On a balmy December morning in Boston, Richard Daynard is sitting at his dining-room table watching a livestream on his laptop. “Pure. Horsesh-it,” he declares as a witness testifies before the Senate Judiciary Committee.
The hearing has been called to discuss what seems to be becoming America’s new favorite pastime: throwing down bets on sports, 24/7. And what has set the bearded, bookish law professor off is a former gambling regulator from New Jersey’s use of a talking point favored by both the industry and the professional sports leagues: that the reason it’s so easy to wager on sports these days is this is what the American people want. To Daynard, president of the Public Health Advocacy Institute (PHAI) at Northeastern University’s law school, such language deflects from gambling’s heavy social toll. “This is consumer choice!” says Daynard, the sarcasm driving home his point. “This is freedom!”
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Daynard has been fighting big public-health battles for decades. He played a foundational role building landmark legal cases in the 1980s and ’90s against U.S. tobacco companies, which ultimately resulted in cigarette manufacturers’ agreeing to pay more than $200 billion in settlement funds to the states. Now, at 81, he is no less indignant about the way companies seem to put profits over customer well-being. His latest objective is curtailing the excesses of sports gambling. “We’re talking,” says Daynard, “about addiction.”
Americans bet an estimated $150 billion on sports in 2024, up 24% from the prior year, according to the American Gaming Association, and sports books kept some $14 billion of that, up 27%. State governments collected about $2.5 billion in sports-betting tax revenue in 2024, a 19% jump. Networks broadcast incessant advertising, featuring premium pitchmen like Kevin Hart, LeBron James, Peyton Manning, and Jamie Foxx, from gambling companies like DraftKings, FanDuel, and BetMGM.
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But America’s burgeoning love affair with sports gambling has come with costs. Calls to problem-gambling hotlines have spiked. Emerging research suggests that sports betting depletes investment accounts of already financially vulnerable households, increases bankruptcy risk, and even contributes to upticks in intimate-partner violence. “I am presently, or have recently been, treating divorces, breakups, estrangement from children, criminal charges, incarceration, loss of all savings, foreclosure of homes, end of careers, suicidal ideation, hospitalization for a suicide attempt,” says PHAI director of gambling policy Harry Levant, a former gambling addict who’s now a clinical gambling-disorder therapist and also testified at that December congressional hearing. “The deepest forms of despair.”
Daynard argues that sports-betting operators, much like tobacco companies, have engineered their product to foster addiction, through the constant stream of bonuses, promotions, and opportunities to microbet—on the speed of the next pitch, on the rebound totals of a particular player, on who will score the next touchdown—on your phone during a sporting event. “You’re just pushing buttons,” says Daynard. “You’re just going after action.”
His approach to reining in the industry is twofold: litigation and legislation. In late 2023 PHAI filed a class-action lawsuit on behalf of customers in Massachusetts accusing DraftKings, one of the biggest gambling operators in the U.S., of utilizing deceptive marketing practices. Last summer, a judge denied DraftKings’ motion to dismiss the case, allowing it to potentially advance to the discovery phase. Daynard’s team also helped Representative Paul Tonko, a New York Democrat, draft the SAFE Bet Act, a federal law that would ban sports-gambling advertising during live events, prohibit gambling operators from accepting more than five deposits from an individual in a 24-hour period, and eliminate the use of AI to track a bettor’s gambling habits for customized promotions.
“Nobody’s had more experience with fighting addiction as a scholar and activist and thought leader,” says Senator Richard Blumenthal, a Connecticut Democrat who as state attorney general in the 1990s worked with Daynard to file lawsuits against tobacco companies and introduced the SAFE Bet Act with Tonko. “He was a very powerfully articulate advocate at a time when there were not a lot of them, making our lawsuits credible.”
As he sips soup in the three-bedroom Back Bay apartment he’s lived in since 1974, Daynard seems energized by the challenge ahead. After all, he not only knows what it’s like to take on a deep-pocketed adversary, he also understands the impact he can have if he prevails: Over the past 30 years, the price of a pack of smokes has gone up more than 450%, thanks in large part to the 1998 settlement that requires tobacco manufacturers to compensate states as long as cigarettes are sold in the U.S. Big Tobacco has stopped advertising to kids. And cigarette sales have fallen 59% since the settlement.
