I’ve been dreaming of landing a flip on a wakeboard for over a decade, since the first time I strapped one on and Andy and I struggled to teach ourselves how to simply get up on the board.

I’ve tried tantrums, toe-side front flips, mexicans, heel-side front rolls, and most of all….backrolls. I came really close on a tantrum once, but couldn’t ride it out.

I’ve torn cartilage in my knee (surgery), twisted ankles a half dozen times, had more painful landings than I can count, got at least one concussion (on video below at the 1:40) and once on a tantrum gone very wrong I hit upside down face first at 30mph and I literally couldn’t open my jaw for 2 days.

The journey was and is, always, worth the price.

For the last two years I decided that all I would do was focus on landing a flip, specifically the backroll. I did nothing but that. I didn’t ride for fun or try any new tricks. I was on a mission. It was work. I was single minded. I simply tried, every time I rode, to land that flip and learn how to land it better.

Here is my backroll journey:

PS

“Man in the Arena” are words to live by. I thought of this every time I strapped on my board.

“Today, I get in the arena. No excuses.”

Here’s the text, uninterrupted by wakeboarding clips:

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.

A couple of years ago we moved to a bigger house in a better school district. Our family was just starting. It was time to sell my old house. I really liked that house. It was my first and I paid for it after selling my first company. It had a lot of good memories.

Of course the housing market was horrible and finding a buyer was very difficult. The location was great, and the house was in wonderful shape. The problem was the layout. The master was on the main floor, and the two upstairs bedrooms were very oddly shaped. One was tiny, the other was massive and long. I used it as a pool room, game room and exercise room (yes it was that big). I liked the layout, but most people did not. Months went by. More months. Nearly a year. I had a few offers but they were lowballs and none of them panned out. Then I got an offer to rent (with option to buy) the property. I was pretty anti-renting, but they made a very interesting offer. They put down 6% of the home’s value, offered 0.6% per month in rent with a 2 year term. Before the 2 years were up, they could buy it at full price. If they didn’t I kept the 6%. I liked the cash flow and the money down, so I checked em out.

The renter was Chauncey Shanklin. I googled him and found that when he was a youngster (16 or so I think) he plead guilty to armed robbery. Yikes. I dug some more. My agent had a cop friend run a background check. Nothing since that. He was 33 now, and had a good story. Troubled youth, turned it around and was now working his way up the real estate world. He was being mentored by a well known Louisville real estate investor, who vouched for Chauncey.

I’m all about a comeback story, plus hell, I liked the deal. So we signed. At the closing, he paid the first two months rent in cash. When I retell this story people’s eyes jump at that. I guess my frequent use of cash has desensitized that kind of transaction for me. Anyway…

He paid his rent on time every month, for 4 months. Then one night, I missed a call from the guy who used to cut my grass at that house, and who had been checking on it for me while it was for sale. This is that voicemail:

Voicemail mp3 in case above player doesn’t load

I called him back and he told me about swat teams, helicopters, K-9 teams, and high speed chases. My initial reaction was to laugh. I was really dumbfounded. What the heck was going on over there?

So at 10pm I decide to drive the 45 minutes to my old house. I roll up to about 10 police cars, most unmarked. There’s a guy in handcuffs in the driveway and another being put in the back of a cop car. I remember that it was very cold and I was wearing shorts. I walk up to the officer who seems to be in charge, in the driveway and introduce myself as the owner.

“Landon Swan?” Surprised, I confirm. He then explains that they had already checked me out. In his words: “Business man, went to Bellarmine, lived here for several years but renting out now. Ya we knew you weren’t in on this.” So I asked, “what’s ‘this’?”

Apparently they broke up a drug deal in a parking lot a couple months back but the dealer got away. They’d been tracking him and watching his moves. He’s been living and dealing out of my house. Sweet.

