[carriedarvall]

gologle.Com – http://golole.com. <br>RALEIGH, N.C. (AP) – Legislation that would have authorized sports betting across all of North Carolina fell apart late Wednesday as the House narrowly rejected a key measure amid warnings about the dangers of gambling from an unusual coalition of social conservatives and liberal Democrats.<br> <br>The House voted 51-50 not to approve one of two measures that, when combined, would have established the rules to authorize and regulate gambling on professional sporting events and out-of-state horse racing,<br> <br>Prospects already looked shaky earlier Wednesday when the House voted by a similar 51-50 margin for a supplemental measure that would have mostly made changes to a separate, comprehensive bill unveiled last year that laid out the structure of how sports betting would be conducted.

The supplemental measure focused on how gambling license operators would have been taxed and where the proceeds would have gone.<br> <br>Several critics of the measures said state sanction of sports betting would create gambling addicts, leading to increases in theft, embezzlement and people deep in debt.<br> <br>”If you vote for this you´re gambling that these two bills will control gambling, in North Carolina,” Rep.

Jay Adams, a Catawba County Republican, told colleagues on the House floor. “This is just another opportunity to create unfortunate opportunities for people who can´t resist.”<br> <br>The first measure had already taken a hit when the chamber voted by a comfortable margin an amendment to remove college sports from the list of games on which online or in-person customers could have wagered.<br> <br>Rep.

Jason Saine, a Lincoln County Republican shepherding the measures in the House this week, pointed out the supplemental measure survived a floor vote, so the gambling idea “is not totally dead.” But the General Assembly work session is likely to end late next week.<br> <br>”It could resurface depending on what happens. If not, sports wagering is going to remain an issue for the state of North Carolina because … states around us are doing it,” Saine said afterward.<br> <br>Sports gambling took off in the states after a 2018 U.S.

Supreme Court ruling. Twenty states and the District of Columbia now offer mobile sports betting, including the neighboring states of Virginia and Tennessee, according to the American Gaming Association, while 28 states and D.C. have some kind of in-person betting.

The Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians opened on-site betting operations last year at its two far western North Carolina casinos thanks to earlier legislation.<br> <br>Wednesday’s defeat also means uncertainty about whether the state Senate and Democratic Gov.

Roy Cooper, who had said he was ready to sign sports betting legislation, would be willing to accept less than the compromise that was unveiled this week. More than half of the Senate Republicans voted against the comprehensive measure that passed their chamber last August.<br> <br>GOP Rep.

Jeffrey Elmore of Wilkes County appears to have been the deciding vote on Wednesday. While Elmore voted for the supplemental measure, he voted no on the second, more comprehensive bill, House records showed. Elmore didn´t immediately respond to a phone message left at his legislative office.<br> <br>Nearly one-fifth of the 120 House members didn´t vote, either with or without formal excuses for being absent – a sign of how tentative vote counting was.<br> <br>Bill supporters said state residents already are participating in illegal sports betting through offshore online websites or local bookies, and it´s better for the state to control the activity and tax it.<br> <br>North Carolina, the ninth-largest state by population, is currently an untapped market with several major-league sports franchises, college basketball, NASCAR and golf.<br> <br>The measures would have authorized the issuance of between 10 and 12 interactive sports wagering operator licenses along with supplier and service provider licenses.

People 21 and over within the state´s boundaries would have been able to play on their phones or computers starting in January. NASCAR tracks, golf courses, arenas and stadiums where professional sports are conducted could have betting sites in person or close by if the legislation had succeeded.<br> <br>The legislation also contained $2 million for problem-gambling programs.<br> <br>”I certainly understand the concerns of my colleagues on both sides of the aisle, but I also disagree with them,” said Rep.

Wesley Harris, a Mecklenburg County Democrat who supported the measures. “The black market does exist and people are already gambling. But there is no regulation and there´s no help for those people.”<br> <br>The supplemental bill also contained sweeteners on how the state´s share would have been distributed.
Net proceeds would have benefited county youth sports programs, athletic departments for seven UNC system campuses and efforts to bring sporting events and attractions to the state.<br>

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[bartes223]

I need to start by saying I’m not a gambler. I mean that in the most boring, Midwestern, “I-balance-my-checkbook-to-the-penny” kind of way. My idea of a wild Friday night used to be buying the expensive brand of cheddar cheese instead of the store brand. But about eight months ago, my wife, Elena, took the kids to visit her parents for the weekend. It was the first time in four years I had the house completely to myself. No Paw Patrol on the TV. No little hands reaching for my keyboard while I was trying to work. Just me, a cold pizza, and the deafening sound of silence.

