“After the morning betting session, I walked the dog and then went over to Tommy Martino’s house over in Aston. I always kept prescription pills and other substances there. I had a computer set up there, too, and I checked quickly to see if any of the games had moved. After popping some pills, I ran some errands and got back to my house in time to get the kids off the bus. I made chicken cutlets for dinner, which is what we ate pretty much every other Tuesday. When my wife got home at five o’clock, we all sat down and ate dinner. I worked the night session from five-thirty to eight, which is when the basketball games would go off. I got in the car and drove to Tommy’s house where I worked the late games until like ten o’clock. When the last games went off at ten, we got in Tommy’s car and drove down to the Marriott at Philly International Airport.”
Jimmy Battista and Tommy Martino were friends since they were boys playing stickball in the alley behind their row homes in Clifton Heights, another Philly suburb. On this uncharacteristically mild December night, Martino, as was the routine, drove as the two rode the twenty minutes up I-95 to the airport hotel. In classic Battista fashion, parking in the airport’s garage like every other schmo was too much of a hassle, so he gave a valet twenty bucks to keep the car in the lobby entrance’s curved drop-off area. Each man was dressed as they normally were wherever they traveled—Battista, with his shaved head, wore his standard sweatpants and sweatshirt; the more fit Martino sported jeans, a buttoned-down shirt, and of course perfectly maintained hair. The point of their trip was to meet Martino’s good friend, Tim “Timmy” Donaghy, who had asked Martino if he could see Battista in person. By now, Donaghy was a twelve-year veteran referee in the National Basketball Association, and was staying at the hotel on the eve of the game he was slated to work between the Philadelphia’s 76ers and the Boston Celtics. Though Martino was tight with Donaghy, Battista and Donaghy were only associates through their mutual friendship with Martino. If an occasion arose for them to cross paths because of Martino, Battista and Donaghy were careful over the years to remain out of each other’s universe given the impropriety of an NBA referee mingling with a well-known professional bettor who had a rap sheet marked by gambling arrests.
“Timmy was a known gambler. People all throughout our lives knew he was gambling. He was getting football selections from other people I know pretty close. They weren’t doing too good. I was working for the three sharpest guys in the country: The Computer, The Chinaman, and The Englishman. The Englishman was the world’s best soccer handicapper; The Chinaman was pro baseball (MLB), pro basketball (NBA), and pro football (NFL); and The Computer was college sports, NFL, and NBA. It was the Harvard, the Yale, and the Penn when it came to gambling. This information was incredible . So I was moving sports bets on a daily basis for these guys, making a good living. Timmy was gambling but couldn’t win because the guys he was getting his information from for college and pro football were choppy. Timmy and Tommy were close friends, and Timmy was getting drugs from Tommy when Timmy was in town, getting Percocet and weed and stuff like that. Tommy was also getting me all my drugs at that point. Well, Timmy used to call Tommy and say, ‘Who’s Sheep on?’ because at that point my guys were having the strongest NFL season possible. Donaghy’s guys weren’t picking winners and my guys were crushing on weekends, going ten-and-two, eleven-and-four, whatever. We were beating the number. Tommy said Timmy wanted to meet with me to thank me for my football selections. I had heard that even though Timmy was now winning his football bets—because they were based on my selections—he was getting stiffed on his earnings. Timmy asked me if there was anything I wanted in return for the tips, and I said, ‘We’ll talk when we get together.’”