As he explains the setup, the storming of my house and the high speed chase that followed, I notice at least a dozen cops going through my house, taking out a TV, inspecting a window for anything hidden. It was bizarre. He tells me I cannot go in, as it is a crime scene. I ask when they’ll be finished, he says he’s not sure but that he’ll call me. I give him my number and walk around to the front of the house to check it out. Then Andrew, my lawn guy rolls up. He explains that there were a dozen swat guys in camo and masks with guns drawn surrounding my house. They then used a battering ram to bust down the front and back doors, threw in flash gernades and stromed the house, all while a helicopter keep an eye on things from above. No one was home (wait, didn’t the cops say they’d been tracking this guy? And they didn’t know he wasn’t home? Noobs).  As they searched the home, Chauncey rolled up in his Dodge Charger. Seeing the plethora of cop cars, he stopped, threw it into reverse and floored it out of the neighborhood, or ‘hood’ at this point. Cops gave chase. Chancey drove to a nearby parking lot, ditched the car and ran. They caught him and made the arrest with no altercation.

In the house, they found $15k worth of drugs and $70k in cash and a few handguns. Wild story.

I go home, never seeing Chauncey that night (he was the one in the cop car).

That night I call the cop in charge, who tells me there’s a good chance the city will pay for the damages. He tells me the case number, and the victim notification system info. I am put on the list for Chauncey. I will be notified if/when he is released. I doubt he’ll come after me for any reason, but hey, we’re talking about a gun carrying drug dealing thug here. Second chances my ass.

The next morning I go over and  board up the door. The cops left both doors busted down and wide open. Nice. I also discover that they were very thorough in their search of the house:

The next night, I see this on the news:

Yep. That’s my beloved 1^st home, where I ended my first date with my wife (wink wink) and where I proposed to her. Sheesh.

First thing I do is call a lawyer and make sure I proceed correctly. Basically, Chauncey broke the lease (no criminal activity allowed) so the deposit is mine. My lawyer proceeds to evict him and my agent releases the deposit from escrow. I’m notified that he was released from jail on bail. I know it’s a longshot, but I review the locations in the house and operating procedures of each of my home defense guns with Brittany. She prefers the shotgun.

Chauncey tells my lawyer the eviction is understandable and he’ll be out in 5 days. Fair enough. Very reasonable.

I go back to the house in 6 days to check on the damage and get my contractor up and running on it. I’m sure after a week, the boarded over door is losing its luster in the neighborhood.

I pull up in the driveway, know it is again a long shot but decide to carry my 32 into the house. I doubt Chauncey will be there but you never know—maybe one of his associates will come looking for drugs or cash or something. Better safe than sorry. As I put the gun in my pocket and step out of my truck, I hear “Hey Landon”. Whoa. I turn quickly and realize that as I was getting ready to get out of my truck, Chauncey had rolled up behind me. He was standing in front of me.

In my head, I’m relaxed. Chauncey is a fairly big athletic guy, but hey so am I and I’ve had Krav Maga, Boxing and Jiu Jitsu training (enough to think I’m a badass, but far from enough to be a badass) and hell, I’m packing. I shake his hand and immediately my calm deminor is reinforced. He apologizes, sincerely. It even gets to the point of being friendly. Eventually I just ask “So what they hell happened?”

In his words, he drives up, sees all the cop cars and says “oh shit”. Whips the car around and takes off. He tells the story almost like it is no big deal. I love it. He concludes with “they got me” as if it was inevitable, which I suppose it was.

“So what were you doin here?” I knew the answer, but wanted his version.

“Oh you know. I did some stupid stuff and got caught. You know..”

His version cracks me up. ‘some stupid stuff’. So funny. He’s very charming and frankly a nice guy.

He explains that he’s almost done moving out, and again apologizes for being a day late. I ask him how the case will proceed and he tells me they’re gonna work out a plea deal. His main concern is getting the 70k back, or a portion of it. He acts like it’s a long shot. He knows that money shouldn’t be his. He tells me he’ll likely get probation. If you remember, that’s what my theif of a personal assistant got. And this guy was doing armed drug deals. Crazy legal system we have. We shake hands and I give him some more time to pack up, coming back in a couple days.

My contractor fixes everything up. $6,000.

My home owners insurance doesn’t cover “damage from government agencies” so I submit a claim to Louisville Metro to be reimbursed for the damages. Just as I did with Beth, I give a very detailed report to the 3^rd party adjuster. About 6 weeks go by and they deny my claim. Figures. I push back but to no avail. I ask my lawyer if I have a chance in small claims court. None. I pass. Jerks won’t even give back the TV they took off the wall. (it was mine! I left it with the house). They wanted proof of purchase and the serial number, from 5 years ago. Give me a break.

