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Livin and Dion: A casino, but no boxing? Time to hit the bea

edit:casino time:2018-05-25

Marc Munroe Dion Herald News Staff Reporter

There’s something about Tiverton.

Something bad.

Most of the time, me and little Tiverton get along just fine. My mother grew up on Haskins Avenue in Tiverton, and her favorite place in the world is Grinnell’s Beach. When I was a kid, we moved from Massachusetts to Baltimore, and then to Kansas City. When we came back to New England, the first place my mother went was Grinnell’s Beach.

That’s why I’m always happy when I get a story assignment in Tiverton.

I got an assignment in Tiverton last week. I went out there for an election. It was nice. I got a coffee at the Muddy Moose. The election went off smoothly and, in no time at all, I was back in the office, knocking the election story into shape.

On the way out to that assignment, I drove past the soon-to-be casino. The entrance, with the new rotary, looks nice.

Now, for the bad part.

The new casino is probably going to be too small for boxing. As a guy who once spent three days in Las Vegas and managed to lose only $69, boxing is about all I can get out of a casino.

When I first heard “Tiverton” and “casino” used in the same sentence, my first thought was “boxing!” As soon as I thought “boxing” I thought that someone from The Herald News was going to have to cover all those fights, and the sports writers probably would be too busy to cover every fight, especially during football and basketball seasons.

This comes a couple years after Tiverton voted down an outlet mall that would have included a Brooks Brothers store. I wear Brooks Brothers clothing, which I buy online.

For a while, I was picturing myself going to the outlets in Tiverton, picking out a new Brooks Brothers French cuff shirt, and then wearing it to cover the fights at the new casino. The idea was so 1934 newsman that I could barely keep my head from exploding with fantasies of happiness.

Instead, I went to Tiverton last weekend and covered an election. The day of the election, it was raining, so I wore jeans. I also wore a windbreaker I got, for free, from a magazine that buys some of my fiction. I looked like I couldn’t decide between working construction, or playing golf. This is not the way I would dress to cover boxing at the new casino.

Engaging in daily journalism is like smoking crack; it feels so good the first time you do it that you want to do it again right away. You may have the suspicion that something bad will happen to you down the road, but it doesn’t matter to you in the minute after your first hit.

I’ve been lucky. Nothing really bad has happened to me as a result of being a reporter, although I have experienced, if not a loss of courage, then at least a loss of hope, and what my bathroom mirror tells me is an increased look of sadness in my eyes. Both of those things probably would happen to me if I was driving a truck for a living.

The casino is being built ahead of schedule, they say, and I’m probably just months away from feeding $10 into a nickel slot machine, and then trying to figure out what to do with the rest of my night.

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