Until meeting in the Marriott lobby, the last time Tim Donaghy and Jimmy Battista had been in each other’s company was when they appeared in Tommy Martino’s wedding party. “I hadn’t seen him in years but I recognized him right away because I saw him so many times on television. I bet basketball games and followed everything he did.” The three men briefly exchanged pleasantries before walking into the adjoining upscale Riverbend Bar & Grill, a rather large and attractive airport meeting place. The vast restaurant seating area was empty, and the eight or nine patrons sat at the long bar with numerous televisions above carrying various sports programming, mostly West Coast NBA games. Aware that the impending conversation was likely to include some very sensitive—and incriminating—subject matter, the men seated themselves in the vacant dining area, out of earshot from the bar. Battista placed his phone bag, a draw-string-type carrier for his dozen or so cell phones—most of which were direct and exclusive lines from his biggest clients, on the seat next to him. “We met Timmy at like ten-thirty at night. We ordered our food and some drinks. Timmy was flirting with the waitress, who was a little older than us but cute. He was always a little arrogant and always trying to be sly, just like Tommy. I was very nervous because I knew I shouldn’t have been doing this. I already had a couple of Percocets in me and maybe an OxyContin and went through like a bag and a half of coke before the meeting. I suspected that people were always watching me.” As they finished their food and got through with the small talk, Donaghy asked Battista how his football picks were going. Battista replied that his bets—pro and college—were doing very well, and then caught Donaghy off-guard when he asked the referee how his NBA bets were doing. Clearly upset by the question, Donaghy stammered while denying he had been betting on pro basketball games. As an awkward silence surrounded the table, Battista got up.
“I excused myself to go to the bathroom, but just to do a few more lines of coke. I was a functioning drug addict. At that point I was doing drugs all day long. When I got back to the table, Timmy and Tommy went to the bathroom and I later found out that this was when Timmy told Tommy that I was right—Donaghy was betting NBA games as I suspected for a long time. I didn’t want to discuss it further in the hotel because I was so fearful of people watching me. Timmy was as nervous as I was and we decided to leave. All three of us hopped in Tommy’s car, with me in the passenger seat and Timmy in the back. We went to a gas station right near the airport to get rolling papers so Timmy and Tommy could smoke a joint. I was still on my own high from the blow and pills and when they were done smoking pot in the car, Timmy and I got down to business.
“He was bitching about Jack Concannon, the guy he was betting with. According to Timmy, even though Jack had a lucrative insurance business, he was a degenerate gambler. Timmy complained he had fifteen winners with Concannon that he didn’t pay off. Jack supposedly owed Timmy forty thousand dollars, but told Timmy he didn’t have the money because he lost it down at the casinos in Atlantic City. I wasn’t sure if this was why Timmy wanted to meet with me, but I thought so. At least I hoped that was why, because I knew what it would mean if I had an NBA ref on my side. So, I said, ‘Stop! Stop dealing with all these little fucking guys and come with me. How much do you want me to bet for you per game?’ He said, ‘Two thousand a game.’ I told him I’d bet the two thousand a game but I didn’t want him dealing with Jack anymore even though Jack still owed him money. The less people who knew, the better. We set the deal up. Tommy didn’t say much. He was more concerned with looking at himself in the mirror. The whole time, I was looking around to see if anyone was following me.
“Before we dropped Timmy off, I asked him who he liked in the game he was reffing the next day and he said, ‘Boston’s gonna kill the Sixers.’ So, I bet like sixty grand on the game and they won, they crushed. We met the next night, after the game, and I thanked him. There was part of me that said, ‘You don’t need to do this. Why are you fucking with this? You make enough money, you make a good living.’ But, to me, what it came down to was the information. The information was key to me, and I wanted to control the information. As a gambler, having an NBA referee telling you what games he likes was like taking a kid into a candy store and saying, ‘What flavor do you want?’ I was thinking, ‘This is going to go on for the next twenty years!’”
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The hustle envisioned by Battista and Donaghy didn’t last twenty months , let alone twenty years. During a routine probe into an organized crime family in New York, the FBI stumbled onto pro gambler Jimmy Battista. Members of the Bureau’s “Gambino squad” could not have imagined what they were about to discover as their investigation spread to the Philly suburbs. What was originally a stereotypical organized crime case with a hint of money laundering quickly and loudly evolved into a probe of possible game fixing in one of the four major U.S. professional sports. Word of the investigation leaked in July 2007 and by September 2008 the three men were in federal prisons after pleading guilty to their roles in the conspiracy.
