The gambler's guide to surviving Super Bowl Sunday

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It's Sunday morning and you're getting the itch, but Super Bowl LIV is still a good eight hours away. No sweat, the final round of the absurdly named Waste Management Phoenix Open and some specialty cross-sport props should help kill time. Plus, you've got more bets down than you can count and need to get organized before game time.

You type them into a color-coded spreadsheet, in chronological order from when they should hit. And they all will hit. These aren't shots in the dark; they're cold, calculated, and collected. You've put in the work and sacrificed precious time at the office. You've read articles, analyzed box scores, and studied the trends. This is science.

You print out the sheet and it's beautiful - so beautiful you have to upload it to Instagram. If it's not on the 'gram, did it even happen?

This level of effort and organization is guaranteed to be rewarded; your sixth-grade teacher couldn't have been more wrong about you. Eat it, Mr. Elmwood.

The Washington Capitals game kicks off just past noon and that's when your day of betting begins. Of course, the San Francisco 49ers will score more touchdowns than there are hits by Alex Ovechkin, who's averaging fewer than three per game this season. It's free money.

The puck drops and Ovechkin is a heat-seeking missile. He's motivated by his disdain for the Pittsburgh Penguins and hits everything in sight, finishing the game with a whopping eight. Unless the entire Kansas City Chiefs defense contracts food poisoning, this bet is dead. But that's OK because today isn't about hockey. It's Super Bowl Sunday.

Next up, Bryson DeChambeau and Gary Woodland butcher the final round of the Waste Management Open and you're on your way to an 0-3 start, but you aren't sweating it.

"It's kind of perfect, honestly," you tell yourself. "I'd rather get the losing out of the way early. This is great betting karma."

You spend the next few hours watching Netflix in a mild panic. It takes you that entire time to get through just a single episode of the Aaron Hernandez documentary, and now the sun is starting to set. You've spent all season on the 49ers hype train and it's finally time to get that sweet validation.

The pregame coverage is painfully slow and you've seen more overhead pans of South Beach than anyone could ever need. We get it, Miami is nice. Terry Bradshaw won't shut up about his four Super Bowl rings and anticipation has quickly blossomed into resentment. How has this game not started yet?

You suffer through more mind-numbing pleasantries from Joe Buck and Troy Aikman before they finally pan to the field. You shriek like a preteen when Demi Lovato appears on the screen. You read a convincing article about the national anthem time and feel great about that under bet. It loses. Thanks a lot, Jackson.

OK, now you're starting to doubt everything, including the inside info you got about the coin toss. Your friend's sister's nephew works at the plant in which the Super Bowl coin is designed and said its weight distribution gives it a slight predisposition to land on heads. That's a +EV outlook, so you run with it, and guess what? Heads it is. The perfect slump-buster, and just in time for kickoff. "DON'T LET ME GET HOT!" you shout, to an empty room.

You're almost embarrassed about ever doubting yourself. You lean back in your chair with a conceited smile plastered over your face - you might not lose another bet all night.

If only that were true.

The 49ers commit a holding penalty on the opening kick return and Raheem Mostert is stuffed for no gain on their first play from scrimmage. Two more losses and you start to get that sinking feeling.

Your lips are numb and the television becomes a blur. An abrupt enthusiasm in Buck's voice ushers you back to a state of consciousness. Chiefs touchdown. Everything is not going to be OK.

The remainder of the first half is a dangerous, Patrick Mahomes-induced blur. He's dropping dimes left and right. He hadn't hit 24 completions since Week 15 but he's well on his way to it here. San Francisco's defense has never looked so inept.

At least Mecole Hardman is getting involved. His 29-yard touchdown late in the half cashes his longest reception over 12.5 yards, but it also puts the Chiefs up 21-6. Jimmy Garoppolo's first rushing attempt is a knee to end the second quarter for another winner.

Jennifer Lopez changes her outfit only once during her halftime performance and DJ Khaled is nowhere to be seen. Four winners in 20 minutes. The adrenaline is pumping and confidence is soaring once again - so much so that you double down with the 49ers +13.5 at the half.

San Fran gets a quick defensive stop to start the third quarter and then marches straight into the red zone. It's happening. Deebo Samuel converts a big third down and it's first-and-goal.

But Andy Reid is challenging the spot after going just 10-for-23 during the last four seasons. After 23 replays, you couldn't be more convinced.

"There's no way you can overturn this, let's go! We're wasting everyone's time," you bark. Again, no one's there to hear it.

The referee jogs back onto the field.

"After reviewing the play," he starts. "It was determined the runner came short of the line to gain. The ball will be placed at the 8-yard line. Fourth down, San Francisco."

Your heart sinks. Mostert is stuffed on fourth down and momentum has changed hands yet again. Mahomes decides it's not your night, as he methodically drives the Chiefs down the field and connects with Blake Bell for a one-yard touchdown to make it 28-6. This is really, really bad. Deep down, you know the game is over, and you're quickly proven right.

Kyle Shanahan insists on establishing the run, George Kittle is still being used as a blocker, and punter Mitch Wishnowsky is getting way too much screen time. "Just put me out of my misery," you beg, through clenched teeth.

Sammy Watkins is apparently listening, as he splits the safeties and drives the stake through your heart. It's 35-6. Reid takes a purple Gatorade shower and you can almost cry. Your friend told you early in the week to bet purple at 8-1, but you waited. Two days later, it was even money and you didn't see a point. It's hard to see a point in anything now.

You're paralyzed by agony and decide it's in your best interest to not tally up your daily balance. That's a problem for tomorrow. It's just shy of midnight and a Monday sick day is essential for your well-being. Your apartment reeks of despair. When Chris Cornell sang "Fell On Black Days," this is what he was talking about.

You swear off betting for the rest of the month and cry yourself to sleep.

Alex Moretto is a sports betting writer for theScore. A journalism graduate from Guelph-Humber University, he has worked in sports media for over a decade. He will bet on anything from the Super Bowl to amateur soccer, is too impatient for futures, and will never trust a kicker. Find him on Twitter @alexjmoretto.

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