By nine o’clock, I was restless. I’d already cleaned the garage, organized my sock drawer, and watched half a documentary about the mating habits of deep-sea fish. I was sinking into that weird, anxious boredom where you start questioning your entire existence. I was scrolling through my phone, bouncing between social media and news articles, when I saw an ad. It wasn’t one of those flashy, neon, “WIN A LAMBORGHINI” ads. It was just a simple interface, actually kind of sleek looking. I’d never really played slots before—not real ones, anyway. But I figured, why not? I had fifty bucks in my Venmo account that I’d been meaning to use for a new pair of running shoes. Running shoes, digital slots—same difference, right? It was all just entertainment.

I clicked through, and I remember feeling this little spike of adrenaline just setting up the account. It felt vaguely illicit, like I was a teenager trying to buy beer for the first time. I went through the process, and eventually, I was staring at a grid of colorful games. I had no idea what I was doing. I was looking for something that looked friendly, not too intimidating. I found this one game—I think it was some kind of Aztec jungle theme—and I just started clicking. The first few minutes were a blur of small losses and tiny wins. It was going nowhere fast. I was about to close the laptop, convinced I’d just wasted my shoe money, when I decided to try one more time. I remember muttering to myself, “Alright, last spin. Then I’m going to bed like the responsible adult I claim to be.”

The spin started. The reels were slowing down, and I was already mentally spending that fifty bucks on a lesson learned. But then the third reel stopped on a symbol I hadn’t seen before. A golden idol. Then the fourth reel. The screen started to shake. I actually leaned closer to the screen, my pizza grease smudging the glass. A little cinematic cutscene started playing. I had no idea what it meant. My heart was suddenly hammering against my ribs. I sat up so fast I knocked over my bottle of beer, and I just let it spill all over the floor because I couldn’t look away. A bar appeared at the top of the screen, filling up with numbers. It kept climbing. Fifteen hundred. Two thousand. I thought my computer had frozen because the number just kept ticking up, but the little animation was still going.

When it finally stopped, I just stared at the total. It was just over four thousand dollars.

I didn’t cheer. I didn’t punch the air. I just sat there in my boxer shorts, in the dark of my living room, with a puddle of cheap lager soaking into the carpet, feeling like I’d accidentally broken the universe. It felt fake. I closed the laptop, opened it again, and logged back in to make sure it was real. I did that three times. It was real. I wasn’t some high-roller; I was just a guy who got stupidly lucky while looking for a way to kill an hour of solitude. My hands were shaking as I figured out how to withdraw it. I went through the steps, and I remember thinking, Just let it go through. Please just let this be real. I did the necessary steps for the Vavada login to check the withdrawal status, probably twenty times that night, expecting it to say “error” or “just kidding.”

But the next morning, when I woke up on the couch with a stiff neck, I checked my bank account. The money was there.

For the next week, I didn’t tell anyone. Not my buddies, not my wife. I felt this weird sense of guilt, like I’d stolen it. But I also couldn’t stop thinking about it. Not about the game itself, but about the timing. A week later, Elena walked into the kitchen and mentioned that the dishwasher was making that horrible grinding noise again. The one we’d been ignoring for six months. The one that sounded like a dying robot every time we ran a cycle. She sighed, rubbing her temples, and said, “We’re going to have to put it on a credit card. I don’t see another way until next quarter.”

I told her not to worry about it. She looked at me like I had two heads.

That weekend, I went to the appliance store. I bought the nicest dishwasher they had. Not the mid-tier compromise model, but the top-of-the-line Bosch that’s so quiet you have to put your hand on it just to know it’s running. I also bought a new faucet for the guest bathroom that had been dripping since 2019, and I paid a guy to install it all. When Elena saw the receipt, she nearly fainted. I had to sit her down and explain everything. I showed her the transaction history. I told her about the lonely Friday night, the fifty bucks, the Aztec jungle, and the golden idol. I was so worried she’d be upset—either that I’d been gambling or that I’d kept it a secret.

She just looked at me, then at the new dishwasher humming silently in the kitchen. Then she started laughing. Not a polite laugh, but a full, bent-over, tear-streaming laugh. She said it was the most ridiculous, serendipitous thing that had ever happened in our ten years of marriage.

Now, every time I open that dishwasher—which is every single day—I’m reminded that I am not a lucky person. I’m the guy who gets flat tires on the way to important meetings. I’m the guy who picks the slowest line at the grocery store. But for one night, when I was bored and lonely and just messing around, the universe flipped a switch. It paid for my appliances and gave me a story I get to tell at dinner parties. I cashed out that night, and I’ve never gone back to chase that feeling. Because I know that’s how the trap snaps shut. But man, for that one weekend, I felt like I’d gotten away with something. I felt like a ghost in my own house, walking past my wife and kids, knowing I’d fixed the sink without touching the savings account.

I don’t think about the game. I don’t remember the name of the slot. But every time I load up my banking app, I see that old transaction history, and I remember the sound of the beer bottle hitting the floor and the look on my wife’s face when she realized we weren’t going into debt for a dishwasher. It was just dumb, blind, stupid luck. But it was mine.

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