It was a glorious Monday afternoon with the sun shining, the sky a pale blue.

It was the kind of warm day in May one might find an older, distinguished gentleman resting and reminiscing on a park bench. The birds would twitter, and the afternoon breeze would soften the heat.

It’s a pretty picture.

On that same glorious Monday afternoon, Vic Vickrey was standing in the pit in the heart of the action at the Stardust casino. At 80, Vickrey fits the description of the distinguished gentleman, but you won’t often catch him sitting still — or taking a day off.

The Stardust host has spent more than 50 years in the middle of the river of cash that flows through the valley’s gambling halls. Spring, summer, fall, winter. Year in, year out.

Just pencil him into the lineup. In the casino game, Vickrey is as reliable as Cal Ripken.

Born in Mississippi, Vickrey was schooled in Texas roadhouse gambling halls and didn’t miss many backroom parlors from Corpus Christi to Beaumont. Today an aspiring casino manager can attend dealers school, take up poker on the Internet, sit through hotel administration classes, or sign up for extension courses at the community college.

Back when Vickrey was breaking in just after World War II, tuition came out of your front pocket in illegal but mostly tolerated roadside oases. It was a good place to learn the games, he says, laughing at the nearly 60-year-old memory, but it wasn’t the sort of experience you could write down on a resume. So he jumped in his heavily financed Cadillac and joined the migration of dice dealers and dizzy dreamers on the dusty road to Las Vegas.

Or, as he puts it, „I was in some of those little backroom honky-tonks, and some of them weren’t really in the backroom. After getting a taste of that, I found out it was illegal, so I thought I’d maybe transfer myself out to Las Vegas, where it was legal.“

Except for detours through executive positions in Lake Tahoe, Atlantic City and Biloxi, Miss., Vickrey has been here ever since. Trivia buffs will be challenged to find the casino he hasn’t worked.

This is a guy who can show you his business card from the Sahara, the Lucky Casino, the Mint, the Riviera, Aladdin, Bally’s, El Rancho, Sands, and a stack more. No, he says, anticipating the question: He didn’t have trouble keeping a job.

Nor did he have trouble with self-confidence. Vickrey recalls walking into the Sahara and asking a young casino boss named Sam Boyd for a job.

„I said, ‚I can deal these games as good if not better than any of those guys out there dealing now,‘ “ Vickrey says. „He put me on a craps game, and I was wheeling and dealing and really knocking ‚em dead. He came up to me later and said, ‚Well, I’ll say one thing. You sure are fast. You just broke every rule of procedure we’ve ever had.‘

„I said, ‚We didn’t have any rules back in Texas.‘ „

Vickrey learned the rules and kept his job. More than half a century later, he still has the heart of a cocky young dice dealer who lives for the thrill of the action and the roar of the crowd.

„Truthfully, I enjoyed working as a casino craps dealer,“ he says. „I enjoyed that more than being a vice president and all them fancy names, director of casino operations, and all the rest. I loved to deal the game and mingle with people.“

More than half a century later, he’s still mingling.

I’m not sure the position of casino host is as much a dying profession as it is a lost theatrical art form. The dapper Vickrey’s days and nights are spent talking up the players and ginning up support for the home team. He’s like the mayor of a small town or one of the gang at „Cheers“: He knows your name and is always glad you came.

At a time most men are content to take their medication, Vickrey still plays golf, still takes the stairs and still has a passion for the daily grind.

Retirement?

Vegas Vic will leave that to the old guys.

John L. Smith’s column appears Sunday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday. E-mail him at Smith@reviewjournal.com or call 383-0295.

It was a glorious Monday afternoon with the sun shining, the sky a pale blue.

It was the kiand of warm day in May one might find an older, distinguished gentleman resting and reminiscing on a park bench. The birds would twitter, and the afternoon breeze would soften the heat.

It’s a pretty picture.

On that same glorious Monday afternoon, Vic Vickrey was standing in the pit in the heart of the action at the Stardust casino. At 80, Vickrey fits the description of the distinguished gentleman, but you won’t often catch him sitting still — or taking a day off.

The Stardust host has spent more than 50 years in the middle of the river of cash that flows through the valley’s gambling halls. Spring, summer, fall, winter. Year in, year out.

Just pencil him into the lineup. In the casino game, Vickrey is as reliable as Cal Ripken.

Born in Mississippi, Vickrey was schooled in Texas roadhouse gambling halls and didn’t miss many backroom parlors from Corpus Christi to Beaumont. Today an aspiring casino manager can attend dealers school, take up poker on the Internet, sit through hotel administration classes, or sign up for extension courses at the community college.

Back when Vickrey was breaking in just after World War II, tuition came out of your front pocket in illegal but mostly tolerated roadside oases. It was a good place to learn the games, he says, laughing at the nearly 60-year-old memory, but it wasn’t the sort of experience you could write down on a resume. So he jumped in his heavily financed Cadillac and joined the migration of dice dealers and dizzy dreamers on the dusty road to Las Vegas.

Or, as he puts it, „I was in some of those little backroom honky-tonks, and some of them weren’t really in the backroom. After getting a taste of that, I found out it was illegal, so I thought I’d maybe transfer myself out to Las Vegas where it was legal.“

Except for detours through executive positions in Lake Tahoe, Atlantic City, and Biloxi, Miss., Vickrey has been here ever since. Trivia buffs will be challenged to find the casino he hasn’t worked.

This is a guy who can show you his business card from the Sahara, the Lucky Casino, the Mint, the Riviera, Aladdin, Bally’s, El Rancho, Sands, and a stack more. No, he says, anticipating the question: He didn’t have trouble keeping a job.

Nor did he have trouble with self-confidence. Vickrey recalls walking into the Sahara and asking a young casino boss named Sam Boyd for a job.

„I said, ‚I can deal these games as good if not better than any of those guys out there dealing now,'“ Vickrey says. „He put me on a crap game, and I was wheeling and dealing and really knocking ‚em dead. He came up to me later and said, „Well, I’ll say one thing. You sure are fast. You just broke every rule of procedure we’ve ever had.‘

„I said, ‚We didn’t have any rules back in Texas.'“

Vickrey learned the rules and kept his job. More than half a century later, he still has the heart of a cocky young dice dealer who lives for the thrill of the action and the roar of the crowd.

„Truthfully, I enjoyed working as a casino craps dealer,“ he says. „I enjoyed that more than being a vice president and all them fancy names, director of casino operations, and all the rest. I loved to deal the game and mingle with people.“

More than half a century later, he’s still mingling.

I’m not sure the position of casino host is as much a dying profession as it is a lost theatrical art form. The dapper Vickrey’s days and nights are spent talking up the players and ginning up support for the home team. He’s like the mayor of a small town, or one of the gang at the „Cheers“: He knows your name and is always glad you came.

At a time most men are content to take their medication, Vickrey still plays golf, still takes the stairs, and still has a passion for the daily grind.

Retirement?

Vegas Vic will leave that to the old guys.