At this point I just want to be done with it, and practically speaking, I have no realistic options for the TV or the $6k, so I let it go.

I get the house back on the market and in a few months, it’s sold.

I haven’t heard from or seen Chauncey since. I hope he’s staying out of trouble (my last words to him were “Keep your nose clean”). His reply was “Oh ya, I will for sure.” Grain of salt. But…good luck

The first begins in Summer. My wife Brittany is away for the weekend, on a girls trip celebrating her friend Jamie’s upcoming wedding. They are at Nolin lake. Jessie’s parents own a house on the lake and a deluxe pontoon boat. It is scheduled to be a weekend of drunk lake fun. My wife is pregnant at the time with our 2nd son Watson, so no drinking for her.

It’s Saturday and I’m in the Country Club clubhouse. I just finished warming up and was about to head out for 18 holes with friends when I get the call. Brittany frantically tells me what happened….

….

The girls head down to the dock to get the day started. They are setting everything up, getting the drinks and gear in place. Brittany and Sheri (Andy’s wife) are raising the awning for shade. Suddenly, the awning slams shut with Brittany’s hand inside. The steel bars come crashing to a stop with Brittany’s hand between them. It was enough force to easily break her hand or fingers, but she felt no pain. Something stopped the blow.

Shortly after the metallic clink of the bars smashing into each other and her hand, and various gasps coming from the girls on board, everyone hears a very distinct sound.

Plunk.

Brittany pulls her hand from the closed awning, still no pain. It was her left hand. She looks closely, knowing what she’d see, but hoping it wasn’t true.

Her engagement ring remained on her ring finger, but it was beaten, battered. The bottom of it was now completely flat, matching the shape of the steel bar that had just collided with it. The top….the top was mangled. The prongs holding the diamond were bend into akward, painful looking positions. The diamond….the diamond had….plunked.

“My diamond! My diamond!” followed by gasps and curses. Everyone looks at the water. They knew what they’d heard. They knew where it was. The diamond was resting calming on the bottom of Lake Nolin.

Sheri springs into action. She jumps into the water with a Red Solo Cup (seriously). The water is about 8 feet deep at the dock. Holding her breath she goes down and scoops mud into the cup, returning to the other girls who would search it. To their horror, and to Sheri’s as the feels on the bottom, there are tons of tiny rocks mixed in with the thick mud that made up the lake floor. Finding a diamond by feel would be difficult in a bed of mud. But in a bed of mud and tiny rocks…impossible. It feels like there were hundreds of potential diamonds in each cup she brought up.

Others in the area see the commotion and come to help, learning of the valuable prize on the bottom. Word spreads. This is a potential problem…

Sheri knows her method is inefficient. But she also knows that time was critical. Having marked that splash spot mentally, she knows that even with the boat stilling still, it would drift inches or feet in her mind. Knowing now where to dive was key, and if all she had was a cup, that’s what she’d use.

Brittany looks on, helpless. Nearing the end of her 2nd trimester, she couldn’t be the one to dive. As Sheri brings up scoop after scoop of mud and tiny rocks, and as the girls continue to turn up nothing, hope beings to drain. Eventually, it was lost. Brittany calls me.

…

I am able to calm her down. I’m not too worried about the value of the stone. I had it insured before I left the store. But the sentimental value was, of course, huge. I picked it out. For my wife. For Brittany. It was special.

I call my KY Farm Bureau agent and explain to him the situation. I wasn’t sure if he would think I am lying or not. It seems like an easy target for fraud. His reaction is, put simply, friendly and professional. “Ok, that shouldn’t be a problem Landon.” He checks on a few things and tells me that an adjuster would be in contact soon.

The adjust is also friendly and professional. I don’t know if he believes me or not (I am very conscious of the possibility of fraud and worried they’d think I was a liar). He tells me they will reimburse me for up to the insured amount on a new diamond. I could pick it out. Nice.

I call Shane Co., where I had purchased it. The girl is awesome. She is very sympathetic. She checks with her manager and tells me they’d help me pick out the most comparable diamond and repair the ring at no charge (the ring itself was not insured, just the rock). It was going to be a net zero loss.

