SCOTTSDALE, Ariz. — Decades before Troy Smith's career was a big leaf in the Buckeyes' grand tradition, another famous player wore the scarlet and gray No. 10. A strapping farm boy made good in his home state, the quarterback started every Ohio State game for four seasons. Buckeye Nation worshipped at his cleats.
Yes, Art Schlichter seemed like a sure bet.

Seemingly overnight, he went from pro quarterback to professional con man. Today, Schlichter's sullied name is synonymous with one of America's favorite pastimes. He lost his career, family and freedom to an insidious habit, one that afflicts an estimated 5 million Americans: compulsive gambling.

"It's the crack cocaine of the 21st century," Schlichter said by phone from his mother's home, where they plan to watch Monday's Ohio State-Florida BCS game. "You can't taste it, smell it or touch it, but it's there."

Schlichter, 46, was released from prison last summer and spent four months at a Baltimore treatment clinic. He had served time for a ticket-selling rip-off that netted more than half-a-million dollars. His goal now: set up a non-profit foundation to speak to groups about compulsive gambling, particularly young people, and educate them through www.gamblingpreventionawareness.org.

"I think every college athlete should hear my story," he said. "It's not a pretty story, but it's one I think can help some people."

A virtual outcast at Ohio State for years, Schlichter finally returned to Columbus for some games this season. He described the experience as "surreal."

"I looked up into the stands where my mom and dad sat for every game I played, and that really choked me up," he said. "A lot of emotions came rushing back."

Any addict often has relationship issues in his past that spur his disease. In this case, it was with his father.

"It's really personal stuff, but I just didn't fully develop as a person," Schlichter said.

While in college, Schlichter wagered on horses, cards and sports. Most gamblers bet socially without adverse consequences. Schlichter is not one of them. After relapsing into various swindles, he spent 10 of the last 12 years in prisons and jails in the Midwest.

Even now he must continue to work to make sure he doesn't lapse into his old mind-set, "to make sure I don't bet, commit crimes, lie, cheat and steal.

"When you're in the grips of an illness, it's hard."

He begins the fourth quarter trying to make another comeback. He is broke, lives at home and owes an estimated half-million dollars in restitution. His wife left him, remarried and lives in Indiana with Art's two daughters. In 2002 Max Schlichter, the domineering figure in Art's life, killed himself. His son didn't attend the funeral. He was in prison.

For years, Schlichter, the golden boy with the silver tongue, mostly fooled himself. The Colts selected him fourth in 1982, but he soon was up to his chinstrap in bookies. By 1987, he was effectively banned from the league forever.

"I lost $20,000 the first week after the (NFL) strike. It scared me, but I chased it and chased it. By the time the strike was over, I was $700,000-$800,000 in debt. It was insanity. After I was suspended, I tried to come back, but I never was the same. I lost my confidence. Once your edge is gone, you're just another guy."

Bankrupt, he tried playing in Canada. Then he signed with the Arena Football League. He passed bad checks; the scams escalated into felony counts for theft and fraud. By the time he was 35, he was serving time for bilking friends, banks and casinos. He stole checks, forged signatures and continued to gamble away hundreds of thousands of dollars.

Incarceration in more than 40 jails and prisons didn't stop him from getting down on baseball, football and basketball games. He would be released and immediately begin a new scam, violating probation. Five years ago, Schlichter pleaded guilty in federal court to multiple credit card fraud and money laundering charges and was sentenced to five years.

While serving time in Oklahoma, he called his father.

"I knew he was down," he recalled. "I said, 'Are you all right, Dad?' He said, 'Arthur, I'm just tired.' I told him to take care and I'd call him soon. He said, 'Arthur, I love you.' And he hung up the phone. Any thoughts I had of suicide ended the day my dad committed (it)."

A few friends and former colleagues stuck by Schlichter. One of them was Earle Bruce, the former Buckeyes coach for whom he played after Woody Hayes was dismissed. Bruce visited him in jail.

"He demanded I get myself together," Schlichter said. "He let me know in no uncertain terms that I needed to pull myself up and get off the mat. Kind of like a football pep talk, except it was a life pep talk."

Sunday, Bruce was in town for the big game and talked about Schlichter's long fight against the odds.

"I feel better about him than I ever have," he said. "I didn't think there was any chance."

Right now, one more opportunity to go straight is all the old Buckeyes quarterback has left.

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