Games of chance have never been profitable for me. I’m convinced there is a genetic component to the deficiency. My father, who I did not know well, was a non-professional gambler. By this I mean he bet on the horses lavishly but was very bad at it. From what I gather, a lot of bettors study the racing sheet like they’re preparing to take the law boards. My father, on the other hand, was one of those gamblers who bet on a horse because he thought its name was cute or the jockey had just the right shade of blue in his silks. It wasn’t a method that held great promise, and he derived exactly the amount of success from it that you would anticipate.

This carried over to my lone experience betting at the Stoneybrook Steeplechase, that springtime Moore County tradition that was like no other. Since Stoneybrook frequently happened the same week as the Masters, work most often called me to Augusta, Georgia, instead of to the Walsh family farm off Youngs Road. One year, however, the two events diverged, and I was able to attend the races with what seemed like half the state of North Carolina. It was a springtime extravaganza in ways I cannot begin to explain.

Naturally, our tailgating group organized a pool to bet on the races, a practice as common as big hats and cold beer. Given my background, I harbored no illusions of either win, place or show. My expectations were low but were, somehow, exceeded. We drew our numbers from a hat. This alleviated any chance of my putting my father’s methodology to use, which, to be candid, I viewed as something of a plus. I don’t remember what number I drew but, like everyone else, I bellied up to the rail to watch the start of the race.

Just like that, they were off. A thundering herd. I searched among them for my horse. He must be hidden in the pack, I thought. The earth shook as they pounded past. I double-checked the number on the slip of paper in my hand. My horse had gone missing.

Confused, I looked back toward the starting line. My horse wasn’t there, either. In fact, he had never gotten beyond it. When the flag went up and the rope dropped, my trusty steed had wheeled in the opposite direction and put a surprising amount of distance between himself and the rest of the horses, until he found a likely spot to jump the fence into the infield, where, presumably, he was meeting friends for a mint julep. My father would have been so proud.

As poor as this wager might have been, it wasn’t my worst gambling faux pas. That came in a Ladbrokes bet shop in the town of St. Andrews, Scotland. The Open Championship was there in 1990. By then Tom Watson was in his 40s and, to be bluntly honest, his championship game had gone to seed. Still, he had very nearly beaten Seve Ballesteros on the old links six years before.

The odds on Watson were 50-1. I thought, how could this not be worth a few quid?

And so I stepped to the window and put down £20 pounds on my sentimental favorite, the eight-time major championship winner. I walked out of the shop in one of St. Andrews’ back alleys into the bright July sunshine, dreaming of what I would buy when my aging ship came in. As luck would have it, at that very moment a sea gull the size of a nuclear submarine flew directly overhead and dropped a load of sewage on me that could have put out a forest fire. Without hesitation, I tore my ticket in half and tossed it into the nearest trash bin.

Watson and I both missed the cut.