I inform Brittany, easing her mind. By this time, hours had passed and the search for the diamond had been called off. We begin to accept that our original stone would be gone forever. I consider the 3 hour drive, renting scuba equipment along the way, but frankly, it’s not worth it. If we didn’t have insurance, I’d do it. But we did, so I didn’t.

Jessie informes Brittany who informs me that the water level drops 8 or 10 feet in the winter, leaving the dock sitting on the ground. I plan to go down in October to see if we can find it.

The lake weekend ends and Brittany returns. We are waiting on KY Farm Bureau to finalize our claim so we can go pick out our replacement stone.

Meanwhile at Nolin Lake, Jessie tells her father Fred about what happened. This guy is one of a kind, Vietnam veteran, do-it-yourself never-say-no kind of guy. I had the pleasure of staying at his Nolin home once with Brittany and some other friends a few years back. He is a friendly, fun man’s man. He also prides himself on the many many watches, phones, sunglasses and keys he has been able to recover from the bottom of lakes.

He worries some ‘helpful’ neighbor will steal Brittany’s diamond, a reasonable concern. He’ll hear nothing of the difficulty from Jessie. He grabs a mask, a bucket and a screen (picture a 2ft by 4ft wood frame with a screen in the middle–his sifter) and marches down to the dock.

Diving down to the bottom, he scoops handfuls of mud on to the screen and brings it up to the dock. He sets the screen on the dock and pours water over it. As the mud thins and runs through the screen back into the lake, he is able to see what else is in there. Rocks. Nothing.

He goes back down, repeats the process. Nothing. Again, nothing. Does it for over an hour. Nothing. Convinced he’s more than covered the possible landing spot of the diamond, he walks back to the house defeated.

Two weeks later, we receive word from insurance that we are good to go. Brittany has been dying to get a diamond back on her finger. We jump into the car and head to Shane Co. to find the replacement. On the way, Jessie calls Brittany.

…

Earlier that day, Jessie’s father Fred is talking to Jessie and her mom about his attempts at the diamond. He goes into detail and Jessie springs up. “Dad, you were on the wrong side of the dock. It’s went in on the other side!”

Needing nothing more to relight his fire, Fred snatches his gear and is back in the water post haste, this time on the right side of the dock. Diving down, he repeats his time tested process, hoping no one had beat him to the punch.

First trip, nothing.
Second trip, nothing.
Third trip: As soon as he lays the sifter full of mud on the dock, he sees through his foggy mask what must be a piece of glass. It is too shiny to be a rock. He takes off the mask and there, staring at him, is the resurrected diamond.

The champion is once again triumphant! He proudly (and carefully) grabs it at takes it to the house, unveiling it like he’d unveiled so many other sunken and thought lost treasures. Somehow, Jessie and her mother are yet again amazed his ability. Jessie immediately calls Brittany

…

Brittany feels relief pour over her as Jessie tells her of Fred’s willful win. Ironic that he finds it the very day we are about to buy the replacement.

By the time the call ends, we’re almost at Shane Co so we go in to share our good news. They look at the ring and confirm they can fix it, no charge. “Even though we’re not buying a new replacement diamond?”
“No charge”.

Love that company.

A few days later, Fred returns to his Louisville home and we go pick up the diamond, hearing about his struggle and his method, loving every minute of his story. He is proud, as he should be. I am admittedly a little jealous. I wanted to be the hero, but he wanted it more. He is the hero, and we are so glad. We have OUR diamond back. He asks if it’s ours, half hoping it’s not so he can A) return to the search and B) cash in on this monster he just found. We laugh, “Yes, it’s ours Fred, sorry.”

I call my insurance company and tell them the good news. I again find myself wondering if they believe me. They might think I made it up, trying to scam them, and am now chickening out. It seems more likely than finding a diamond on the bottom of a lake. I also think about how I could easily cash in on this opportunity. I shake it off. Roxanne and Bob didn’t raise a liar, or a thief. The claim is cancelled.

We take it back to Shane company and in a few days Brittany’s mangled diamondless ring is transformed into the perfect sparkling token of love and commitment it once was.

All is well, and I have a story to tell.

Stay tuned for part 2 of 3 of ‘stories from 2012′….

