LONDON — The man behind the window is generous to a fault.
“It is cold outside,” he says. “Can I get you some coffee? Some tea?”
I do not want coffee. I do not want tea, or hot chocolate, or even a room-temperature ale. I want to place a bet.
“I want to place a bet,” I say.
“Well,” he says. “You have come to the right place.”
I have indeed. I have come to one of the 2,300 licensed betting offices of William Hill, one of the largest legal bookmakers in the United Kingdom. This particular office is at 12 Buckingham Palace Road which, as the address hints, is no more than a corner jump shot down the street from the royal residence.
Were she so inclined, the Queen herself could take the five-minute walk through the palace gates and inside this blue door, and she could spread a few pounds around on an array of sporting propositions — the Australian Open tennis championships, for instance, or a Russian League hockey game between Neftekhimik and Amur Khabarovsk. If she has a hunch on the team handball match scheduled for today between Tunisia and Montenegro, she could let the shillings fly.
Harry Llewellyn is letting a few shillings fly. He has one eye focused on one TV, where a greyhound named Severely Damaged is speeding his way around the far side of the Crayford Park Dog Track, overtaking a hapless pooch named Unique Rock. His other eye is lasered on the 3:05 turf handicap hurdle race from Lingfield Park, where Killimorecottage is taking a similar stand against Current Climate.
“Bollocks!” Llewellyn shouts. He had Unique Rock and Current Climate.
I turn my attention back to the helpful man behind the window. I have 20 pounds burning a hole in my pocket, and I am not one for the horses or the dogs, or for betting whether both teams will score in tonight’s Premiership match between Chelsea and Southampton, or an over-under of 4 1⁄2 for how many tournaments Rory McIlroy will win in 2013.
“I’d like to bet the Knicks-Pistons game,” I say.
“Football teams?” he asks.
“No. Basketball. They play Thursday at the O2 Arena.”
He stares at a cell phone.
“Hold on a second. I need to call someone.”
Consider this a grand payback for the Yanks, we who have endured an endless array of soccer assaults through the years. Many of those invasions were beaten back or blissfully ignored, but soccer finally has a foothold in the U.S., a growing fan base, kids who know the Premier League teams every bit as much as they do the American League Central.
Now, we bring basketball to the Brits. Over the summer, the Olympic competition was, as always, among the hottest tickets at the Games. England even fielded a team, featuring Bulls star Luol Deng, and those games were filled with local pride (and lots of blowouts). It takes time.
“Think about where soccer was in the U.S. in, say, 1973,” Deng said in July. “That’s about where basketball is here, now. Someday, maybe.”
So when the Knicks arrive at the Four Seasons Hotel early yesterday morning, they could just as easily be a traveling water polo team from Bulgaria checking into the Plaza. It isn’t that they aren’t bothered, there’s nobody around to bother them. In any American city, the arrival of a prominent team attracts shutterbugs and autograph hounds and a colorful cast of others.
Here? Carmelo Anthony and La La Vasquez check in like a couple of kids from Dubuque at a Howard Johnson’s. Same with Amar’e Stoudemire and his pregnant wife. Same as Jason Kidd, who actually lingers in the lobby with his wife, Porschla Coleman, before heading upstairs.
“Yeah,” Mike Woodson, the Knicks coach, laughs a little later. “It’s a little different over here. And that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”
Back at the betting parlor in the shadow of the palace, Harry Llewellyn tears up another betting slip. And the man behind the window has some good news.
“I can’t take your bet today because we don’t usually have point spreads here,” he explains. “But we are trying to furnish one for you. If you come back tomorrow, you’ll be OK.”
“I’ll be in as soon as I can.”
“No need to rush,” he says. “So far you’re the only one in the whole city who wants in on this game. That probably won’t change tomorrow.”
Someday, maybe.
michael.vaccaro@nypost.com