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hamstershaver
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redguru said:
so who here cashed in on the biggest pile on in bookie room history?
- Thread starter hamstershaver
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Spartacus
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damn I got 46redguru said:
we should scan for some gambler's addicts sites and bring them over
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Spartacus
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His name is John, and he's a compulsive gambler.
The words come out of him, hoarse and dry, as if they, too, had been fractured by the life that had led him here. No longer are they the hardest words you could imagine.
John sits in a big room in a small church in St. Petersburg (Grace Lutheran), a bottle of supermarket-brand orange soda on the table in front of him. He does not make eye contact as he speaks. He swallows often. Around him, 16 other men and three women nod and greet him in voices laced with familiar pain.
"Hello, John," they say.
It isn't really far from the Super Bowl. A few miles over the bridge, and a lot of heartache. They meet here once a week, the members of Gamblers Anonymous, and they examine each others' wounds. They share their pain, and they try to soothe it, and they talk of the way the freight train used to steam through them like blood lust. Then they talk about today, and how it will pass without them wagering.
Time was, John used to love the Super Bowl. The first time he visited a casino, he won big on Super Bowl XXIII.
"Not a day goes by that I don't think about gambling," John says quietly. "I like the Giants. I think "Wouldn't it be nice to have a thousand dollars on the Giants?' But I know what would happen next. I want to have a wife, a career, a home, friends, family. Gambling takes all of that away."
John is 35. By his estimate, he has lost $400,000 gambling. Only half of it was his. The rest he stole or conned. He was fired by his brother for embezzlement. He spent a year in prison in Virginia for using a company credit card to gamble, and 20 minutes after he was out, he was back in action. He spent his honeymoon depressed over a parlay that narrowly escaped him.
"Pittsburgh blocked a Minnesota field goal in overtime," he said.
Three years ago, John took a cruise from Miami so he could bet the Super Bowl. He remembered sitting at the bar, pulling for the Broncos to cover, delighting as they won outright.
"Nothing could feel better than that," he said. "The juices were running through me. I felt fantastic, like life had all the meaning at that moment. I couldn't feel pain, nothing. It was like I was managing the game. It was like I was playing the game."
That night, John won. To a compulsive gambler, it doesn't matter. Eventually, you're going to wreck, and you're going to chase the lost money, and you're to hurt people to do it, and you aren't going to care.
"I remember watching this program about Art Schlichter," John said. "I remember thinking "That guy is me.' He was just like me. And I knew that day that I was going to prison, too. And there wasn't a thing I could to do stop it."
The words come out of him, hoarse and dry, as if they, too, had been fractured by the life that had led him here. No longer are they the hardest words you could imagine.
John sits in a big room in a small church in St. Petersburg (Grace Lutheran), a bottle of supermarket-brand orange soda on the table in front of him. He does not make eye contact as he speaks. He swallows often. Around him, 16 other men and three women nod and greet him in voices laced with familiar pain.
"Hello, John," they say.
It isn't really far from the Super Bowl. A few miles over the bridge, and a lot of heartache. They meet here once a week, the members of Gamblers Anonymous, and they examine each others' wounds. They share their pain, and they try to soothe it, and they talk of the way the freight train used to steam through them like blood lust. Then they talk about today, and how it will pass without them wagering.
Time was, John used to love the Super Bowl. The first time he visited a casino, he won big on Super Bowl XXIII.
"Not a day goes by that I don't think about gambling," John says quietly. "I like the Giants. I think "Wouldn't it be nice to have a thousand dollars on the Giants?' But I know what would happen next. I want to have a wife, a career, a home, friends, family. Gambling takes all of that away."
John is 35. By his estimate, he has lost $400,000 gambling. Only half of it was his. The rest he stole or conned. He was fired by his brother for embezzlement. He spent a year in prison in Virginia for using a company credit card to gamble, and 20 minutes after he was out, he was back in action. He spent his honeymoon depressed over a parlay that narrowly escaped him.
"Pittsburgh blocked a Minnesota field goal in overtime," he said.
Three years ago, John took a cruise from Miami so he could bet the Super Bowl. He remembered sitting at the bar, pulling for the Broncos to cover, delighting as they won outright.
"Nothing could feel better than that," he said. "The juices were running through me. I felt fantastic, like life had all the meaning at that moment. I couldn't feel pain, nothing. It was like I was managing the game. It was like I was playing the game."
That night, John won. To a compulsive gambler, it doesn't matter. Eventually, you're going to wreck, and you're going to chase the lost money, and you're to hurt people to do it, and you aren't going to care.
"I remember watching this program about Art Schlichter," John said. "I remember thinking "That guy is me.' He was just like me. And I knew that day that I was going to prison, too. And there wasn't a thing I could to do stop it."
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