On August 29, 2012, from the blue/gold tees at Lake Forest

3 birdies
8 pars
5 bogies
2 doubles

Here’s the scorecard

Next is breaking par…

So I did some research and with a google search of “gun law vs crime scatter plot” I found (1st result) a wonderful article on gun control vs murder rates. It is a state by state analysis that plots the state’s Brady Score (higher = more gun control) against murder rates.

What makes the article so wonderful?

Math. And LOTS of it

It has the following data for all 50 states (except Florida, which does not submit the data for some reason):

• Brady Score (how much gun control a state has)
• Murder Rate per 100k population
• Firearm murder rate per 100k population
• Firearm Murder %

and I added

• Violent Crime Rate per 100k population

The article lists all sources and (very detailed) goes over the process of creating this study. Since I added the violent crime rate, I’ll post the source: http://www2.fbi.gov/ucr/cius2008/data/table_05.html

He then uses a scatterplot to display the data. For math n00bs, let me tell you real quick what that is. You plot data points on a X/Y axis and see if there is any correlation. Here are some examples of correlation:

(1 is high positive correlation, -1 is high negative correlation, 0 is no correlation)

With guns vs crime, you might expect a linear relationship, like the top right one. More gun control = less crime, right?

Well this may surprise you.

Here are the scatter plots:

Notice the lack of correlation. No upward sloping line (no downward sloping line). No lines whatsoever.

So what does this tell us?

There is little or NO correlation (either way) between gun control and murder rate, firearm murder rate, firearm murder % and violent crime rate. Gun control does not increase crime, it does not decrease crime.

For a full analysis of this study, please visit the original article above. Also, feel free to look at the raw data by downloading the excel sheet.

Draw your own conclusions, but know that gun control has no effect on murder, gun murder or violent crime rates in the United States.

I have a good example.

The year was 1996. I was a junior in high school. My brother Andy was a college freshman and was in town. For some reason that night we were at my (his old) high school gym watching a girls basketball game. I believe Andy was dating the older sister of our school’s star player. The game was a little boring and Andy and I went into gym B to shoot around. Andy had been working out a lot, getting in tremendous shape. His vertical leap had gone through the roof (he could touch the top of the square!) and he was really into practicing dunking.

It was just us in gym B. It was too big a room to just have us in it, but it was, and we were there, alone, having fun. We were probably 400 feet from the next person (it was a big school, after hours). He was practicing various dunks. I was impressed. He could really fly.

On one particular dunk, I guess he hit it just right and well, he shattered the backboard. The rim and thousands of tiny pieces of glass came raining down on him. It was AMAZING.

He wasn’t hurt but we were both balancing the “OMG that was awesome!” emotion with “Oh no! We’re screwed!”

Keep in mind, I was in high school and he was a college freshman. We had no money and we weren’t supposed to be in this gym. We didn’t know what to do.

We left.

I made it back to the main gym and pretended to watch the girls’ game, my mind racing about what we’d done, what to do.

Andy made it to his car….and stopped…..

Character.
(at age 20)

He walked back in and found the Athletic Director and told/showed him what he had done. He owned up to it. Former student, not allowed in gym B, caused damage. He was ready to get the book thrown at him.

Of course we over estimated the severity of the situation. The A.D. told Andy that he appreciated his honesty and they would take care of getting a new goal. Nothing bad came of it. But Andy didn’t know that when he walked back in. He (and I) thought we would owe hundreds or thousands of dollars. We thought we were busted. No one was watching (except me of course), all he had to do was leave. They didn’t have cameras then, no one saw it. Owning up to it was all risk, but Andy did the right thing.

Given that level of character at age 20, you can imagine the integrity he has at 35. (thanks Mom and Dad)
This is just one of many reasons he’s more than a brother or business partner for me. He’s a role model and my kids’ Godfather.

(P.S. tomorrow is his birthday so wish him a happy 35th)

Years ago, my father retired from his long career as a successful accountant. They held a retirement party for him. The whole firm was there. There was dinner, a few people spoke about him, they recognized him and he spoke. It was very nice. Then at the end, the MC asked if anyone wanted to share anything. I had something in mind, but didn’t want to go first. No one went first. It ended.

