After watching the San Francisco Giants lose Game 7 of the World Series, I had to question whether there is really such a thing as bad luck. Obviously, to the players, the presence of good or bad luck is as much a given as Cardinals' pitcher Steve Kline's hat is unbelievably filthy or Kenny Lofton's on-deck dance is enjoyably silly.
But perhaps these behaviors only confirm that obsessive-compulsives make the best players. Or rather, baseball players make the best obsessive-compulsives.
I raise the bad luck existence question not because I feel as if some cosmic wrong has been perpetrated against the Giants, but because I wonder why I'm never on the side of the winning team. This fact is repeatedly confirmed each time my favorite Survivor castaway's torch is snuffed out with true Probstian finesse.
Ben said I jinxed the win when, during Game 6, I started talking about whether or not I wanted to go to the Giants' victory parade. "I want to see some motherf--king ticker-tape" sealed their fate, and no masterful hitting from Tsuyoshi "it's all in the arm-bands" Shinjo would change the outcome of the Series.
And, there's the annoying little bit of trivia about how Ben and I can't attend a baseball game that doesn't end in a devastating loss for the home team (A's and Giants both included).
Does my support bring bad luck? Or, do I just support the born losers?
If I was to examine my personal streak of bad luck in relation to contests, raffles and competition, I would venture to say that I'm the sort of loser who could have 100 raffle tickets entered in a drawing that has 101 entries total and still lose. This observation can be traced back all the way to elementary school and the years I spent with perpetually crossed fingers and a pained look of anticipation on my face.
Sure, there were the merit awards I did not win. But, those had more to do with skill, or my lack of. The losses that really stung had nothing to do with achievement or determination and all to do with randomness, and dare I say it, luck.
There were two major yearly raffles at my elementary school: The Jog-a-thon raffle and the Halloween raffle. While the Halloween raffle was open to the community -- and the prizes mostly won by adults who had purchased the tickets from manipulative children -- the Jog-a-thon raffle was offered solely for the students. The tickets for this event were awarded on the basis of how many pledges each child got and how many laps they eventually ran (usually in the February rain). After receiving our raffle tickets, we would be sent to the school's auditorium and spend the next half hour dropping tickets in the boxes of the prizes that most appealed to our greedy little middle-class eyes. Sample prizes included mountain bikes, televisions, skateboards, boom-boxes and tickets to various events and attractions.
Every year, without fail, I would over-contemplate strategy. Should I use all my tickets on the mini-television in a chance to up my odds of winning? Should I place one ticket in each prize box in an attempt to distribute my chances of winning? Should I use the bulk of my tickets on the slightly undesirable prizes in an attempt to win for the sake of winning? And if I did win that prize, what would I do with a $50 gift certificate to Pep Boys?
At the end of the day, probably two hours before school ended, the school administration would call us to the blacktop and we'd sit in the sun as each ticket was pulled and each prize was awarded to its new owner. When the winner's name was called, they'd get to march up to the front of the assembly and claim their prize in front of 800 bitter faces.
During this time, I'd notice patterns -- like how the same kids won all the prizes. The luckiest boy in the school was a classmate of mine and he'd win almost everything. When he'd win the girl's mountain bike, I'd fume at his greediness. Fairness never entered into the raffle for one reason: this little bastard won because he brought the most money into the school.
This kid had the same last name as a famous crooner and though we never knew for sure if he was actually related, his family's house -- complete with hedge mazes and a gazebo on an island -- probably indicated that there indeed was an association.
When we'd receive our raffle tickets in standard letter envelopes, he'd receive his in a manilla envelope. If I was a bit more cynical, I would have seen that I didn't have a chance. But, a little kid without hope is, well, an adult.
So, each year and each raffle, I would sit on the hot ground and silently repeat my mantra: "Let this be the year. Let me win something. Let this be the year. Let me win something."
I never won anything, and in the process, I became really bitter about contests and raffles.
When Ben's ten year-old brother tries to sell me chocolate or wrapping paper, I tell him I'll just buy him the incentive prize. Most of the time, they have these kids pimping their wares for prizes that cost less than five dollars. The point, he then tells me, is that he wants to win the prize and that me buying it wouldn't be any fun.
I tell him that being a pawn of a money-hungry Catholic school isn't any fun either, but he doesn't seem to mind.
So, last night, during Game 7, I found myself repeating my silly little mantra. "Let this be the year. Let them win." While I can't say that I particularly like the Giants on the basis of merit, I found that during this season, living in the City has made me more loyal of a fan. For the first time, we were rooting for the home team. For the first time, it actually seemed like we had a home team.
And, of course, I really wanted to go to the victory parade.
I guess, if I wanted San Francisco to win, I should have rooted for Anaheim.
