What Are The Odds?

“And the kick is . . . good!” Mario clenched his fists, grimacing as the football cleaned the uprights with just 14 seconds left in the fourth quarter. Unless his team produced another hail Mary miracle, his bet just spiraled down the drain. He pulled out a worn black pebble-leather notebook tucked inside the Sunday paper on the sofa beside him. It served as his ledger, a history book of wagers won and lost. His thick fingers slid the elastic band from around the pages and turned to a page marked by a frayed black ribbon nearly at the end of the book. He penned, “minus $1,000” in a column and focused on the total. Five hundred dollars of his family’s $5,000 savings remained. The bets had always paid off, until they didn’t, and now their savings had all but vanished. What would he tell Annette?

“Sunday Spaghetti!” Annette called from the kitchen. It was a tradition they shared since they married 15 years ago.

“Mario, dinner! Joey, Pauley, Anthony, wash up!” she prompted their boys. Annette was the love of his life, and he had failed her.

Across town, Father D’Orazio turned off the football game and sat down at the massive oak desk in the rectory. Opening the top drawer, he imagined the sermons that had been written at this very desk over the last hundred years. He opened the black leather notebook that was filled with notes he had scrawled for sermons during the last year. He had one notebook for each of his 15 years at St. Joseph’s. Flipping to the back page, he shook his head with disapproval as he examined the column of numbers. Adding in this morning’s offerings, he wondered how he would fund the church’s outreach efforts. Times were hard in the steel town, with more layoffs on the horizon. He knew he would have to close the doors to the youth program within a few weeks. Silently he prayed, trusting that the words would flow. He exhaled slowly, then took pen to paper to begin writing words that he hoped could comfort and inspire the community he loved since childhood.

Sweat dripped from Mario’s forehead and he blinked away the salty sting, his hand occupied by the forklift he steadied to move the steel I-beams. The whistle blared and the cacophony wound down signaling a shift change. It was Tuesday, and like their fathers who had worked in the mill before them, they would all meet at Signeri's for a beer.

“Mario,” Nick called to him from the bar. The two remained friends since high school and both married their girlfriends right after graduation in 1968.

Leaning closer, Nick whispered in a gravelly voice, “I got the line on the horses Saturday.” He nodded knowingly and tossed a handful of peanuts in his mouth. “It’s a sure thing.”

“How sure?” Mario asked, having heard the words before.

“Very Sure.” Mario emphasized. 30 to 1 odds, #8 in the third race, Saturday, noon.

“That’s a crazy longshot.”

“Trust me.”

“Yeah,” like I trusted you with the Camaro.

“It was an accident,” Nick protested as he leaned back with both hands up. “Promise, you’ll think about it,” Nick prodded.

“I’ll sleep on it.”

As he dropped his keys on the nightstand, Mario pulled his notebook out of the drawer and jotted down #8, 3rd 9/6, noon. Annette came in wearing her faded Steeler’s tee shirt as a night shirt, and the two tucked in for the night. She snuggled in close behind him as he lay on his side staring at the nightstand. It stops now, he thought.

On Saturday morning, the smell of bacon nudged Mario out of a deep sleep, like only bacon can. It had been a restless night as he wrestled with the idea of acting on Nick’s lead at the track today. He could come clean and face the consequences. But if he hit, his problems would be solved. He succumbed to the call of bacon, and after a pancake breakfast, kissed Annette on the cheek, got in his truck and started driving. He drove by the old high school that was in need of a facelift. There was the stadium where his team was first to play under lights, and the rickety bleachers where he had stolen his first kiss from Annette in their junior year. He passed by Signeri's where the two had shared so many celebrations. As he neared St. Joseph’s, he recalled the church in its spring beauty the day he and Annette married. She was beautiful, and still was. Absently, he turned into the parking lot, stopped with the engine running as if to say I can leave if I want to. The lot was empty except for an occasional leaf floating down without a care in the world. Mario could feel the presence of the notebook next to him. He had withdrawn their last $500 from the bank on Thursday, and it was tucked safely inside. Maybe just this last time. He picked it up with his jacket and walked inside.

Father D’Orazio sat alone in the first pew putting final touches on tomorrow’s sermon notes when he heard the church door open.

“Mario,” Father D’Orazio called out with a welcoming smile.

“Hello, Father,” Mario teased, drawing out the words. The two had played ball together and he never quite got used to his childhood buddy holding such a mature position in the community.

“What brings you here on a Saturday? It’s tough enough to get you through the door on Sunday!”

“I don’t know, can we talk?”

“Like in confession?” Father D’Orazio questioned.

“Really? C’mon, it’s me.”

“Okay, of course, come sit with me,” Father D’Orazio motioned to the pew.

Mario sat beside Father D’Orazio, awkwardly putting his things between the two to make space, but he could not look his friend in the eye. His words stalled but then poured out grief-stricken describing how he had lost his family’s savings, stopping short not to reveal today’s bet.

