Like playground bullies who grew up and never figured out how to be anything other than dangerous morons shaking down people weaker than them.
They prey on addicts.
They push them deeper, keep them hooked, and desperate.
My dad, for example.
He was a gambler—an addict down to the bone.
I knew it was bad when my parents were still together, but after Mom kicked him out for pawning her wedding rings, it got worse. He swore he’d clean up, promised he’d move to Chicago, find work, start fresh.
Fresh meant new bookies.
New debt.
New holes he couldn’t crawl out of. Literally.
When I moved to the city on my rookie contract, I saw him slip again.
What started as one night at a casino became two… three… whatever he could get away with.
Then he was betting and losing, betting and losing, like he was sprinting toward rock bottom with no brakes.
Every once in a while, he’d hit a hot streak, pay back a chunk, and feel invincible again.
Then he’d blow it all in one night, and the hole would widen.
By the time it crashed, he was under for millions.
And then he started asking me for money.
Ten thousand here, five thousand there.
Just until payday. Just until the next win.
Just help me out, son.
But trying to fix his mess was like trying to fill a sinkhole with a spoonful of dirt.
My salary barely covered my own bills, and my agent back then couldn’t negotiate his way out of a wet paper bag.
Even after my contract was renewed, it still wasn’t enough.
Not nearly enough for the debt he carried.
Not when the hole he’d dug was big enough to bury both of us.
My dad died a year ago.
Things should’ve gotten better after that.
I know that sounds cold, but honestly, when the police showed up and told me he was gone, all I felt was relief. For the first time in years, I could breathe.
No more late-night calls, no more begging for loans I couldn’t afford.
No more waiting for the next disaster.
Except it turns out, disaster doesn’t just die with the man who caused it.
