Loss didn’t matter when he bet with his heart

Tony the Loaner. That’s what they called him. That’s how he lived.

Tony Venti was a box boy, a stable boy, an ambulance driver, a barber, a real estate agent, a self-made multimillionaire with a pocket-change philosophy.

If he had it, he would loan it.

Friends would come wandering around his Alhambra barber shop hoping for a few bucks for the groceries or the ponies. He would always put down the clippers and pull out the wallet.

Clients of his Alhambra real estate company would call him with worries over making the down payment on a dream house. He would put down the phone and sign over his commission.

Born in a house whose present-day location would be center court at Staples Center, one of 15 children of a father who died young, Tony Venti and his wide belly and huge smile epitomized the dreams of a growing Los Angeles.

For three-quarters of a century, while building friendships and a family numbering two dozen, he schemed and scuffled and saved and shared.

And, occasionally, he played.

Tony the Loaner was also 210-Tony.

He was a sports gambler. Not a big sports gambler, nothing more than a few bucks a pop, rarely more than $100 a game, never even enough to dent his fortune.

But he liked the chase. He liked the thrill. He needed a hobby. After spending his life giving things away, it gave him great pleasure to pick up the cell phone and give his “210-Tony” code name and take a chance on winning a little something back.

Only, he rarely did.

Like many small-time gamblers who bet with their hearts, Tony Venti was terrible.

“He was a lovable loser,” said his son, Tony Jr.

He was the kind of guy who bet the horses but couldn’t read a racing form.

He bet names, numbers, colors. Despite overwhelming advice to the contrary, he once repeatedly bet on a horse named TV Tony simply because it sounded like him.

“My father was a man of hunches,” said Tony Jr.

He was also the kind of guy who bet baseball games, but sometimes didn’t know who was playing.

He once called a buddy and screamed that he was going to win his bet because the Angels were beating the Baltimore Orioles by eight runs. Then his buddy informed him that he was watching the replay of a game that had been played the night before.

“It was like, even when he won, he didn’t win,” said his son.

Tony Venti would bet the “over” on a game, then later bet the “under” on the same game.

“Dad, you are betting against yourself!” shouted his son.

“At least I know I’ll win,” he told him.

That was about the only way he would win, but it didn’t stop him from trying.

There wasn’t anywhere he wouldn’t make a bet, sometimes momentarily excusing himself from church, once sneaking a cellphone on his gurney as he was being wheeled into the operating room.

Once he made the bets, there wasn’t anywhere he wouldn’t scribble them. Family members have found names of teams and point spreads scrawled on napkins, paper plates, junk mail and even gift certificates.

“He wrote them down so he wouldn’t forget, but he always forgot, and ended up betting against himself again,” said his son.

His five children would occasionally complain, but he would show them how he was betting only a few dollars, and they didn’t want to begrudge him the little money he spent on himself.

On May 1, while driving with a son, Tony Venti heard a radio report about a Kentucky Derby entry whose name sounded like the automotive detailing company run by his son-in-law. A perfect Venti hunch. He turned to his son and asked him to make a bet on the horse.

A day later, after settling into the front seat of his car following a good Italian meal, Tony Venti died of a heart attack at age 76.

He had lived a life so full and rich he would eventually require two funerals that drew crowds in excess of 1,000 mourners each. But still, at times, his family wondered.

Tony Venti had given so much away, and what had this lovable loser gotten in return?

He never spent a summer in the beach house he bought for the family. He died just before one grandson’s high school graduation. He died just before his 54th wedding anniversary. He died just before closing the biggest real estate deal of his life, a $20-million property transaction that had occupied him for years.

A full life, but a premature ending, and several days after his death the family was gathered in his home, eating and mourning, when a horse race came on the television set.

It was the Kentucky Derby. As the horses entered the gate, Tony Jr. had a realization.

“Hey, everybody get in here!” he shouted, remembering earlier in the week. “This was Dad’s last bet!”

He knew the name of the horse on which his father had ordered him to bet $100 to win. But he didn’t know the number or colors. So the race began and everyone just stared at the screen waiting to hear something.

When the announcer finally said the name of the Venti horse, it was in 19th place.

“It figures that his last bet is going to finish dead last,” shouted his son with a laugh.

Then something happened. Something strange. Something startling. Something that never happens to lovable losers.

Tony Venti’s horse passed one horse. Then another horse. Then another horse. Suddenly, Tony Venti’s horse was taking the lead down the stretch and the family was screaming as if their deceased patriarch himself was on board.

“Go Poppa Go!” shouted one of the grandchildren.

“C’mon Dad, c’mon Dad,” shouted his son.

With a flourish that sent the Venti family into a dancing, crying hug, their father’s horse sprinted across the finish line to win the Kentucky Derby.

His name was Street Sense. He had reminded Tony Venti of his son-in-law’s shop named Street Scene.

Two hours later, Tony Venti’s big and bonded creation was still huddled together weeping over the replays.

No more loser. Forever only lovable.

“The perfect ending to my dad’s life,” said Tony Jr.

“Suddenly it all made sense,” said daughter Gerilyn.

A week later they buried Tony Venti in a gravesite next to a curb adorned with an address.

It read “210” -- an appropriate final honor for a man who knew when to hold ‘em, and exactly how to fold ‘em.

Bill Plaschke can be reached at bill.plaschke@latimes.com. To read previous columns by Plaschke, go to latimes.com/plaschke.