This past Sunday, a British man liquidated all of his assets and bet all of his money on one spin of the roulette wheel at a Las Vegas casino. Thirty-two-year-old Ashley Revell, a self-described professional gambler, doubled his life savings when he won $270,600, which leads me to believe that every minute of my life not spent at the casino since I have turned 21 has been a minute wasted.
In fact, I’ve only been to Harrah’s once, and it was to use the pay phone. Even then, the machine ate my money. That’s probably not a good sign.
Perhaps my aversion to gambling stems from my experience at the Nickel Slide booth at my grade school’s fair so many years ago.
Even as a seven-year-old, I understood the dark temptress that is gambling. There was no feeling like sliding those nickels against the backboard and watching your coin fall perfectly into the square with a two, five, ten or even twenty marked on it, indicating how many nickels you had just won back.
Winning an entire dollar with one flick of the wrist: oh, the power!
My luck never lasted long, and 75 cents is a lot to be in the hole when the majority of your income comes from the tooth fairy. Yet I foolishly convinced myself that I was always only one or two nickels away from gaining back my fortune. Finally, thankfully, a force bigger than me forced me to gather up whatever spare change and dignity I had left and leave.
Years later, when I heard that “Book of Virtues” author Bill Bennet had lost a total of $8 million over the course of a decade from his gambling addiction, I said a silent prayer of thanks for Blue Bell.
After all, had it not been for the passing ice cream cart that finally lured me away from the nickel slide that fateful night, his story very well could be my own right now.
But when I first heard Revell’s story, I had wished I had never given up gambling. After all, his story very well could be my own right now. Sure, no amount of skill or prayer would probably increase the odds that the same thing would happen to me, but shame on me to just assume it could never happen.
Realistically, however, liquidating my assets and doubling their worth would probably still only leave me with enough money for a really nice pair of jeans.
I’ll admit that I’m jealous of Revell, but much of who I am today is shaped by the strength I gained from walking away from that booth all those years ago. So I don’t harbor any ill will towards those more fortunate than me who were able to turn their five cents into dimes and quarters.
Besides, aren’t even the winners at the nickel slide still just losers anyway?