Tag: gambling

The House Always Wins

The House Always Wins

What good is it for someone to gain the whole world, yet forfeit their soul?

Remember when the worst thing to happen in a basketball game was Perry Stevenson goaltending a free throw or Christian Laettner stomping on someone’s chest? Those were simpler times. Now we’ve got Chauncey Billups and Terry Rozier being investigated for sports gambling.

Welp, shame on us. We got what we asked for.

When we opened the floodgates to legalized sports betting, we were told it would be harmless fun—a way to “enhance fan engagement.” The marketing geniuses promised us responsible wagering, clean oversight, and a little extra tax revenue for our schools. What we actually got was a nation of addicts-in-training, daily fantasy junkies, and people screaming at their phones during the fourth quarter of a meaningless midweek NBA game because they needed one more rebound to hit the over.

And yes, I get it. Gambling itself isn’t inherently evil. It’s not like betting on Kentucky to cover the spread automatically condemns your soul to perdition. But let’s not pretend we didn’t invite the devil in when we started normalizing this stuff as if it were just another harmless hobby.

I know because I’m wired that way myself. I’ve got an addictive personality. Always have. I still remember the euphoric rush of winning my first NCAA tournament bracket—strutting around like Einstein in sneakers because I had correctly predicted some 11-seed Cinderella run to the Sweet 16. Then came fantasy football. Oh, the sweet taste of victory on Monday night! I’d sit there with one player left in the lineup, calculating yards and touchdowns like a Wall Street trader watching his stock portfolio. When my guy scored, I’d practically levitate off the couch.

You see, that’s the problem. It’s never enough. You always want a little more action, a little bigger hit of adrenaline, the proverbial dopamine rush. For people like me, that’s a slippery slope. One day you’re betting a friendly five bucks with your buddies; the next day you’re mortgaging the house because the Bengals can’t possibly blow another lead.

The truth is, gambling can ruin lives. It destroys families, wrecks bank accounts, and turns decent people into liars and thieves. It feeds on desperation and ego—the belief that you can beat the odds, that you’re smarter than the system or your neighbor down the street, that this next parlay will finally get you even. Spoiler alert: the house always wins.

And when that “house” happens to be tied to the integrity of our sports, that’s when things really go south. If you can’t watch a game without wondering whether the ref’s call was clean, or whether the player missed that shot on purpose, what are we even cheering for? The beauty of sports has always been its purity—hard work, skill, competition. Gambling muddies that. It injects suspicion where there should instead be joy.

Money, of course, is the root of it all. It always is. Money draws in the riff raff, the hustlers, and the shadowy figures waiting in the alleys of every major sports scandal. Organized crime didn’t just disappear when we legalized betting; it just put on a nicer suit and opened an app. The lure of easy cash will always attract those looking to exploit the system—and sadly, some of those people will have locker room access.

When I was growing up, sports were an escape from the mess of the world—a pure and noble pursuit of excellence. Now they’re just another line item in somebody’s betting portfolio. Every pitch, every possession, every field goal attempt is a potential profit or loss. Even the broadcasters can’t resist dropping the over/under like it’s part of the game itself.

And while we’re pointing fingers, let’s not forget the sports radio guys who spend half their shows preaching about “responsible gambling” while the other half reading ad copy for the very apps causing the mess. Spare me the sanctimony. You can’t sermonize about integrity one minute and then tell me to “hammer the over” with a promo code the next.

I’m not naïve. I know you can’t unring the bell. Gambling is here to stay. The toothpaste is out of the tube, and no amount of moral handwringing is going to put it back. But we can at least be honest about what it’s doing to us. For every “responsible gamer” out there treating it like entertainment, there are dozens more suckers sinking deeper into the quicksand.

I suppose it’s fine if you know your limits—if you can place a small wager and walk away without checking your phone every five minutes. But for most people, those limits blur over time. The lines between fun and fixation disappear, and before long, you’re chasing losses like Calipari after Covid.

So yeah, when I hear about Chauncey Billups and Terry Rozier getting tangled in the gambling web, I’m not shocked—I’m sad. Sad for them, sad for the sport, sad for the fans who still believe in fair play. Because the more this stuff spreads, the more we risk losing what made us fall in love with sports in the first place.

