Former Colts quarterback struggles with gambling past
he once made the masses roar. He went unrecognized, almost invisible to the
thousands who swarmed the gates. Hundreds of scarlet-clad fans wearing his
old number brushed past the former quarterback. They honored Troy Smith, the
current No. 10, not the one they have forgotten or use as a punch line. On
this chilly October day, Schlichter brought his mom, Mila, to watch the
Buckeyes play Minnesota. It was the first Ohio State game he'd attended in
13 years. Schlichter braced himself against the wind swirling around Ohio
Stadium and the emotions that churned inside him. His dark eyes hid under a
white baseball cap, but they couldn't conceal what sullied his return to the
place where he once found glory.
"I've hurt a lot of people since I've been here," he said. "I'm more sorry
than people will ever know." Since leaving Ohio State 25 years ago,
Schlichter has gone from All-American quarterback to one of America's
best-known compulsive gamblers. Since 1994 he has served time in 44 prisons
or jails, mainly for fraud and forgery - swindling people out of money or
writing bad checks to feed his addiction to gambling on sports and horse
races. Those close to him estimate that Schlichter has flushed away at least
$1 million gambling. Schlichter, 46, was released early from an Indiana
prison in June, then spent four months at a gambling treatment center in
Baltimore. He recently moved back near Washington Court House, about 40
miles southwest of Columbus, to live with his mother in a home close to what
once was their family farm. But he remains locked up by a destructive past
that he can't escape and a future filled with skepticism. The addiction has
damaged nearly all of his relationships. It divided his family, tested his
closest friendship, tainted his legacy at Ohio State, ruined his marriage
and separated him from his daughters most of their lives. Schlichter said he
last placed a bet Jan. 12, 2005. He lost $20 on a professional basketball
game. He made the bet from prison. "I don't want sympathy. I don't deserve
sympathy," Schlichter said. "I just want a chance to make amends, especially
with those I love most."
The question is not whether Schlichter wants redemption.
It's whether he's strong enough to earn it.
The echo of a pre-game cheer drifted outside the stadium, where Schlichter
walked in anonymity. The buzz of the crowd shouldn't faze Schlichter, once
the golden boy who starred in jammed stadiums from coast to coast. But it
penetrated his casual shell and exposed the farm boy who first saw his
Camelot on a black-and-white television.
"I grew up taking care of sick hogs and doing chores on the farm," he said.
"It was a big deal for me to come here, for my family when I came here,
especially my dad."
The faces of the Schlichter family, young and old, pressed against the
frosty windows as they watched the white El Camino with wooden side panels
move slowly up the driveway.
Woody Hayes and his wife, Anne, were coming to Thanksgiving dinner. The
coach was coming to get a new quarterback before his arch rival from
Michigan could snatch him.
Ohio State's football leader would have to win over the Schlichter family's
leader to get what he wanted.
John "Max" Schlichter, a Fayette County farmer, extended his giant hand to
Hayes as he walked through the doorway. In that moment on Nov. 24, 1977, the
deal likely was sealed.
"In the end it was my call, but my dad really liked Woody," Schlichter said.
"I know people had a lot of opinions about my dad. Some said he was a good
guy with a big heart. Some said he was a big controlling bastard. He was a
simple farmer who was strong and protective of his family. I know there are
people who say my dad pushed me too hard, but he didn't push me into
anything."
Max and Mila leased most of their 2,000 acres, which produced corn, soybeans
and wheat. Art and his older brother, John, and sister, Dawn, all had
chores.
But sports ruled in the Schlichter house. Max hung a net in the yard so Art
could throw a football. He put up a basketball court in the barn so Art and
John could play one-on-one.
"We didn't have a whole lot, but we had a good childhood," said John
Schlichter, now a state representative. "But what happened later with Art
took its toll on everyone, my dad included."
Off and on for years, Max gave his son thousands to pay off gambling debts.
Schlichter also would use his father's credit card to generate money to
gamble. "I caused my dad and my mom a lot of pain, too much pain,"
Schlichter said.
But Schlichter doesn't blame himself for his father's death. In 2002, Max
was found dead in a Clintonville swimming pool. Authorities ruled it a
suicide.
"My dad had remarried and was living a completely different life by then,
one that few of us knew much about," Schlichter said. "My troubles were
full-blown long before my dad's death."
Schlichter said he called and talked with his dad the night before he died.
Max told Art he loved him, which he didn't often do over the phone.
The day his dad was buried, Schlichter sat alone in an Oklahoma City prison
cell. He visited his dad's grave for the first time this past summer.
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