I should have jumped up and got it started. He deserved it. I know I wasn’t the only one who wanted to go second. Dammit. Still upset with myself about that.

Here’s what I would have said:

“Hi everyone, I’m Landon, Bob’s younger son. I wanted to share a story about him that none of you have heard before. It isn’t about the professional side of Bob that you all know. It is about his personal side–more specifically his character.

I was about 10 or 11 years old at the time, and my brother Andy was 12 or 13. That is important in this story because as you look at me, you can see I’m physically a very large man, as is Andy. But remember, at the time of this story, we were 10 and 12. We were puny little stick figures who hadn’t hit our growth spurts yet.

The three of us were playing 5-on-5 pick up basketball at Tri-State Athletic Club. We were all 3 on the same team, surely engineered by Bob. It was great. Tri-State had two full courts for basketball and at this time, both were being used for full 5-on-5 games. We were on the far court. Tri-State was an upscale fitness center and there was never any trouble there. It was a very nice place.

During one game, I can remember the other court grabbing my attention several times over a short period of time. There was a guy on that court who was being very aggressive and a bit out of control. It seemed to keep escalating. I can still remember what he looks like. He had on a muscle shirt and had a sort of mullet hair cut. He was huge. He had to have been every bit of 6’2″ 240. He was all muscle and I remember thinking he was one of the strongest people I had ever seen. Think incredible hulk without the green skin. I’m pretty sure he ate steroids for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

As the games progressed, he got more and more aggressive. I’m not talking about basketball aggressive like driving to the hoop or fouling a little going for steals. He was being a class 1 a**hole. He was pushing, yelling, getting in people’s faces. He wanted to either hurt someone or start a fight. It was getting out of control. This had been going on for maybe 10 minutes. They had a court of 10 people, and probably 5 or 10 waiting for “next”. We had a court of 10 so there were about 25 or 30 people who were witnessing this jerk and no one did anything about it. No one except Bob that is.

Dad was dribbling up the court and I was trailing him. The jerk pushed some smaller guy with two hands and yelled something at him. Dad picked up his ball and walked in that direction. “HEY!” as loud as he could. Right at the guy. I can remember exactly what I was thinking.

“Oh my God Dad is going to die.”

I was tiny. Andy was tiny. Dad is a big guy, but really–you have to have seen the jerk to appreciate the situation. I can’t remember exactly what dad said, but he basically told the guy (without cursing I might add) that he was out of line and needed to knock it off, NOW. He didn’t curse but he sure wasn’t polite. He let him know he meant business.

The jerk focused his roid raged eyes on dad and just stared at him for what seemed like an hour. It was probably 2 seconds. Dad didn’t budge. Moments later, the jerk turned, said something trashy and walked off the court. I was shocked.

I was scared out of my mind. Everyone on the other court was scared out of their mind. Everyone in the gym was scared. I can’t say whether or not Bob was scared. But I know this. He did the right thing–that which needed to be done.

And I don’t know if he did it because he wanted to protect the other guys on the other court, or if he wanted to keep Tri-State a nice friendly place, or if he did it because his sons were there and he wanted to be a role model for them. I can tell you, he accomplished all of the above. ”
I hope somehow some of Dad’s old colleagues who were at that party find their way to this post.

Funny

Smart

Caring

Loyal

Family driven

Wonderful mother

my wife

My grandfather owned race horses and our family would always go to cheer them on. He named each horse after a different family member, with “rock” in the name somehow. Rock was his nickname. My mom’s horse, Rockin Roxanna did very well. Mine, Rocky Landin’ did not

Every time we went to the track my parents would give Andy and I each $2 to bet on grandpa’s horse. We could pick win place or show, but we had to bet on his horse. It taught me a lot about risk vs reward, since wins pay more but are harder to hit than place or show.

His race wasn’t until later in the day and all day I was noticing the payoff board. I noticed that “$2 trifecta box” was paying $100, $200, sometimes $500. I remember thinking that seemed like a good bet. $2 for a chance to win hundreds. In the next race, there were only 6 horses and I decided to try my luck at picking the top 3 for the trifecta.

