Face it, Tiger...

A heads up for my 0.000001 million readers: something big is percolating, and I may not be around to post for a few days. I might be able to get a post in on Saturday, but I'm not sure. Regardless, when you next hear from me, I'll hopefully have some pretty cool news to share. Until then, here's a nifty anecdote. I have a busy day tomorrow, and need all the sleep I can get in. Don't worry; all will be revealed in due time.

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When I was in the 11th grade, and shortly after I got my driver's license, I and and my brother, usually with 3 or 4 of our friends (the Boat was big enough to seat 4 in the back, and sometimes we even squeezed 1 or 2 in the trunk), would drive out to the racetrack -- I no longer remember the name, but I know it ended in Downs, though that's likely the racetrack equivalent of saying I know a Korean guy from Seoul named Kim (ever heard of him?) -- and bet on horses. The track, located 30 or 40km from our home, wasn't a regular haunt, but we went there on occasion. I never ended up winning any money; I always bet on horses with names I thought were cool or cryptic, never looking at the score sheets (or whatever they're called). I think the most I ever won was 12 dollars. My bro and friends fared slightly better, but none of us ever won big. Nobody ever really does is the truth.

But one autumn night, a few weeks after school had started and we all rightly should have been home studying biology or geography, something amazing happened. We spent around 3 hours at the track, at first betting on races and later trying to buy beers with fake IDs (I was the only one who wasn't served, because I looked -- I probably still do -- like I was 12 years old). Nobody won more than 5 bucks; and it's rather depressing being a teenager and hanging out in a track bar with scores of greasy old guys, so around 10 or so we decided to call it a night. We were halfway home when my brother realized he had left behind his backpack. Dammit. Of course we had to go back, but none of us was happy about it.

I pulled in. My brother got out and ran to get his bag. We remaining smoked and listened to a cassette (The Beatnuts' first, I think) on the car's shitty tape deck, which I was convinced inspired Nas's line never put me in your [car deck] if your shit eats tapes.

The guy was taking far too long, so after 15 minutes I and Professor Paul (we loved to give our friends ironic nicknames; he was a high school dropout) went in to look for him. I can't remember why now (I think it was because the track was closing), but we couldn't go any farther than the main lobby. Bored and annoyed, I purchased a Lottario Bingo ticket to whittle away the time.

It was neon pink, and I scratched it with my car key. That I will remember forever. My brother came back shortly -- after much hardship he discovered that his bag was taken to the lost and found -- and hastened us to leave, but I had the fever: I only needed 3 more to complete a square on the 4th box, which, to use a tired sports analogy which I made up, is about as common as a NL pitcher batting for the cycle.

I got the square with 2 spots left unscratched. To this day I don't recall whether I scratched the remaining ones or not.

But it didn't matter. I had just won 50,000 dollars. Keep in mind that this was Canadian money -- I'm pretty sure it equals 500 million American.

The next day our father showed up at the racetrack to claim his(my) prize. We told him everything the moment we arrived home the night prior.

What I did with that money is a tale for another time, though it's fairly boring and doesn't really deserve mentioning. Let's just say that I never had any loan debts, and that it's fun waking up and swimming in a back yard pool in the summer.

Sometimes, miracles (if I can take the liberty and call it that) happen.

And sometimes they happen twice. Thrice, even.