“Three fellas. One scribbled napkin.”
It didn’t start as a plan — just gut calls, cold beer, and bets inked between laughs. But somewhere along the bar rail, chaos turned into camaraderie, and the napkin turned into a Syndicate. Patty scribbles, Kevin builds, Fred nods — and somehow, it all works.
Patrick “The Napkin” Howells
It always starts with one beer and one bad idea. That’s the charm.”
Nobody remembers when Patty started scribbling bets on bar napkins — not even him. But every sportsbook slip, every parlay, every gut call? It all traces back to a cluttered table, a cold pint, and Patty hunched over a napkin with a half-dried pen.
Patty isn’t just a bettor. He’s a vibe curator. A chalk-fading, underdog-hunting, second-period-hammering optimist. He’s the guy who talks himself into a four-leg teaser over chicken wings and sells you on it with nothing but heart.
Some days he’s ice cold. Others, he’s a walking heater. But win or lose, the scribbles keep coming — and that napkin always makes it to the bar.
Kevin ” The Hustle ” Bell
“Some people dream it. Some people build it. Kevin does both — with a beer in hand and a folder full of plans.”
Behind every good napkin is someone who kept it from flying off the bar. That’s Kevin — the architect of the Syndicate. The guy who turned late-night laughs, half-baked bets, and beer-soaked promises into a real-deal operation.
He doesn’t always place the bets, but he built the house they live in — the site, the story, the brand, the vibe. The glue guy. The scribble wrangler. The one who knew that if Fred, Pat, and a few napkins could make people feel something, it was worth putting in the work.
He’s not loud, but the foundation’s got his fingerprints all over it.
Fred ” The Foreman” Browning
Fred is 80 years old, but still shows up before sunrise. A husband, father, grandfather, great-grandfather — and the quiet anchor of the Napkin Syndicate. He spent his life in construction and property management, building things with his hands and fixing what broke.
He doesn’t place many bets, but when he does, the room listens. He doesn’t run the syndicate, but nobody moves without his nod. You’ll find him at the bar with a full glass of red, a quiet stare, and a sixth sense for when someone’s full of it.