Fred was always a good loser

Press, 15 February 1986, Page 19

Fred was always a good loser

Fred was a compulsive gambler. It dominated his life, kept him in and out of jail, ruined job prospects, nearly put his marriage on the rocks and led to him hating himself.

When he was 13 he remembered going to the races with his father and placing 10 shillings on a horse in a division race.

It came third and he thought he was in the money. But his father explained dividends were paid out only for first and second place-getters. “I reckon I spent the rest of my life chasing that 10 bob,” says Fred, now aged 40. He left school at 16 and his betting soon outstripped his wages. Opening a cheque account seemed the answer, and he would cash cheques on Fridays, hoping to win enough to cover them on Mondays. Sometimes he did, but more often he lost. It was not long before the law caught up with him for passing dud cheques. In spite of 12 months probation, he still kept cashing cheques to finance betting. Winnings did not keep pace, and cheques bounced again. This led to a six-month jail sentence. “I was as frightened as hell, but soon settled into my new environment where I found betting inside was just as prevalent as outside,” he recalls. Inside, the currency was chocolate, razor blades and cigarettes. Fred studied form harder than ever, believing that when he came out, success awaited him.

He got a job, but it soon failed to support his gambling. It was back to the chequebook routine, and the inevitable trail of dis-

honoured cheques. Two more jail sentences followed, one of 12 months and the other, 18 months, as the pattern repeated.

Then it was over the Tasman to Australia - a gambler’s paradise with dogs, baccarat and other games, and poker machines.

Fred’s dreams of the big win and Easy Street dissolved into desperate efforts to get funds to keep hope alive by betting. Soon he had no job and nowhere to live. The boarding house where he stayed kept his belongings in lieu of the board money he owed. He stole another chequebook and with two cheques in his pocket went to the races in Sydney. He was recognised by a man whose wife, employed in a restaurant, had been the victim of one of Fred’s dud cheques. The man yelled for the police and chased Fred towards the gates. “I realised I couldn’t get through the turnstiles, so turned up towards a high ramp with barbed wire on the top,” Fred recalls. "I climbed up towards the wire when a big course detective grabbed me, found the valueless cheques and sent me on my way to two years in Long Bay jail.” On release, Fred returned to New Zealand and his punting. A win paid for an air fare back to Australia.

There he was soon into gambling as deeply as before. “I remember walking all day, and in the evening watching the cheerful glow of house lights go on,” he says. “I slept in a plastic bag on Coogee Beach.” He and his brother scraped

$l7 between them and Fred backed a horse with Kiwi in its name. It won at 100 to one, and the pair of them had enough to fly home on. “We slept the night at the People’s Palace in Sydney and it seemed like heaven.” Back in his home town of Waipukurau, Fred met his future wife, who had no idea of his gambling problem. He got a good job as a salesman and the couple bought first an ownership flat, and later a house. From the affluent base, Fred was soon one of the town T.A.B.’s best customers, beginning a downward slide at the same time.

As outgoings greatly exceeded income, Fred begged, borrowed, left bills unpaid and even stole from his employer to support his betting.

“I was hurting my wife by my lies, the inquiries from the corner dairy, calls from business people, and overdue accounts,” he recalls.

“I would lie in bed on Friday night, visualising what I would make on all Saturday’s wins. I would make it up to her by buying a new car, new stereo, fridge, completely new carpet throughout. I fantasised about her opening the door of the garage and getting such a supprise.” While in "action” as a gambler, with the dream of the big one around the corner, emotion and adrenalin governed all reason, he says. “I hated myself and what was happening to us, but I did not want to stop gambling. I just thought I was a useless gambler, and still had my dream of winning.” The day came when the bank

foreclosed the mortgage and Fred and his wife were forced to sell their house.

“We decided to go to Christchurch as we had enough money from the sale of our good house to put down as a deposit on a not-so-good one here,” recalls Fred.

But Fred, with $12,000 from the house sale burning a hole in his pocket, dreamed jot the riches he would get by placing the right bets. In three weeks, $9OOO had gone but he was determind to recover his losses and make more into the bargain. “I lost all the last $3OOO and felt sick all day I was doing it,” he says.

Fred could not face telling his wife, and left for Auckland. She found out where he was, and told him she still wanted to try making something of their marriage.

He joined her in Invercargill where he saw an Indian psychiatrist who prescribed pills which, he said, would suppress his gambling. They had no effect, says Fred, but he did not let on. He told his wife he wished he had known about them years ago. He was back into his betting again, and the familar pattern swiftly emerged. A job with a car meant access to a chequebook, then followed borrowing from finance companies, friends, anyone who would lend. Soon repayments loomed much larger than income and with lies and deceit Fred knew he had to leave town. He drove to Christchurch, sold his car to a dealer, went to the races the next day and blew the lot. He had no money to pay his motel bill, but answered an advertisement to share a flat.

His wife got in touch with him

once more, but he suggested a three-month separation. Meanwhile, she talked to a member of Gamblers Anonymous.

Fred met the man: “For the first time in my life I realised I was a compulsive. It was as if I was looking in the mirror.” He was told he stood at the crossroads and would have to choose whether he loved his wife more than horses. At this time Fred had a temporary job arranged through the Labour Department. He was collecting money for a reputable organisation around the city but was unable to deliver it before the weekend.

The temptation of a bagful of cash and the night trots was too much for Fred. He went and lost it all.

He telephoned the Gamblers Anonymous member, telling him he would be sent to jail.

“He asked me whether I could get the money from anywhere else. I knew that the only possibility was my wife.” The man rang Fred’s wife, who reluctantly agreed to send a money order telegram on the Monday. The money was safely paid into the office of his charity and Fred and his new-found friend founded a Gamblers Anonymous group.

“I have not had a bet for seven years,” says Fred. “Although my wife still does not trust me 100 per cent, we have our own house now and I have had a good job for six years.” His long-suffering wife could not agree to having a baby until Fred proved he could lay off the horses for two years. He did this, "and now our son starts school tomorrow.”