. I immediately admitted it, and he just said, “Yeah, you did.”
At the end, he pointed out two areas I needed to improve: using half-deck divisors on six-deck and working on my face-down double-deck game, which I hadn’t practiced yet. I already knew I’d need to work on those.
Then he told me I was in the top five percent of players he’s tested—on par with a strong pro. He said he might even want to work with me in the future, after some additional training. That was wild to hear from someone of his caliber. He said my number-one focus now should be growing my bankroll.
Beyond the test, I felt like we’d made a genuine connection. Spartan struck me as smart, kind, and incredibly grounded. It seemed as though he saw something in me as well.
After we wrapped up, his team went back to their prep. I hopped in my car, yelled (only a little), and instantly called my mom and my girlfriend.
I HAD JUST PASSED THE HARDEST TEST OUT IN THE WORLD.
Back at my hotel, I figured it was time to celebrate. Vegas is full of card-counting opportunities, but I’d just pulled off something huge. I hit the video poker machines (I’m 99% perfect at Jacks or Better) to snag some comped drinks. It worked pretty well—but sitting there grinding away at a 1% disadvantage still felt bad, even with free $9 beers.
Eventually, I glanced over at the blackjack tables. They looked way more fun than video poker. I jumped into a six-deck game, but the count quickly tanked. I shifted over to double deck, bouncing between both tables for about five hours. No heat, probably because I looked like a drunk poker degenerate—and I just kept winning.
Around 5 a.m., I had the double deck table all to myself when I noticed a construction worker walking over. He sat down, and I knew instantly—this guy was an AP.
I tried making awkward small talk about the crappy drive from Phoenix to Vegas. He didn’t buy in—just pulled chips out of his pocket and got started. As the dealer dealt the cards, I let out a deep sigh. I already knew what was coming.
The count climbed to a true count of 2, which meant a $100 bet for me. I glanced over and saw him casually unzip a hip pack I hadn’t even noticed. In one smooth motion, he slid two purple $500 chips under his stack like it was nothing. His fanny pack was stuffed with those chips. If it wasn’t obvious before, it was now crystal clear.
Before another card was dealt, the pit boss stepped in. “Stop,” she said, and pointed. “You, yellow—color up and get out.” They silently cashed him out while I sat there thinking, “I’m going to finish this shoe and then get the hell out of here.”
She walked away—but then whipped around. “Yeah, you too.”
I laughed a little, stayed quiet, and they cashed out my $1,790—$1,490 profit over five hours.
I walked out and caught up with the construction worker outside. I told him, laughing, that he’d just earned me my first back-off. He apologized, but I wasn’t mad—I was way too curious.
We stopped into another casino and grabbed a few beers. He was fascinating. He’d been counting since 2005 and had connections with some people I knew. I asked him how the hell he pulled off that construction worker act with a fanny pack full of $500 chips. He swore it worked. He said most people—including pit bosses—only see what they expect to see. His disguise threw them off just enough.
We talked for a while before I stumbled back to my hotel around 6 a.m. I tried squeezing in a quick shoe at the hotel casino but bailed halfway through a positive count—too much heat, too many eyes. Not worth a trespass from my hotel.
The next day I woke up feeling terrible—hungover, dehydrated, and starving. I crushed a huge breakfast, slammed about 60 ounces of water, and went to cash out my $1,790 in chips.
Nope. They asked for ID right away because of the purple chips. I declined and walked out. Not great—but I figured I’d try again later.
I crashed in my room until 8 p.m., then got back to work. I found a great double deck game with just half a deck cut off—apparently a newer casino that was a bit more tolerant. Treated myself to some Korean BBQ, then jumped in.
The place was stunning—marble, gold accents, great lighting. I thought, “My family would love this place.” I sat down with one other player and went to work.
For an hour, I spread aggressively with no cover, winning hand after hand. I was locked in—focused entirely on my game and chatting with the table. No clue how much I’d won. Then, after an insane run, I heard the phone ring. The guy next to me told his friends, “I’ve never seen anything like it.” I thought the same.
I spotted the pit boss staring at me. I heard Spartan’s voice in my head: “Don’t back yourself off—make them do it.” So I kept playing.
Soon enough, the pit boss walked over. Calm, polite, and respectful. “Hey, you know the deal—and I’m sure you’ve heard this before. Your game is too good for us. You’re welcome to play anything else, but no more blackjack.” Little did he know, it was the first time I’ve heard that.
I shook his hand, cashed out $3,087—$2,487 profit—and left. The guy next to me fist-bumped me, wide-eyed, as I walked out into the night.
