That's Sport

Well, ya win some…ya lose some. “That’s sport,” as my dearest Nole would say. One Roger Federer certainly won last weekend*, good grief and cheese on crackers. I don’t want to say 35 is “old,” but let’s just say that Ye Olde Stamina is not what it used to be after 30. I used to run a 7:30 mile…now I record my 12:51 with resignation. And hope. Yes, I will eventually get back to a ten-minute mile, and that day, I will dab like Usain Bolt, making eye contact the whole time.

Anyway, I’m sincerely and honestly astonished at what “Federlay” accomplished last weekend* winning “Wimberlin.” (My friend Rachel, God love her, does her best to follow along with my interests, but she struggles with the specificities.) You just. do. not. do what Roger did after getting old, injuring your back and then your knee, taking six months off of your job, winning a Grand Slam, winning two major tournaments two weeks in a row, skipping a Grand Slam, and then winning the Queen of all Grand Slams. How DARE you, sir? It makes me think – SERIOUSLY – that I need to tell my inner asshole to sit down and shut up when it comes to what one can accomplish when it looks impossible on paper. Belief, you guys. All that Oprah stuff. There might be something to that.

It does no one any good – least of all myself – to sit in a tub of fear, lard and Cheetos and tell myself that I can’t do it. WHO EFFING SAID?

Sport. So invigorating.

A few weeks ago, I collected my mail as I am wont to do, given I have a mailbox and a street address. I swear I felt a tingle as I flipped through the usual detritus and saw a flyer from a local merchant of automobiles. “SOMEONE WILL WIN A BRAND NEW 2017* NISSAN ALTIMA!!! IS IT YOU? FIND OUT INSIDE!!”

Now, I have test driven a Nissan Altima. It’s nice. It’s no Honda Accord, but there’s no shame in owning an Altima. And I’m a sucker for scratch-offs. It’s like opening a present from a co-worker on Christmas—the co-worker you’re just friendly enough to warrant a gift without being too-too awkward, but given that she really doesn’t know you well, the gift will probably not be “that” great. So you open it thinking that maybe it might be super-cool and the start of an unexpected friendship because this random person gets you and out of nowhere gave you the perfect gift and you attribute it to God knowing exactly what you needed, but then it turns out to be just a French vanilla candle and you hate the sticky-sweet smell of French vanilla and suddenly it’s just a courtesy gift from a stranger…just me? OK. But that’s every scratch-off to me. Loaded with possibilities. Somebody has to win the Power-ball.

Looks like I'm a wiener.

But I’m also cynical as hell when it comes to serendipitous offers. So I saw the “If your number matches, you’ve won a Nissan Altima!”, and “Winning Number 83017” and then my newly-revealed car graphic with the “83017” next to it and promptly texted my sister:

sk: Did I just win what it looks like I just won?

hjj: Doubt it.

sk: But look at this. The numbers match. There’s no way, but THE NUMBERS MATCH.

hjj: I love you, but you’re an idiot. Read the fine print.

I knew it was a scam. I KNEW IT. But I wanted it to be real. I don’t need a new car, guys. I drive a Honda Accord, for Pete’s sake. It’s my chariot, and it’s paid for. I can’t imagine driving a Maybach or Aston Martin – OK, that’s a lie, I can – but I try to keep my feet on the ground. But I started to think of what a brand new Nissan Altima could mean. Would I sell it and pocket a few thousand dollars, minus taxes and tithe? Maybe I would donate it to charity, and it would be an amazing gift to someone who had a hard time keeping a dependable ride (I know what that’s like).

So I schlepped over to the Nissan dealership. The chip on my shoulder was front and center and saluting with its middle finger. I won’t lie, though: in the back of my mind, I hoped.

The grinning salesman with the sweaty handshake who looked like Philip Seymour Hoffman took my flyer and the fake phone number and email address I gave him. He wanted to know how many miles I had on my Accord. “HONDA Accord,” I corrected him. After the necessary preliminaries, he walked me over to the poster that showed that the “WINNING NUMBER!!! 83017” was for a $10 gift card to Starbucks. His grinning, freckled manager gave me a calloused, freckled handshake and thanked me for coming in. “Tell your friends about us!”

I knew it couldn’t be real. I knew I was getting suckered. But sometimes you play the game, because sometimes you get lucky.

At 6:43 am this morning I rolled up to the Starbucks drive-thru and ordered a grande non-fat iced latte and the Seared Egg, Steak & Tomatillo wrap. It came to $9.31. I handed over my $10 Starbucks gift card, and when Karen asked me if I wanted my receipt and to re-load the balance on the card, I said no. She forgot to give me napkins and the tomatillo dipping sauce for the wrap. It leaked steak grease on my jeans as I ate it on my way to work.

That’s sport.