The Purple Cow | Chapter 10

I was driving from Los Angeles back to Orange County when my phone rang.

"I'm Matt. My lawyer Diane Bass told me to call you. I spent a few minutes on your website, but truth be told, Diane said you're the guy. I'm ready. I don't need a sales pitch. I'm ready to get going."

"Hi, Matt. Diane texted me about three minutes ago. Can I ask a few questions to make sure we're the right fit?"

"Justin, let's get to the point. Diane said you are the guy; that tells me you are the guy. No one you ever work with will work harder than me. I have five kids, including a three-year-old. I have the greatest wife. I want to turn this raid into a blessing. I'm ready to start."

I tried to ask a few questions. Matt kept moving.

"Meet me at Mission Viejo Country Club in sixty minutes," he said.

He was already there when I arrived.

Mission Viejo, October 2023

Matt was talking with a few members who knew him. He ordered coffee and didn't mention that federal agents had put guns to his chest the day before. Almost no one knew about the raid yet. Diane knew because she was his lawyer, and Matt could speak openly with me through my work with her.

"Tell me about yourself," I said. "Not the case. You."

"No college degree. I started as a commodities broker, licensed, legitimate. I was good at it. I was the number one salesman. I outworked everyone in the room and I knew it."

Matt said he put in the hours before he made money. He learned the commodities business and, the longer he stayed, the less he liked what he saw. Brokers got paid whether the client won or lost; either way, the broker needed another trade.

Bookmaking seemed more honest to him. A bet was a bet. Both sides knew the number; one side won and the other lost.

"I became a bookmaker. I had clients you would recognize, athletes, celebrities, money people. My operation ran through Vegas, Monte Carlo, the Bahamas, Panama. Casino hosts flew me around and put me in penthouses because they wanted me at their tables. I bet millions on single games. I won a lot. I lost a lot."

"And you built all of that without a degree."

"Pure grit," he said. "Instinct. I am not going to sit here and tell you I did nothing wrong. I know what I did. I am not interested in playing victim. I did it, and now I am going to deal with it."

"What does dealing with it look like to you?" I asked.

"It means my kids watch me respond to the worst thing that has happened to our family and they see their father take responsibility and build something. I have a three-year-old. He is not going to remember this raid. He is going to remember what I did after it."

Matt told me about Ippei Mizuhara during those early conversations. His name meant little to me then. The story had not become public, and our discussions stayed private through Diane.

Months later, that changed. Shohei Ohtani's name was suddenly everywhere, reporters were outside Matt's home and much of the public assumed Ohtani had placed bets with him.

"He never placed a bet with me," Matt said. "I cannot control what people believe."

The bets came from Mizuhara. Plenty of the coverage blurred that into Ohtani.

I asked about Nicole.

"The greatest," he said immediately. "She did not sign up for this. None of this is fair to her or the kids. That is on me. And the way I make it right is not by apologizing every day. It is by doing the work."

We talked for about two hours.

The following day, Matt was on the phone with Michael.

What He Started Building

Michael took Matt through the Straight-A Guide. They got into what he wanted to accomplish, what he was willing to do and how his family would measure all this later; before long, they were recording a course about resilience and building a business.

Matt also started writing Recalibrate, a memoir about his life. He included the private jets, casino hosts, velvet ropes, the $4.6 million Super Bowl bet he won and losses nearly as large.

In the introduction, he wrote:

"I'm not perfect and I'm not pretending to be, but what you'll get in these pages is the truth; raw, unfiltered, and real. I lay everything on the line because I'd rather be judged for who I am than praised for who I am not."

The book took two years, several drafts and a few total restarts. Pages showed up on my phone at four in the morning. I gave him feedback (sometimes a lot), and once he texted me, "I'm exhausted."

More pages arrived.

Matt came with me to speak before hundreds of students at USC's Marshall School of Business. He spent close to twenty hours preparing, then stood in front of the room and talked about gambling, the federal case and what his decisions cost Nicole and their children.

When he went to New York, he sat down with Craig Carton, a former client who had served a federal sentence for fraud. Gambling was part of the spiral that led to Craig's decisions. Matt spoke to Craig's audience without a script.

He began posting online and calling himself a degenerate gambler.

Some people called it a sentencing stunt; others accused him of trying to build another business off people with gambling problems (Matt read nearly all of it and answered more than he should have).

Then the private messages started coming. People told him they had called a therapist, entered treatment or stopped gambling before losing their family. Some offered him money for help.

He declined. He had already made plenty of money from gambling.

When Matt started the course and book, there was no plea, PSR or sentencing date. He didn't know whether he would finish the book, whether anyone would read it or whether a judge would care. Two years is a long time to keep sending drafts at four in the morning with no idea how the case will end.

The Purple Cow

In 1895, Gelett Burgess wrote four lines for a small San Francisco humor magazine:

"I never saw a Purple Cow,
I never hope to see one;
But I can tell you, anyhow,
I'd rather see than be one!"