By dealing with Jimmy Battista, rather than with any number of other bettors or bookmakers, Tim Donaghy was unwittingly placing himself in harm’s way. It is likely Tim did not know just how influential Jimmy had become since they graduated from Cardinal O’Hara High School in the 1980s, or how Battista’s words and deeds now affected bettors and bookies worldwide. Jimmy was a self-avowed “white-collar” professional gambler who nevertheless prided himself on his low-key demeanor.1 His semi-slovenly appearance and well-traveled minivan perfectly belied his significance and standing in the international betting world. An affable man with remarkable communication skills and an uncanny ability to process numbers, he worked with and for the sharpest gamblers around the globe. For Battista, being a pro gambler meant that he purchased and sold highly sensitive inside information relating to sports events (e.g., injury information, referee assignments, etc.), and placed bets for several exclusive clients (in the U.S. and elsewhere) who often wagered in staggering amounts. His partners and clients were the ones sportsbooks feared most, and were such big deals they routinely altered betting lines with their plays. His work often took him to predictable places like New York, Atlantic City, and Las Vegas, and included forays in more exotic locales such as Antigua, Curacao, and the Bahamas. Battista was not among the world’s top bookmakers or bettors or financiers, but he was arguably the key person in that universe who connected otherwise disparate (and oftentimes competing) parties and provided a multitude of services for all sorts of noteworthy figures. He served as a hub of activity with spokes ultimately leading to all sorts of characters, from hardcore gangsters to mob wannabes to heavy-hitting bettors and financiers to mid-level runners to stringers and edge players of all types, each of whom (even if unknowingly) relied upon him and his variegated expertise. It was this assortment of characters that attracted the FBI and which led them to Jimmy Battista and then to NBA referee Tim Donaghy.
Footnote
Among bettors and law enforcement officials, the term “white-collar” is often used to refer to professional gamblers who are not part of an organized crime conspiracy (i.e., not paying a “street tax” to a syndicate for “protection”). Battista’s rather high-end clientele and his partner group each consisted exclusively of white-collar gamblers for whom sports betting was a profession.
Humble Jim
JIMMY BATTISTA WAS born and raised in Clifton Heights, PA, a white, ethnic, hardscrabble suburb of Philadelphia. Throughout his life, working-class Clifton was often regarded as the stepchild to its better-known (and -regarded) immediate neighbor, Springfield. “On the one side of Springfield Rd., there was Springfield and the other side was Clifton Heights. We were the blue collar side that lived in row homes, and the people in Springfield lived in single homes and lived a lavish life,” says Battista. Some residents took pride in Clifton’s edgy reputation and championed a comical, yet insightful, phrase for those who ventured into their part of the world: “Welcome to Clifton . . . now GET OUT!”
Battista’s parents were representative of that era’s Clifton: diligent, conscientious, hardworking folks who were churchgoing, “straight arrows.” Larry and Connie Battista collectively worked three jobs throughout little Jimmy’s childhood, which earned them their son’s deep respect. “My dad was a saver, a grinder his entire life. He was the kind of guy who would drive four miles to get flounder on sale. My father was one of thirteen children to Cosmo Battista, who was an immigrant from Italy. Cosmo was born in 1895 and as a teenager was a window washer on the Statue of Liberty. My father would sell his soul to the devil if it meant his kids could go to school, have clothes on their bodies, have shoes on their feet, and have a better life. I respected him so much because he worked all the time and he was there no matter what. I loved his work ethic: ‘You work hard, do the best you can.’ He wasn’t a fancy dresser, but he always provided for his family. My dad was kind of laid back, but my mom was a worrywart, really high-strung. My mom was a great lady growing up, very supportive, and preached the same messages: Work, get good grades. Th at’s probably the thing I admire most about my parents, that they instilled a work ethic into me and my sisters.” Battista laughs when he adds, “I didn’t listen to them about their other values all the time, but they taught me nothing comes for free in this life. If you want something, ya gotta go get it.”