“People laughed at Dick Daynard in the ’70s and the ’80s because they thought his ideas about going after the tobacco industry were harebrained,” says Thomas Sobol, a Boston plaintiff attorney who worked on the litigation against Big Tobacco. “They were wrong. People should think twice before even questioning his foresight.”
A New York City native whose father ran a clothing business and mother worked as a public-school administrator, Daynard developed a smoking aversion when he was 12. He was the youngest member of the ham-radio enthusiast group that would meet in the back room of a Manhattan tavern, and the space would grow so thick with smoke, he’d have to retreat to the bar to get away.
After attending the Bronx High School of Science, which counts more alumni as Nobel Prize winners than any other secondary school in the world, Daynard went to Columbia, where he majored in philosophy. “I was a nice, bright Jewish kid from New York,” he says. “There are two things I could do in life. I didn’t like blood.”
So he was off to law school, at Harvard. He spent one summer working for a fancy Manhattan firm, drafting a brief on behalf of a marquee client, Ford Motor Co. But oiling the wheels of commerce wasn’t for him. “I’m sitting in my chair thinking about when I’m 50,” says Daynard. “What will my life be like? I’ve only got one of these things. What will I have to say for myself?”
Daynard joined the Northeastern law faculty in 1969. (He also got a Ph.D. in urban studies and planning at MIT in 1980.) He started going to meetings for a quirky smoking-opposition group in the 1970s that, according to Daynard’s wife of close to 50 years, Carol, included a Boston landlord with a “huge” hat, a hermit who’d monitor TV transmission towers in Needham, Mass., and an MIT engineering professor who’d ride a recumbent bicycle throughout Boston. “It was sort of a weird combination,” she says. The couple’s son spread the anti-cigarette gospel: once, when he was about 6, he spotted a Boston motorcyclist lighting up and told the biker he shouldn’t do that. “My wife is watching him, feeling lucky that he didn’t get slugged,” says Daynard.
In 1983, Daynard became president of the Massachusetts chapter of the Group Against Smoking Pollution (GASP). While teaching a course on consumer protection, he solicited recommendations on what to do in his new gig. “This was a class of law students,” says Daynard. “So the answer was ‘Sue the bastards.’”
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Naturally. But since the 1950s, that had been a failing strategy. Big Tobacco hadn’t lost a court case brought by an individual smoker or paid a penny in settlements or damages. Still, Daynard started the Tobacco Products Liability Project out of Northeastern; in 1985, the group published the inaugural Tobacco Products Litigation Reporter, devoting a portion of that first issue to documenting a case out of New Jersey in which Rose Cipollone, a smoker for 40 years, sued tobacco companies for causing her cancer. The case continued after her death in 1984, and Daynard began publicizing documents from the trial. He held a 1987 press conference to disclose a memo, written by a government doctor, saying that a tobacco-company lawyer admitted in a meeting with the U.S. surgeon general that cancer is linked to cigarettes. In 1988, Cipollone’s husband won the first-ever jury award ($400,000) involving the death of a smoker, though an appeals court later overturned it.
Taking on tobacco sometimes stressed out his family. “I told him he couldn’t go south of D.C.,” says Carol. “I was worried about backlash from some crazy tobacco farmer.” She once accompanied him to a meeting in Chapel Hill, N.C., and they received a police escort. In 1990, Daynard flew to Orlando to meet with a mysterious character posing as a woman in written correspondence: Merrell Williams Jr. was a theater Ph.D. who, while working as a paralegal at the firm repping tobacco giant Brown & Williamson, stuffed damning internal documents into a girdle, ripping open a bag of chips as he passed a security guard to cover the sound of rustling papers. The whistle-blower told Daynard about the documents, which included an admission from a Brown & Williamson lawyer that the company was in the business of selling “an addictive drug.” They were eventually funneled to congressional lawmakers, who had just held hearings in which seven tobacco CEOs had said under oath that nicotine wasn’t addictive; a medical professor who disseminated them online; and the Mississippi attorney general, who with the assistance of Daynard and private litigators filed the first state lawsuit against Big Tobacco.
Daynard introduced the theory of “unjust enrichment” into the proceedings. It posited that while tobacco companies were making money off smokers, the state had to pay medical costs for sick customers and was thus the injured party. Other states followed Mississippi’s lead, and within just a few years, an agreement was in place that would transform cigarette consumption in this country. “As a physician and public-health professor, we often don’t view lawyers as partners and leaders in promoting public health,” says Dr. Howard Koh of Harvard’s T.H. Chan School of Public Health. “But Dick has saved so many lives.”
