Playing the Numbers

“If they ever figure out a time machine, the lottery would be dunzo.”

Those, the words last night of my 11-year old son.

I believe “dunzo” comes from the latin, meaning eradicated.

Or extirpate.

But either way, I suppose you can’t blame him for having lottery on the brain.

We are one of the 41 states which takes part in the Mega Millions lottery.

The stab-in-the-dark contest whose grand prize had reached a whopping $355 million.

Like many people, we were feeling lucky.

And/or were looking to throw money away.

So we too put our cash on the 176 million-to-one long shot.

We had to.

We have this family rule dating back to the old country.

Only play the lottery when it reaches $353 million or more.

“Vy vaste your luck on a piddly tvunty mil,” said the great, Great Grandma Memma.

It’s a lot funnier in Lithuanian.

So we went in with my sister-in-law’s family on a handful of tickets.

That wasn’t the original plan.

But while I was out, my 11-year old nephew called and asked me to pick up some tickets for them.

I told him that if he wins I would get 70%.

Without a beat, he snapped back, “50%”.

“Ok”, I agreed.

Damn these kids are learning math way too early.

And with that, the binding legal contract had been sealed.

Let’s see... $355 million grand prize.

Minus taxes.

Split by two families.

Hey, I’m still getting $88.75 million.

Actually, the wife and each of the three kids get a share.

Ok, now I’m at $17.75 million.

No problem.

I can still get that one-bedroom I wanted in Greenwich Village.

And still have enough to get a bite at John’s Pizzeria.

So we went to the local grocery store to buy the tickets.

Unlike what they show you on the news, there was no line.

Just one guy in front of us.

And he would’ve been better off spending the dollar on deodorant.

I’m just sayin.

When we got up front my son wanted to pick his own numbers.

“No!,” I said.

Don’t EVER play your own numbers.

Then I explained, if you have your own numbers and one time you forget to buy a ticket and your numbers come up.

Well I didn’t use the words “jump off a bridge” or “blow your brains out” “or slice your wrists”, but I think he got the point.

The rest of the ride home, the lottery was the hot topic.

And that’s where the time machine came in.

As much as I love talking.

And I really LOVE talking.

I love listening even more.

To the kids.

It is truly amazing what goes on their little heads.

Bill Cosby got it right.

Twice.

Jello Pudding Pops ARE delicious.

And kids really do say the darndest things.

I’m not sure why he brought up the time machine, but when he did I had to ask where he would go.

The first response was that he’d like to meet someone like George Washington.

Typical, I thought.

But not bad.

Next, he said, he would like to go back to the Cubs game and make sure that guy didn’t show up.

Talk about coming out of left field.

But that’s exactly where Steve Bartman was on October 14, 2003. 

Any diehard Cubs fan, of which my son is not one, will never forget that night.

Or that game.

And they will certainly never forget Steve Bartman.

My son didn’t know his name, but he did know “that guy”.

That guy who single-handedly cost the Chicago Cubs the World Championship.

At least that’s what we are supposed to believe.

Steve Bartman didn’t play for the Cubs.

Even though he wore the cap.

And the headphones.

But then, in the most important moment, of the most important game.

He reached out and tried to catch a foul ball.

Something we’ve all tried to do.

Oh, about 355 million times.

But this time he knocked it away from the Cubs real left-fielder, Moises Alou.

And in that one second, Bartman had become a Chicago legend.

And not in a good way.

So bad, in fact, that he ended up leaving Chicago and heading south.

And not just for the winter.

Bartman’s life had been altered forever.

Something that could only change with a time machine.

Or a winning lottery ticket.