The poem followed him everywhere. Burgess wrote novels and other work, but people remembered the Purple Cow. He became so tired of hearing about it that he published another verse:

"Ah, yes, I wrote the 'Purple Cow.'
I'm sorry I wrote it.
But I can tell you anyhow,
I'll kill you if you quote it!"

I have now quoted him twice. Sorry, Gelett.

Seth Godin later used the Purple Cow to explain why something different gets noticed. Drive past a hundred brown cows and you stop looking. Then you see a purple one.

Matt already stood out. Reporters were outside his house, Ohtani's name was in every headline and anyone searching for Matt found the raid and illegal gambling operation.

He spoke with reporters, answered critics and corrected people who got the story wrong (sometimes long after he should have put down the phone).

Then another draft of Recalibrate arrived.

The Purple Cow was not going to remove the raid from Google or make the gambling business disappear. Matt's challenge was to keep building during the worst period of his life, with no promise that anyone would care. A book could fail. The course could sit online unwatched. The USC students could forget his name before leaving the room.

He did not know.

By sentencing, Recalibrate was on Amazon. The course existed. He had spoken at USC, sat down with Craig Carton and spent nearly two years talking publicly about gambling.

His children could read the book. Probation could see when he started it. Judge Holcomb could too.

Sentencing

Matt pleaded guilty in August 2024. He was sentenced in August 2025.

His advisory guideline range was 41 to 51 months. Probation recommended 36 months. The government asked Judge John Holcomb to impose 15 months.

The courtroom was so crowded that the marshal directed some people downstairs to watch on televisions.

Judge Holcomb sentenced Matt to 12 months and one day. The additional day made him eligible to earn federal good time credit.

The judge discussed the course, Matt's writing and his efforts to help people.

People hear 41 to 51 months and a sentence of 12 months and one day, then ask me how many months the book saved him.

I have no idea.

Anyone who assigns a number is guessing. Matt wanted less time in prison, obviously, and everything he built gave Judge Holcomb more information to consider. Whether it saved a month, a year or nothing at all, I cannot tell you.

By the time Matt walked into court, the book was already published. His children had it, the course was online and the USC presentation had happened. Those two years were on the record before Judge Holcomb announced the sentence.

Lompoc

Matt surrendered to Lompoc in October 2025.

More than seven people from our community arrived during the weeks and months that followed. Matt found them after they entered the prison. He walked them around, showed them where things were and helped them get supplies.

Then he used his phone minutes, minutes he could have saved for Nicole and their five children, to call me.

"Hey. So-and-so just got here. He's okay. Tell his family this."

He called when the next person arrived, then another.

I began texting Nicole with updates. Once I wrote, "This sounds selfish, but I really miss Matt. Cannot wait to get him home."

She responded immediately.

"I miss him, too."

I did miss him. He was inside doing for other men what Michael had done for me at Taft (on a much different scale, and Matt would never suggest otherwise). Michael had already served decades when he began mentoring me. Matt was serving 12 months and one day.

The men arriving at Lompoc were scared and confused. Matt was there, so he helped.

Judge Holcomb had already sentenced him. The phone minutes came from the same allotment he used for Nicole and their five children.

When Matt left Lompoc, the men held a party for him.

March 9, 2026

At 10:49 a.m. on Monday, March 9, my phone rang.

Matt was in the car with Nicole. She was driving him from Lompoc to the halfway house after he had served nearly five months.

I thanked him for using his phone minutes to help people from our community.

He said he was grateful. Grateful for the traffic. Grateful for everything he had experienced.

"Matt, I hope you always feel this way. I have been home seventeen years and that feeling gradually erodes. It goes away."

"I know," he said. "I want this feeling forever."

It probably won't last forever. Mine didn't. Life becomes normal again; traffic stops feeling like a gift.

I have texted Matt more than once and told him, "You have given me four times more than I have given you. Do I owe you money?"

"Yes," he said, and laughed. "Yes!"

By then, Recalibrate was on Amazon, the course was finished, USC was behind him and the men at Lompoc had thrown him a party. Nicole and their five children were waiting. He still had to earn money legally, figure out his next business and live with a reputation that would follow him for years.

Gelett Burgess spent years angry about what people remembered.

Matt's name may always bring up Ohtani. The book, USC, the calls from Lompoc and the men who threw him a party are there too; all of it started the morning after the raid, when no one knew whether any of it would work.

Chapter 10 Reflection Journal

Gelett Burgess spent years resenting the four lines everyone remembered. What is the first thing people learn when they search your name?

Matt began writing before he had a plea, PSR or sentencing date. What can you begin building without knowing whether it will affect the outcome?

Matt used his phone minutes to help people after Judge Holcomb had already sentenced him. What would you continue doing after there was no judge left to influence?

Matt's book, USC presentation and work at Lompoc gave people more to remember. What are you creating while your life remains uncertain?