Daynard isn’t a sports fan. He almost never gambles. He’s placed a few wagers at the horse track over the years, bought a lottery ticket once when the jackpot was a gazillion dollars, and while on a Caribbean cruise with Carol bet some 50 bucks in the casino (he came out $5 ahead). But Daynard can pinpoint exactly when sports gambling hit his radar: March 10, 2023, the day mobile betting commenced in Massachusetts. Just as smoke enveloped the back room of Forrester’s Bar and Grill during Daynard’s ham-radio confabs, sports-gambling advertisements blanketed even the trash cans of Boston.
As anyone who’s watched an iota of sports programming over the past few years can attest, the betting business doesn’t traffic in subtlety. Sports-gambling ads are everywhere. (Heck, I saw a DraftKings infomercial on AMC one recent morning. AMC!?) It’s somewhat hard to fathom that just about a dozen years ago, the major U.S. professional sports leagues sued to stop New Jersey’s effort to legalize sports betting, citing a 1992 federal law, the Professional and Amateur Sports Protection Act (PASPA), that essentially prohibited sport betting outside of Nevada. The Supreme Court, however, in 2018 overturned PASPA, on states-rights’ grounds. Since then, 38 states and Washington, D.C., have legalized sports betting; mobile betting is permitted in all but eight of those jurisdictions. (Missouri voters approved sports betting in November, and gambling should go live there sometime this year.)
Pro sports leagues that had nominally been trying to stop gambling went all-in. This embrace makes business sense. Gambling increases product engagement: if you bet on baseball, you’re much more likely to consume baseball. Plus, gambling creates new direct revenue streams for the leagues, which can sell their real-time data to the companies, which in turn can create live in-game betting opportunities. Still, says sports-gambling researcher John Holden, a professor at Indiana University’s Kelley School of Business, “the buy-in from the leagues exceeded many people’s wildest imaginations.”
Such robust championing of betting contributes to the downsides researchers have documented. More than a decade ago, gambling disorder was classified as the first nonsubstance behavioral addiction in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. A paper presented at a finance conference in October, titled “Gambling Away Stability: Sports Betting’s Impact on Vulnerable Households,” found that sports-betting legalization led to depletion of investment accounts while also increasing credit-card debt and the frequency in overdrafts for financially constrained households. Mark Johnson, a finance professor at BYU and one of the study’s co-authors, anticipated that sports gambling would replace other forms of entertainment. “That’s not happening,” says Johnson. “Instead, people are taking money that they had allocated for investments to fund betting. It’s concerning.”
Another October 2024 working paper, this one from researchers at UCLA and USC, estimates that online sports-betting legalization has led to roughly 30,000 additional annual bankruptcies and $8 billion in annual debt collections. A third paper from last year, from economics doctoral students at the University of Oregon, found that an NFL home-team upset loss in states with legalized sports gambling is more than twice as likely to lead to an incident of intimate partner violence, compared with states without legalized gambling.
Despite such alarming findings, Daynard isn’t out to ban sports gambling. He also never aimed to stop smoking altogether. What he wants to change is the approach to policing the market. The industry touts the “responsible gaming” model, in which companies include problem-gambling hotline numbers in ads, much as labels are affixed to cigarette packages: you were warned, we’re offering help, so don’t blame us for your woes. A public-health strategy, on the other hand, recognizes that the product can be addictive and enacts reasonable measures to protect consumers. “People fall off the cliff,” says Daynard. “The ‘responsible gaming’ approach is, we are here with the ambulance. The public-health approach is, you put a fence up on the top.”
Daynard happens to live a few blocks from DraftKings headquarters. Since way before the legalization of Massachusetts sports betting, he’s parked in the garage beneath the building that now houses the company’s offices. He jokes he should carry a picture of DraftKings CEO Jason Robins with him, to recognize the executive in a pinch. “I have this fantasy that if I’m not watching,” says Daynard, tongue firmly in cheek, “Jason Robins will be there with a bat.”
