Whether killed by kindness, goaded by guilt or cajoled by the lure of proving personal worth with the throw of a dart, toss of a ball or squeeze of a trigger, most of us at some point find ourselves bellying up to a midway game and putting reputation and a few bucks on the line.

The patron is only half of the carnival contest equation. It's the carnival worker, part huckster and part pop psychologist, part ruthless business brain and part kind-hearted hero, who keeps the ball rolling and dart sailing.

For years, I've been fascinated with these figures. I love the idea of carnivals as an insular society, a subculture with its own rules, language and secret histories. I also believe the carny - a piece of literary shorthand that carnival workers might well object to - has gotten something of a bad rap.

To prove my point, I recently spent a few hours with Jeff Blanton, an eight-year veteran of Belle City Attractions, the traveling midway currently operating at the Western Carolina State Fair. Assigned to the evergreen basketball booth, Mr. Blanton, whose wife, Korina, also runs a game booth on the midway, said taking money, handing out balls and dispensing an occasional prize is the smallest part of the gig.

The secret to carnival success, he explained, is image.

Consider this. As a Chrysler-driving, suburban-dwelling father of two, I am officially too scruffy to work the midway. At Belle City, the rule is that anyone wanting to don the distinctive purple must be clean-shaven.

That was surprise No. 1.

"It starts from the top down," Mr. Blanton explained, his eyes scanning the crowd for likely shooters. "The thing is, if you don't present the right image, then you do fall into that stigma of the carnival worker. You have to present a new kind of identity. That's the only way to change things because, unfortunately, perception is nine-tenths of reality."

Surprise No. 2 was that it truly didn't matter whether patrons won or lost a game. What's important was that they play, and keep playing. At the basketball booth, I was working under a prize-for-everyone mandate. If the ball landed in the net, the player got a prize. If the ball bounced off the rim, the player got a prize. If the ball careened off the head of an enormous SpongeBob and ended up out in the midway, the player got a prize.

The basketball business, Mr. Blanton explained, is all about trading up, getting players to trade in a small prize for a larger one, contingent on their taking another three shots for $5, of course. The secret to keeping that barter economy is simple.

"Be nice," Mr. Blanton said. "Be nice, and then people are nice to you. If people get along with you, they will keep playing. If they get along with you, they will keep coming back."

Acknowledging that part of the carnival worker's image problem stems from a history of games that were nearly impossible to win, Mr. Blanton said Belle City is particular about the games it offers. He said the charge of cheating is still something he hears from time to time.

"How can that be?" he said, grabbing one of the small basketballs and bouncing it around the regulation rim of the net. "But you still get those people. The truth is, I wouldn't have anything to do with something like that. People remember."

Although in a given location for only a week or two at a time, Mr. Blanton said, the carnival usually hits the same spots year after year. He said people remember when they have been treated well and when they haven't.

"It's particularly true in a place like Aiken," he said. "I mean, this is a small town and yes, people do talk."

Spotting a likely mark heading down the midway, Mr. Blanton calls to him, promising a prize every time and suggesting the possibility of an alienation of affections should a young man not take a shot, or three, for his lady. It's professional patter, well-rehearsed and natural. After the couple departs, new stuffed friend in hand, he urges me to give it a shot. Eyeing what I assume will be potential customers, a father with a couple of kids, I wait patiently until he's within earshot and then ...

Nothing. The words seem to die in my throat. At the moment of truth, the idea of offering not only the game, but myself, for inspection seems the most frightening prospect in the world. Mr. Blanton smiles and nods. Evidently my frozen moment is not uncommon.

"It's harder than door to door," he said.

I ask him what his standby lines are, the can't-miss phrases he falls back on. He offers a few, the first being the promise of a prize every time. Latching onto what I believe is the perfect weapon, I begin, timidly at first, using his everyone's-a-winner technique. Although I'm never comfortable, calling to patrons becomes a little easier.

Be nice. Everyone's a winner. One ball for $2 or three for $5. I start looping the essentials in my head and soon delude myself into believing I've got the system down. Mr. Blanton recognizes that look of misplaced confidence and decides the next lesson should involve a short solo flight.

The next group up to the counter is a mother with three young children, each of whom wants to take a shot. After helping each child's ball into the hoop, I stand back, smug and satisfied.

"Not bad," Mr. Blanton says, watching the party depart. "But there were four people that would have played that walked by while you were with them. What did you say to those people?"

Color me sheepish.

Mr. Blanton has learned to keep several basketball balls in the air. Setting the shots up for one patron, he negotiates a game with another walking past. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he does a quick tally, approximating the number of prizes that have gone out and that are available, and the profit margin of each.

The booth, he said, is a business, a business that, on a good night, can be extremely profitable. He said an end-of-evening tally of more than $900 is not uncommon.

"That surprised me," he said, casting back to his early days with the carnival.

Today, he runs several of the Belle City booths and considers the midway home. Still, he said, his golden rule remains the same. He treats people as he expects to be treated. It's a philosophy both personal and economic.

"Let's face it," he said. "There are a lot of games out here. There are a lot of choices and what you want is for those people out there to want to come to you."

Reach Steven Uhles at (706) 823-3626 or steven.uhles@augustachronicle.com.