Fifteen minutes later, Father D’Orazio concluded, “You wouldn’t have come if you didn’t know you had lost your way, Mario. I think you know in your heart what you value most and that it’s time to make a change.”

“Maybe so,” Mario said. “But I feel like I’ve gotta make this right.” Mario looked at his watched and realized it was already 11am.

“Thanks, man,” I gotta run,” Mario said.

“Good to see you, Mario.” Father D’Orazio replied. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Mario appeared quizzical. “Oh yeah, Sunday. Yeah, maybe I’ll see you then.”

Mario got in the truck still feeling lost. He glanced at his watch and headed to the track.

Satisfied, Father D’Orazio felt his words had provided comfort and guidance for his friend. He picked up his notebook to continue his sermon notes. Five hundred dollars fell out on his lap, and he took a doubletake. Noticing the notebook was an identical but older version of his own, he opened it to the page marked with the black ribbon and read: #8, 3rd 9/6, noon. He realized Mario had been on his way to make the bet all along.

The wall clock read 12:15 p.m. Do I call, do I do nothing? Is this God’s will? Thoughts swirled in his head. He didn’t like the feeling of being thrust into Mario’s shoes, bearing the weight of his choices. He saw no clear path. He thought about the advice he had given his friend. Now, the words sounded hollow. Now, the decision was in his hands. He ran to the rectory and called Mario’s home.

Annette answered the ringing phone, “hello?”

“Good morning, Annette, it’s Father D’Orazio...er it’s Joe.”

“Hi Father, how are you?”

“Good, thanks, is Mario around?”

“No, he’s out doing errands and said he’d be back around one. Do you want me to have him call you then?”

“No, that’s okay, it can wait until church tomorrow.”

But he knew it couldn’t wait. Time was fleeting to make the right decision, and he still didn’t know what it was. He grabbed his keys and wallet from the desk drawer and drove his fading green Duster to the track, hoping it wouldn’t fail him now.

He remembered being at the track as a teen, but now he fell out of place as he searched for Mario without any luck. He envisioned the shock his friend must have felt when he opened the notebook to find that they had been switched. No money to make the bet. Maybe it was for the best.

“Last call for the third race of the day” the loudspeaker blared. Relief washed over him, as it was now out of his hands.

Saturday night at Signeri's, Mario waited at the bar for drinks while Annette and Nick’s wife Patty were deep in animated conversation. Nick approached Mario from behind, slapped him on the back and exclaimed, “We hit! We hit big.”

“That’s great,” Mario said flatly.

“You didn’t do it.” Nick said. “You didn’t place the bet, did you?”

“Look man,” I was going to. I went to the track, but I turned around. I was getting out of control. I’m happy for you though.”

“I can’t believe it. You could have answered your prayers. I told you it was a sure thing. Don’t you forget I told you.”

“It’s okay. And I appreciate it, Nick. You’re a good friend. I’ll be okay.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m gonna come clean. I’m going to tell Annette tomorrow after spaghetti. I’m going to get a second job, and I’m gonna make it right.”

“I respect that,” Nick said quietly and put his arm around his friend.

When they arrived home, Mario told Annette he would be right in and grabbed his notebook from the glove box. He wanted to pull out the $500 before throwing it out and closing the chapter on his betting life. But there was no cash. Instead, he saw Father D’Orazio’s sermon notes. He realized it hadn’t been with him when he drove to the track. He would return it tomorrow.

Sunday morning Annette and Mario sat in the fourth pew, close enough to be respectful, far enough so their squirming boys wouldn’t disrupt the service.

As he wrapped up, Father D’Orazio said, “I have a special announcement that I’m overjoyed to share. Thanks to an anonymous donation, St. Joseph’s has funding to continue our youth program indefinitely.” The congregation broke into enthusiastic applause.

“Please join us on the lawn for coffee and doughnuts in celebration.”

Outside, Mario sought out Father D’Orazio.

“Hey Father, I have something of yours.

“Good morning, Mario. And I have something of yours,” he said as he produced the notebook.

“Thanks, Mario said as he took out the cash, but I don’t need the notebook back.”

“Good for you.

“I went to the track, but I just couldn’t do it. I owe it to Annette to be truthful. I’m going to make things right.”

“I know that was a difficult decision. I didn’t realize how hard it was until I walked in your shoes for a while.”

“What do you mean?”

“I came out to the track to give you your money, but you weren’t there.”

“Thanks, man.”

“And, thank you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, first of all, I learned how to be more understanding. My advice might have fallen a little short. Actually experiencing the angst that you had gave me a whole different perspective. And second, I put $500 of my own money on #3.”

“Are you kidding? The odds were 30 to 1. That’s $15,000.

“Enough to fund a youth program for all time. I’m calling it “Whoa Nellie in honor of that crazy horse.”

“That’s incredible!” Mario laughed.

“Except you’re wrong.”

“About what?”

Father D’Orazio handed Mario a thick envelope.

“The odds were 40 to 1.”