PHAI’s lawsuit against DraftKings alleges that the company’s offer “to get a $1,000 deposit bonus” on the sign-up page of its mobile app, and a similar offer on its website, tricked Massachusetts customers who were new to sports betting into funding new accounts and engaging with a known addictive product. Unbeknownst to them, the suit alleges, the customers would receive a $1,000 bonus only if they deposited $5,000 up front, bet $25,000 within 90 days, and bet that money on games in which you had at least a 25% chance of losing your skin. And even if someone fulfilled those requirements—which were, according to the suit, spelled out in “unreadable” small print—the $1,000 wasn’t a cash bonus. It was a credit to be used for more gambling. “The old dope peddler actually hands over the stuff,” says Daynard. “These guys can’t hand over, to use a technical term, the f-cking $1,000. They’ve just hooked somebody. But they can’t give you a goddamn $1,000?”
In its argument for dismissal, DraftKings contended the promotion wasn’t misleading, and wrote that “no reasonable consumer would believe that a deposit of any amount would result in the immediate transfer to them of 1,000 U.S. dollars.” The company also claimed the plaintiffs failed to specify any financial harm caused by the promotion, as not receiving an expected bonus is not the same as losing money. Massachusetts Superior Court Judge Debra A. Squires-Lee, however, wrote that the extent of any DraftKings deception “must be developed in discovery,” and that the plaintiffs “plausibly suggest that they were harmed because they bought into a service worth less than they believed.”
As in most class actions, legal experts say, the odds seem stacked against the plaintiffs. “But the fact that this case has survived that motion to dismiss is fairly significant,” says Holden. “That doesn’t spell victory automatically. But it is a signal that hey, this isn’t a nothing.” If the case does proceed to trial, experts say, a jury could be turned off by the way DraftKings marketed its promotion offer to novice customers. “The lawsuit does a good job of saying, ‘Of course, you put it in your terms and conditions, but you don’t emphasize that,’” says Keith Miller, a professor at Drake Law School. “You don’t emphasize how much people have to deposit. What the play-through is. Those sorts of things are the hardest for them to defend.”
Law is like the NFL: a copycat operation. Innovations spread fast. As the Massachusetts suit progresses, lawyers in other states will file similar claims, just as they did in the tobacco wars. It’s already happening. In September, a suit similar to PHIA’s action was filed in New York; so far in 2025, DraftKings has been hit with lawsuits in New Jersey, Illinois, and Kentucky concerning its “no-sweat” and “risk-free” bet promotions.
“DraftKings provides a legal and regulated platform that prioritizes integrity and responsible gaming,” a company spokesperson writes to TIME in a statement. “Our products are designed for fun and entertainment, giving players opportunities to follow their favorite teams and athletes while connecting with friends. We believe our promotional terms are clearly and fairly disclosed in plain language, and we fully adhere to the regulations set forth in each jurisdiction where we operate. We remain committed to resolving the matter in question through the legal process.”
Meanwhile, the SAFE Bet Act— which would also ban such “bonus” and “no sweat” advertising, require that operators conduct customer affordability checks for wagers in excess of $1,000 in a 24-hour period or $10,000 in a 30-day period, and prohibit operators from accepting deposits via credit card—is also an underdog. After all, two Democrats are pushing for regulations in a Republican-controlled Congress. “I’m very clear-eyed that it will be an uphill fight,” says Blumenthal. “It will depend a lot on whether my Republican colleagues want to stand up to the industry and produce some decent reforms.” His Democratic colleagues, moreover, don’t count as no-sweat bets. “The power of the industry affects legislators on a bipartisan basis,” says Blumenthal. “To be very blunt, it’s not like Democrats are immune to campaign contributions and other forms of influence.”
Through it all, Daynard, who’s well past retirement age, plans to keep fighting. He works out with a trainer and says he’s in the best physical shape in his life. He’s still teaching at Northeastern while pursuing a public-health agenda. “I love being productive and useful,” he says. “I don’t play tennis. I don’t play golf. I don’t sail. There’s a limit to how much solitaire I can play. I haven’t learned how to play pickleball.” He’s promised to go part time if he makes it to 100.
“One of the great upsides of being older is you’ve seen a lot of things,” says Daynard. “And you can recognize them. So you see something, you say, ‘Aha.’” Daynard snaps his finger. “What’s similar with the tobacco industry is that they’ve designed the trap. The customers are in there, and they extract whatever money they can from them. And what happens with a trapped customer? Nothing good.”