I’m not preaching here. Like I said, I’m as susceptible as anyone. If gambling apps had been around when I was younger, I might have been one of those guys refreshing DraftKings under the table during Sunday service. (I’m joking… mostly.) But maybe that’s why I’m so wary of it now. I know how easy it is to get hooked, how quickly something innocent can become destructive.

So as these investigations unfold, I’ll be watching—not for the point spreads or the odds, but for the soul of the game itself. Because if we keep going down this road, if we keep letting money and manipulation call the shots, one day we might wake up and realize the thrill is gone. The joy’s been replaced by suspicion, and the purity of the game by the price of the bet.

And when that happens, it won’t matter who wins or loses. The house will have already won.

Dr. John Huang is a retired orthodontist, military veteran, and award-winning author. Currently serving as a columnist for Nolan Group Media, he invites readers to follow him on social media @KYHuangs. Explore his latest, “Whining For Posterity,” and all his books at https://www.Amazon.com/stores/Dr.-John-Huang/author/B092RKJBRD

If Baseball is Serious About Redemption, It’s Time to Crown Pete Rose as King

If Baseball is Serious About Redemption, It’s Time to Crown Pete Rose as King

(Sports Illustrated Photo)

Peter Edward Rose.

The Hit King.

The man who slid headfirst into first base because walking just wasn’t in his DNA.

News broke today that MLB Commissioner Rob Manfred removed Pete Rose and other deceased players from Major League Baseball’s permanently ineligible list. Manfred ruled that MLB’s punishment of banned individuals ends upon their deaths. The last I checked, Pete Rose remains six feet under—so by Manfred’s own decree, he’s finally eligible for Cooperstown.

Rose, one of my childhood heroes, collected 4,256 hits, won three batting titles, three World Series rings, and played every position but hot dog vendor. He was Charlie Hustle—baseball’s blue-collar avatar. The guy you wanted on your team in a bar fight or a bench-clearing brawl or at the plate with two out in the ninth with the winning runs on base. Unfortunately, he also bet on the ponies. And the Reds. And possibly on anything else, including whether the Riverfront Stadium concession stands would run out of nachos by the seventh inning.

Yes, Pete Rose gambled on baseball. And for that, he was banned for life. But he didn’t throw games. He didn’t tank innings. He didn’t call in a reliever from the bullpen with a suspicious limp and a 12.93 ERA. He bet on his own team to win—which, while monumentally dumb, isn’t quite the moral apocalypse it’s made out to be.

Was it wrong? Sure.

Was it worthy of a lifetime ban? Definitely not.

Because now with Manfred’s ruling, you know exactly what that means.

It’s time. Actually—strike that—it’s long past time.

Past time to dust off the bronze. Past time to start etching the plaque. Past time to make some room in Cooperstown next to Cobb, Ruth, Aaron, and Mays—for the man who collected more hits than any of them.

If Manfred’s decree is to be taken seriously—that punishment dies with the punished—then baseball can no longer hide behind moral outrage or outdated grudges. Pete Rose’s on-field résumé demands recognition. His posthumous eligibility eliminates the last bureaucratic hurdle. There are no more excuses.

So now the ball is in the Hall of Fame’s court.

Do the writers, historians, and voters have the courage to admit that greatness is often messy? That a flawed man can still be the best hitter the game has ever seen? If anyone is without sin, then let him be the first to throw a stone.

Sure, Pete gambled. But he also played harder than anyone who ever put on a uniform. He sprinted to first on walks. He plowed headfirst into Ray Fosse at an All-Star game for God’s sake. He turned every double into a triple if you weren’t paying attention.

Pete Rose embodied baseball. He played like the world was ending every inning. When I yell at my nephew to “hustle out of the box,” I’m quoting Pete Rose theology.

And now that he’s gone, maybe the game can finally appreciate him without the baggage.

Because here’s the truth: You don’t get to rewrite baseball’s story without Pete Rose in the pages. And if you wait much longer to put him in the Hall, you’ll lose the little credibility you have left.

Baseball loses a little bit of itself every year it pretends the Hit King didn’t exist.

Let’s stop pretending. Let’s stop punishing the dead. Let’s let Pete in.

It’s not just overdue.

It’s poetic.

Dr. John Huang is a retired orthodontist, military veteran, and award-winning author. Currently serving as a columnist for Nolan Group Media, he invites readers to follow him on social media @KYHuangs. Explore his debut novel— “Name, Image, and Murder”—and all his books at https://www.Amazon.com/stores/Dr.-John-Huang/author/B092RKJBRD