This is not a public service announcement, just a cautionary tale: be weary of betting on sports.
No, I didn’t squander away thousands of dollars in student loans to write this column, but I did put myself into a precarious situation at the hands of my own curiosity.
On my way back to Biddeford on the Saturday of the Elite Eight, I heard an ad on the radio claiming that this guy had a free tip on the biggest upset of the night in college basketball.
Hardly able to contain myself, I dialed the toll-free number and waited to hear the booming voice of God declare Memphis or some other school dead in the water. What I got instead was the thick New Jersey accent of a man talking a mile a minute about betting and handicaps and spreads.
The guy talked as though he had already watched the game happen, as if he, sitting in his probably dusty office somewhere in Jersey, actually had the power of God. He spoke with conviction and certainty. He wanted to make sure I put down a good bet.
And I could have – if I’d had the inclination to gamble away the only thing keeping me from the streets of Biddeford – made myself a lot of money thanks to this tip.
But I didn’t. I don’t bet.
But plenty of college students do, which is why I’m telling this tale.
U.S. Census statistics say that between eight and 20 percent of college students have dealt with a gambling problem, and peg 18-24-year-olds as showing the worst forms of disordered gambling at a rate two to three times higher than all other adults.
Heck, I have a few buddies who heavily supplement their income by living at virtual poker tables, using off-shore accounts to accrue pretty thick wads of cash.
On Monday, I got a call from the same mobster-sounding, used-car-salesman that I had spoken to a few days before.
“How did the game go, Mike? Did you make some money?” he asked, hoping that his tip had led to my astronomical winnings and that I would want another.
But I hadn’t put any money down. When I told him, he went crazy. Obscenities ensued and I had no idea what I had gotten myself into. Slamming down the phone he told me never to call that number again (with a few expletives inserted at his discretion).
Fair enough.
For the next three days, I got phone calls from the same ominous New Jersey area code.
Over and over they called, pushing me to sign up for their service.
What would have happened had I placed bets and won something? Would they have felt entitled to my winnings?
Would I have been indebted to some Tony Soprano clone six hours away?
No matter how curious I am to know who is going to bite the dust or carry home the gold, I will never call a hotline again.
These sorts of things start off innocently enough. The guy gives you a stone-cold-dead-in-the-water lock and you lose your shirt. Worse yet, you win a ton of money and don’t pay “the man.”
When do the phone calls give way to the doorbell? When will the harmless trip to bodog.com become a real problem?