Gambling problem takes human form. . .

My gambling problem is not cards. Nor is it slot machines, lottery tickets or bingo. I don’t blow my paycheque on the ponies.

In fact my gambling problem is not a game of skill or chance at all. My gambling problem is Lowell. Lowell and the fact that he wins too often.

We have known each other since fifth grade, when we almost immediately began battling our skills and endurance for nickels, dimes and dollars. “My name’s Lowell. Betcha a buck I can ride my bike to the corner store faster than you.” “You’re on!”

One day we gambled and gambolled our way down a mountainside to cap off a hike. A mini Olympics, it was. Stick throwing for javelin, rock tossing for shot put. We stomped along irrigation flumes, sprinted across meadows, scraped and scrambled along rockfalls, splashed through the creek and, finally, jogged to the finish line at Lowell’s place within seconds of each other.

I believe I won. Lowell may dispute that, but there were few official records of these events kept in the first place, so I think my claim is safe.

Sometimes, there was nothing more than pride and bragging rights on the outcome. Didn’t matter. We played just as hard.

All I wanted, back then, was to be better than Lowell. And it’s all I want now, too.

We no longer live in the same town, so these days we tend to compete by proxy. We put our money behind sporting teams. It’s more convenient and a lot safer, too – running the flumes, if any of them still exist, is no simple task for a middle-aged man.

For decades now, our contests of choice have been auto races. We’ve bet against each other, brought others into our league of gamblers and, most recently, joined someone else’s league.

The Boozehound Racing League is a small, elite group, and it is operated from a secret headquarters in California. BHRL for short. That’s about all I’m permitted to tell you, without risking the use of several vital limbs and, more important, my membership.

Lately, Lowell and I have added a little bit of Golden Baseball League action to our betting sheets, as well as some good old NHL hockey.

Paying in cash is a rarity, now. It is more fun, for example, to force your own musical tastes on the winning party. “William Shatner Sings Tiny Tim! Enjoy!”

I prevailed in hockey last year, so Lowell forced me to spend my winnings on University of Arizona Wildcats gear. He was taking me to the game, and would not be seen with me, he said, unless I “geared up.”

Shirts are nice prizes. I have a Tucson Toros shirt I quite like – it was the least I could do, after the team’s loss to the Edmonton Capitals.

We used to bet die cast racecars a lot. But Lowell’s decision to keep my Jenson Button Formula 1 BAR Honda for five years has put me off them, as far as prizes go.

He kept my car in his office to pull out on Saturdays, giving his kids something to do when he dragged them there for a quick work stop. “Lowell, a Jenson Button die cast is not a toy.” “Try telling that to my kids. And think of the joy you’ve given them.”

Eventually Lowell did get my die cast to me, although it was a more a dead cast by then. It arrived as bits and pieces, and has now been carefully restored and given a prominent place in my living room, near the TV.

From its perch, my die cast no doubt led Jenson Button to his first Formula 1 championship, in 2009. Because, really, that’s what all this gambling is about. Deep inside us, we sports fans believe we have an effect.

If we cheer loud enough, think hard enough, watch enough, we know our boys and girls will prevail. An invisible agent travels through the airwaves. It wafts down from grandstands, it seeps up from turf, it infects the water.

It is the grease in Lance Armstrong’s gears, the spring in Roger Federer's catgut, that smidgen of extra mechanical grip in turn one for NASCAR champ Jimmie Johnson.

But you need to pay attention. I’ve slipped a bit in our hockey bet, and now Lowell is forever harping in his emails, rubbing it in. “I am up FIVE GAMES!!” he recently enthused. “This breaks not only our ban on all-caps words, but also our ban on multiple exclamation points,” I responded. “Please cease and desist.”

Sure, he’s my gambling problem. But I’ve got him under control.

George Lee lives, writes, edits and, sadly, bets on the Oilers in Edmonton. Reach him at piecesofgeorge@featureswest.com.