Battista, who was born in 1965, considers his early childhood unremarkable, and looks back fondly on that time in his life. “I went to Holy Cross grade school, where I played football and basketball. I was manager of the basketball team and its best shooter. I was like ‘Set Shot’ Buford from The Fish That Saved Pittsburgh . I couldn’t dribble, but I could shoot the lights out. I was a quiet kid and always kept to myself. My nickname growing up was Humble Jim, and some people called me ‘Hummer’ for short.” The work ethic Battista speaks so admiringly of was soon passed on to him. “I always worked from the time I was about twelve years old. My father worked as a banker at Girard [later Mellon] Bank. He also used to work at a restaurant called the Clam Tavern in Collingdale and I would work bussing tables or in the kitchen three or four days a week. I then had a paper route and was a paper boy for the [now defunct Evening Philadelphia] Bulletin for a few years. To me, that was fast cash. It was fun. My friends and I would meet at the Getty station on Springfield Road and steal some papers and sell them, and then use the money to go play video games at the bowling alley. Even back then, I needed money in my pocket. I was so used to hustling and making money. We were, like, the lower side of Clifton Heights. My father had to work two jobs and my mom was working a job for my little sister and me to go to a Catholic grade school when my older sister was in high school. We were not ‘the fortunate ones.’ My dad would say, ‘You are going to college. I don’t want you working sixty or seventy hours a week like I do, just to get by.’ As good as my parents were, I knew I had to fend for myself. I knew that if I wanted something, I had to work for it and go get it.”
The working-class lifestyle in Jimmy’s early life, complete with its many sacrifices and burdens, fomented disdain within him and impacted many of his decisions as he entered the world as an adolescent. Indeed, his childhood dramatically affected his view of the world and how he planned to move beyond his rather modest upbringing. Simple jobs performed by numerous teenagers were looked at by Battista as opportunities to exploit, as evidenced by his paper route. So great was his zeal to earn considerable amounts of money from an early age, he successfully manipulated several nondescript jobs into lucrative pursuits beyond their original purpose. Simply put, he was well on his way to a life of bartering and selling—and hustling—as a teenager in the late 1970s and early 1980s.
“As I got into adolescence, I was interested in ways to make a buck, fastlaning, and books weren’t my thing. After a while, I learned how to open my mouth, and I got away with a lot of things. I also started getting in a lot of trouble. My cousin, Paul, was known as the Black Sheep of the family. He was always in jail, beating up kids, and stuff like that. Well, as I got older, I was known as Little Baba. Little Sheep. I kept getting in trouble and the name stuck. I wasn’t Humble Jim anymore.”
Baba the Black Sheep
THE NICKNAME BABA Black Sheep captured who Battista was, and foreshadowed who he would soon become as he entered Cardinal O�
��Hara High School. “I had a great high school career,” Battista says. “All my life up until then, I was a short, chunky kid. In high school I got in really good shape. By the time I started junior year, I was five-eight and probably weighed a hundred and ninety-five pounds. I worked out a lot and was pretty strong. I worked out at Olympia Gym back when Arnold Schwarzenegger was involved and when professional wrestlers like Ivan Putski and Chief Jay Strong-bow used to lift when they were in town. It was a well-known gym that people used to come to, and these guys were fucking animals. I played football my junior year and started for the junior varsity team, but got cut the next year and played rugby. Rugby was great because you didn’t wear any pads and you could just hit people; it was my game. My rugby friends were big into drinking, but not into drugs. We would run five miles before practice, play rugby, and then drink our faces off. In the late 70s and early 80s, underage drinking and drinking and driving weren’t the big issues they are today. We were regular high school kids who went to school, worked, played sports, and partied on weekends. I also played CYO [Catholic Youth Organization] basketball. My junior year, our CYO team was better than my high school team. In fact, we scrimmaged Monsignor Bonner the year they won the city championship and beat them. Our CYO team was that good. We were tough. We were Clifton kids, street kids.
Gaming the Game Page 2
