This First Person piece was written by Theodore Oliver, who lives in Saskatoon. For more information about CBC’s First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

There’s something entrancing about watching summer baseball. Once I start watching, I can’t stop. 

I had arrived home in time to catch the last bit of the Blue Jays game during this year’s August long weekend. The Jays were in a nail-biter against the Twins. It was tied 2-2 in the bottom of the ninth.

When the commercial break started, I immediately recognized Aaron Paul from his role in Breaking Bad, but instead of making crystal meth like his character, he tells me to download “the world’s favourite sports book” and bet on which team will break the tie first.

The next commercial featured the Great One, Wayne Gretzky, on-screen holding up his cellphone. With one push of a button, dollar signs flash and he’s won half a million in some other bet.

Next up, a guy walking through a casino says I could play all these games without having to leave my house.

I turned off the TV before the game could resume and head out the front door, hoping to clear my head of the intoxicating drone of jackpot bells.

Even after a long walk, I can still feel the desire to gamble. The game has finished, but as I watched the replays of the Jays’ thrilling win in extra innings, I’m tempted to give into those same dark urges that ruined my life not long ago.

Spiral

My gambling addiction started three years ago when I was 23. At the time, the pandemic had shut down the world and my addiction accelerated in the depths of the ensuing lockdowns.

I would hunch in my one-bedroom suite at the end of the hall with the burned-out light fixture, surrounded by stacks of crusted plates and bowls filled with stagnant water. The room was dark apart from the harsh glare of my laptop screen, the light from an unending stream of digital cards flickering across my face as I played Texas hold’em poker online.

I don’t know what time I would have started, but by early morning I’d be down hundreds of dollars, my eyes burning and bloodshot from staring at the screen.

I wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop.

I desperately needed a win. I hadn’t paid my rent in more than three months. My fridge held nothing but a jar of olives, some miscellaneous condiments and a Tupperware of plain rice.

My parents, my girlfriends, my friends — they all told me I had a gambling problem, but I refused to accept it. In my twisted way of thinking, I didn’t have to stop gambling; I just needed to come up with the right strategy. Winning would fix everything.

I seesawed back and forth between, Oh my God, I’m out of control and I can regain control.

Then reality slammed me in the face: My beautiful girlfriend of three years had left her purse out one day. I was sure I’d be able to pay the cash back before she noticed. After she noticed the money was missing, she packed her bags to move back in with her parents.

I was disgusted with myself. I never believed I was capable of stealing money from someone I care about. I began to realize things were not just falling apart. They were already shattered.

I needed to change, and this problem was too much for me to handle alone.

Recovery and reminders

That was three years ago. I’m better now.

My recovery was fuelled by the incredible support of friends and family, me learning the importance of honesty, and attending two Gambling Anonymous meetings a week.

For all my success, I now find myself constantly reminded of that darker time by the stream of gambling ads and billboards. In an instant, I’m taken back to that sordid one-room apartment, but the temptations are loosening their hold on me.

I recently met a friend at a local watering hole to watch some baseball. After some drinks and a bit of food, my friend pointed to yet another gambling ad playing during a commercial break.

“Don’t those bother you?”

I shrug. “Sure, but I can handle it now.”

“Yeah, but didn’t you relapse last year right around this time?”

“I did. But it wasn’t because of the ads. I’m the only one that can be held responsible for my choices.”

He takes that in. “Right. I guess it just doesn’t seem fair.”

“No, it’s not.”

It’s easy to get caught up in the mindset that gambling is safe, fun and even a valid way to make money. If these ads did more to show the dangers of gambling, maybe fewer people would fall into the hole that I found myself in.

But I wouldn’t bet on it.

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