Biggest win of my life. But no time to celebrate—I needed sleep and had more casinos to hit.
The next morning I woke up early, determined to get things done. First up—cash out more chips, get a haircut, and buy some new clothes to change up my look.
I decided to try cashing out $700 first at the original casino. No way they’d ID me for such a small amount, right? Wrong. The second they saw the purple chip, they demanded ID. I flat out refused.
“Are you just taking my money?” I asked.
They hesitated—then said yes.
Shocked, I left and called gaming control. They were surprisingly empathetic, but couldn’t really help. I was beyond frustrated. Eventually, I walked back in, dumped all my chips on the counter, and said, “Hey, I need to cash these out.”
To my surprise, they just handed me the cash.
Seriously—fuck those guys.
I walked out of there fast. Cashed out more at another spot, grabbed a haircut, hit Goodwill for some fresh clothes, and went back to grinding.
The first place I played backed me off after just 30 minutes—fastest yet—but politely let me cash out. I won about $200 and moved on.
At the next casino, I noticed two guys nearby clearly counting too—spreading much bigger bets. We played a couple of minimum-bet shoes, but I left when I sensed it was time. As I walked out, one of them asked, “Where are you headed next?” They’d caught on.
I shouldn’t have, but I told them my plans and left quickly.
By now it was late, but I’d saved the best for last—playing on the Strip. No hotel booked—I planned to drive home afterward.
I lost $1,500 in dramatic fashion right away. Everyone noticed as I stood up, loudly complaining about losing everything. It’s good to let the staff see you lose sometimes—it keeps them off your back later.
I switched tables and met Ernie—easily one of the best dealers I’ve ever had. Energetic, hilarious, and well-known by everyone in the casino. I told him I’d just lost $2,000 (exaggerated), and he promised we’d win it back.
I kept up my newbie act. He played along, even calling out my “reverse Martingale regression strategy” as I kept winning. He celebrated with me on every hand.
Then, he started cutting the shoe super deep—only 16 cards off—for “good luck.” I tipped him $5 for it, and he kept it going. But I made it clear—no cut, no tip. He caught on fast. For the next few shoes, he gave great cuts and got tipped accordingly.
At one point, Ernie leaned in and told me, “You’ve got railbirds.” I was confused for a second until I looked around and noticed a small crowd gathered behind me, quietly watching me play. I had been so locked in—focused on the cards, the count, and interacting with Ernie—that I didn’t even notice people standing there watching me win hand after hand. He chuckled and said, “They’ve been back there for a while.” Honestly, I had no idea how I’d been able to play this long without heat, especially with a crowd starting to form behind me.
By the time his shift ended, I’d come back from my earlier loss and stacked up a huge win. I thanked him and kept playing.
That’s when one of the counters from earlier showed up at my table. He asked, “How did you know?”
At first I was confused—then it hit me. They must’ve gotten backed off right after I left.
I just smiled and said, “Well, it was kind of obvious,” then turned away. He looked at me like I was some mystical creature and left. Honestly, they were probably putting more heat on me just by talking and it frustrated me a bit.
The next dealer came in—and the vibe instantly shifted. No energy, no jokes—just cold stares and hard deals. I could tell he was sick of me not tipping. He practically slapped the cards onto the table.
I checked the time. 12:45 a.m. I’d been playing for two hours. My mind started spinning—a chunk of my bankroll sitting in the car, the five-hour drive back to Phoenix, exhaustion creeping in. Time to go.
They wouldn’t cash me out without ID. Against my better judgment, I gave it up. I hadn’t been backed off, but I just wanted my money and to get the hell out. Looking back, I should’ve cashed a little and sold the rest to another AP in Phoenix—people love playing this spot.
I hopped in my car and drove straight back, stopping only once for gas. Honestly, I should’ve spent $80 on a motel and driven back in the morning—but I couldn’t stop grinning. My first Vegas trip, and I’d crushed them.
When I got home, I counted out $16,307 in cash. I had won $6,307 on my weekend trip.
I wish I could’ve celebrated—but it was 6:30 a.m. and I passed out almost instantly. Here’s how my graph looked after the trip.
I learned a ton this trip—especially about cashing out and back-offs. Bigger amounts get tricky at the cage, and time management in Vegas is crucial. There’s no room for indecision out here. You need a plan. Grind hard, move fast.
As I’m writing this, I’m packing for my next trip—to New Mexico. The games there look great, and I’m giving Phoenix a break. The casinos here are still on high alert after a team wiped them out recently. They watch every bet I raise—but I never stay long enough to get backed off.
Here’s where I stand before New Mexico. Wish me luck.
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