For those of you who are horse noobs, let me explain something quickly: A trifecta means you have to pick the exact order of the top 3 horses (ABC). A trifecta BOX is a cool way to bet a trifecta in which you just have to pick the top 3 horses, but the order doesn’t matter. Well, in reality, a box is just a combination of 6 different trifectas. A tri-box is just 6 different bets (ABC, ACB, BAC, BCA, CAB, CBA). A tri-box costs 6 times the amount to bet it. I did not know this crucial piece of info at 12 yrs old.

I had the $2 to bet on grandpa’s horse and I had $10, which was to be Andy’s and my lunch money for the day. I decided I would risk $2 of my $5 lunch money on this “tri box” bet on this race where there were only 6 horses. I looked at the handicap sheet and it told me that horses 1, 3 and 4 were the top 3. I went with it.

I had never placed a bet before and I was a little nervous. I knew the law said you had to be 18 yrs old, but what the hell. Andy had done it. I’ll do it!

With just a minute or two before post time, I walked up and said I would like a $2 trifecta box on horses 1, 3 and 4 in the next race. The man behind the betting booth punched it in. It appeared as though I was going to get away with it!

I pulled out two dollars from my pocket and placed it on the betting window for him to take.

He printed the ticket and extended it towards me and said “Twelve Dollars”.

I corrected him “No, I just want a TWO dollar trifecta box”

“That’s a TWELVE dollar bet, son.”

My heart began to race. What had I done? What kind of voodoo math was this fellow pulling on me? Was I being scammed? Had I made a mistake? I remember him looking at me like if I didn’t pay up he would pulverize me. That’s how I remember it anyway.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the ten dollar bill. I held it in front of my face at stared at it. My lunch money. Andy’s lunch money. Andy would kill me. Mom would kill me. I held it up and remember looking at it and thinking “I can’t lose this. I need this.”

The bell went off, as the horses left the gate. The race had started. The man quickly reached across the betting window and snatched the ten dollar bill from my hands. He laid the ticket on the counter. He had my $2, but he also had my $10. I had no money. All I had was this ticket. I can remember being extremely nervous and scared. I didn’t know what to do. But I know I wanted out of there.

I then remembered that the race had started! They were probably already through the first turn by now!

I ran like the wind to the finish line. The track was fairly empty and I was able to secure a spot on the front rail. I told no one of my colossal error. I told no one I was broke. I told no one I NEEDED the 1, 3, 4 trifecta.

I watched the big screen, it showed my horses in 1st, 2nd and 4th.

As the horses rounded the final turn into the stretch, the big screen went off and I couldn’t tell how my horses were doing. Please. Please. Please let it hit. Oh my God, what will I do if it doesn’t? It’s not that I wanted the money of the win, I wanted to not have lost the $10. I could go without a coke or hot dog for my gamble of $2, but this $10 was eating away at me.

The horses thundered across my view, and I intently focused on their numbers as they crossed the finish line.

1st. Mine.

2nd. Mine.

3rd. Can’t tell, dammit!

For an eterninty the big board was blank. It seemed like ten minutes……..

Finally, the unofficial results were posted.
1st = Mine
2nd =Mine
3rd =Mine.

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Only then was I able to tell my parents, my brother, my grandpa, and my uncle what had happened. I can remember my uncle telling me that if it were him, and the man took money from his hands, he woulda punched him in the nose. I can remember thinking how absurd this was (to me). I was tiny. As I recall, the big ugly hairy man behind the betting booth was exactly like Steve the Tramp from the Dick Tracy movie. I was so scared of him.

Once the results became official, they posted the “$2 trifecta box” winnings. It was just under $100, not the payday I had hoped for, but after all, it was a 6 horse race. So the risk wasn’t as high–another lesson learned.

Other than the $2 on my grandpa’s horse, I didn’t place another bet all day. I was 1 for 1. I made a $2 $12 bet and it paid almost $100. I was on top of the world. And I was hooked. Gambling is awesome.

Now-a-days, I don’t gamble versus the house too much. I know the negative expected value. So I treat it like an entertainment expense. But I trade stocks, start companies and invest in others. To me, they’re all forms of the old $2 trifecta box.

PS

Now on the big board, it lists the bet as a “$2 Trifecta” not “$2 Trifecta Box”. I’m guessing I wasn’t the only one confused.