My Heart Hurts

Last Sunday, my heart hurt as I watched all the hype on TV about the Super Bowl being held in Las Vegas this year … something that has been banned for many years because of scandals related to sports betting.

60 Minutes included a feature on the subject. One Las Vegas woman, a casino employee, smiled as she noted that gambling is more acceptable in our culture now.

A former gambler turned addiction therapist did not smile as he told horrifying stories of young men’s susceptibility to sports betting and how their addiction to it is ruining their lives … gambling away sizable sums of money … one young man gambling away his college loan.

This therapist noted that these young men’s brains have not matured to the point where they are able to resist the temptations so readily available to them on their phones.

The February 20^th Dayton Daily News reported that since the legalization of sports betting effective on January 1, calls to the Ohio Gambling Helpline tripled … a 227% increase over January 2023 calls.

An onslaught of online attacks and threats of violence against local college athletes is now a reality for coaches and players since the legalization of sports betting.

Memories

In the early 70s, my friends from church and I voted against amending the Ohio constitution to allow for a lottery. But by 1973, casinos celebrated as The Ohio Lottery was approved. This industry has grown substantially in the ways it relieves citizens of their hard-earned cash … all for an elusive dream of growing rich. And even the winners of big bucks often find their lives ruined by suddenly being financially wealthy. They don’t know how to handle their winnings wisely … nor handle the ways their relationships are negatively affected by their new-found wealth.

I have never bought a lottery ticket and cringe when I see others doing so. I withstand taunts at my prudishness. I know the price from personal experience. I lost my only sibling to gambling, alcohol, and drugs.

It’s Personal

I hail from a family riddled with the scars of addiction as a result of my grandfather’s addiction to alcohol and sex.

During a 1970’s visit to see my brother, Phil, I got an inkling that all was not well in his life. Sadly, we were as distant from each other emotionally as we were physically. He lived in California.

If he had friends, I didn’t meet them on my visit. His mood was dour and he was easily offended.

One afternoon, after a breathtaking visit to see the giant Sequoia’s in Big Trees State Park, even though it was late and the sun was setting, he had to get to Reno. He just had to get to Reno. I requested that he slow down while driving through this mountainous terrain at night. He yelled at me and didn’t slow down. After a period of time at the black jack table, he calmed down for the silent drive back to his apartment in Stockton. It was my first glimpse into his gambling addiction.

He was so angry, he didn’t speak to me for three days. When he did resume speaking, he railed about family dynamics, spewing out anger which seemed directed at our father and me. I was taken aback. I asked what he wanted from me. He stormed off yelling that he didn’t want anything.

I couldn’t wait to board my plane for home. After that, we saw each other once a year when we visited our parents in Florida for a holiday. Even that came to an end. He was so mean to me, I decided to visit our parents when he wasn’t there.

Then in the early 90s, I received a gruff voicemail message … “Sister, call your brother.” When I did, he had no memory of even making the call. He admitted he must have done it in an alcoholic blackout. And then he confessed, “I’m just like our grandfather.”

At the time, I worked a 12-Step program for family members of alcoholics/addicts and served as a family therapist in an addiction’s treatment center. Phil revealed that his boss was a recovering alcoholic who attended AA meetings. I begged him to get help … to talk with his boss. I assured him his boss would help. But Phil must have been too proud to ask for help.  

A couple of years later, we seemed to grow closer as we connected by phone to plan a 1992 celebration for our parent’s 50^th wedding anniversary. Phil wanted everything to be top notch … limousines, dinner at the fanciest restaurant in town for the four of us, plus a sit-down dinner for family and friends at a banquet center. He’d pay for it all if I did the footwork. He seemed to enjoy being in charge from afar … checking regularly to see if I was doing a good job.

It was a grand affair. Today I recognize that it was a way for him to be the family hero, showing off to hide his addiction from us and what was really going on in his life. On his return to California, we received veiled messages that he was out of money. It was very confusing.

Tragedy Strikes

Then, in 1995, Phil wrote a strange letter to my parents indicating that he was in bad health and was going to Hawaii to live out his remaining days. His company had sent him to Hawaii previously to help get the plant there back in operation after it was severely damaged in a hurricane. Phil said in his letter that he’d had a good life and we shouldn’t mourn for him.

My father searched for him by talking with people from the company in which he had worked. We learned he was not in Hawaii. For several weeks, we had no idea where he was.

During this time, my parents came to Ohio to attend my mother’s high school class reunion. The weekend before the reunion, on a very early Sunday morning, I was awakened by a knock on my door. A police officer came to inform me that my brother had shot and killed himself in the parking lot of a riverboat casino in Iowa. It became my job to inform my parents that our search for Phil was over.

As the story unfolded, Phil had been traveling from casino to casino out West. He had $250 left and wanted to gamble it, too, but the casino wouldn’t let him. He was drunk, went out into the parking lot, and shot himself.

My dad and I flew to Iowa, gathered his ashes and the last of his worldly belongings, and drove his car back to Ohio. We buried him in a family plot.

My eyes well with tears as I recall this painful chapter in our family’s life. And, of course, my heart hurts for the life my brother might have had and for the relationship we might have had if addiction had not robbed us.

My heart aches for those young men whose lives are being ruined by sports betting. What a waste … for them … for their families … and for our country!

Supreme?

The 60 Minutes report cited a May 2018 Supreme Court decision that opened the door to sports betting.

As I listened to that report, I agonized … “What is ‘SUPREME’ about that decision?

• What ‘SUPREME’ values represent our country and guide the decisions of our politicians, judges, and legislators?
• Is money ‘SUPREME’ … of more value than protecting and cherishing precious lives?
• What is ‘SUPREME’ about lives wasted and lost for the love of money?

Money reigning SUPREME seems to be infecting almost every area of our lives … to name a few:

• Elections: Citizen’s United … another so-called “SUPREME” Court decision … resulting in people with wealth having an inordinate influence over the outcome of our elections.
• Healthcare: Profit-driven replacing patient-centered care … resulting in denial of benefits … driving doctors and nurses to leave the profession … what led me to retire at my earliest opportunity.
• Homelessness: which is rampant and increasing while office buildings sit empty in the aftermath of COVID … too “valuable” to provide homes for the less fortunate.
• The list could go on and on.

Despite this, according to Marianne Williamson, a 2024 Presidential candidate campaigning to restore our country to the values inherent in our Declaration of Independence and Constitution, in her experience most of us are noble … when we are related to through our nobility. A small ray of hope in the midst of our country’s ‘SUPREME’ decline.

Where does your heart hurt?

Where have you witnessed nobility despite the decline in our country’s values?