Why luck is a fake concept

Alfred Nobel created the Nobel Prize near the end of his life as a public relations move. He’d invented dynamite for mining and construction. But people used it as a weapon, killing thousands, and earning him the label, “The Merchant of Death”.

There was Alfred Binet, who invented the IQ test, with the intention of classifying children who need assistance. His test unintentionally fueled the eugenics movement and was a key tool for discrimination.

There was Alfred Vanderbilt, who was one of the world’s wealthiest young men and most eligible bachelor. He narrowly avoided boarding the Titanic, canceling his trip at the last moment. Unfortunately, three years later, he boarded the Lusitania, which was sunk by German U-boats.

And then there was my friend, Al.

Al was a fellow swimmer. He was 6’3, easygoing, and per my female friend “handsome enough”. He had a good sense of humor and straw-like brown hair that was ravaged by chlorine. Al squeaked through high school and landed an athletic scholarship to our university.

His father was a volatile alcoholic, the type who sings karaoke and is everyone’s best friend in the first hour of drinking, and a belligerent monster for the remaining six.

I saw it first hand when he came to town for a swim meet, which he overslept and missed. Al invited me to dinner, which was a bit unusual for “parent’s weekend”. In hindsight, I suspect he didn’t want to endure it alone. Sure enough, his dad showed up at Applebees at 6 PM and was already blitzed, full of stupid ideas, and making inane, brutally awkward attempts to flirt with our waitress.

He was a walking meme, stopping just short of wearing a varsity jacket and bragging about his high school touchdowns.

It was a long two-hour dinner. I walked through the parking lot, exhausted, and immediately knew why Al had never touched alcohol. Then I winced, remembering the scene of me holding a cup of beer up to his face, playfully saying, “Just one sip … c’mon.”

As we walked to the car, I asked, with a bit of hesitation, “So is your mom…more…normal?”

“She was. Yes.”

“Was?” I instinctively asked, thinking she’d become an alcoholic too.

“She died when I was 9. Ovarian cancer.”

I nodded and got quiet, realizing this ridiculously nice guy had probably endured a terrible childhood. I knew his sister had left home at 12 to live with his grandmother for reasons unnamed.

Al noticed me looking bummed out and gave me a half smile, “Dude. It’s OK. I’m all good.” I suppose he didn’t want my pity. He’d probably gotten enough of that already.

One month later

Our college swim team was doing a mixer party with the women’s lacrosse team. It was fun — your typical party scene, with lots of laughing, talking, and loud music. It looked just like those American parties you’ve seen in movies.

A few girls were walking around in lacrosse pads. One teammate was shamelessly walking around in a speedo and goggles, with a beer bong poised at the ready.

Eventually, the night turned south as it often does with so much drinking. A couple of the lacrosse girls’ boyfriends had become jealous of this mixer. They showed up to start trouble, trying to push through the front door. There was a bunch of shouting. No fists were thrown thankfully. But a few girls began crying and fighting with their partners. It was a total vibe kill.

We decided to get out of there before things got worse. Tw o of us left with Al around midnight, who was the DD as always. He dropped us both off that night and I thought nothing of it.

The next morning, I got an ominous text, “Did, you hear about Al?”

Al had been hit by a drunk driver on the way back to his house. He’d been T-boned at high speed on his driver-side door. He was in the hospital with a broken leg, collar bone, shoulder, and two broken ribs.

He was alive. He’d walk fine. But his shoulder was never right again and his swimming career was over. I stopped by to see him and he looked like a shell of himself on the hospital bed.

His eyes were sunken, hair disheveled, and hanging over his swollen face. We hung out and talked for a bit. He was out of it from the pain meds and fell asleep mid-conversation. I saw his dad at the hospital that day, sober for once.

The good news is that life went on as normal. He eventually returned to class and hung out with us. But not without great cost to him.

Al didn’t have the prestigious accolades of history’s famous Alfreds. In fact, his background was mostly the opposite: absent of wealth, stability, and the type of love a kid needs. He inherited and then endured great misfortune.

There was a time when I thought Al was the most unlucky guy I’d ever met. I was sure he’d break at any moment. How couldn’t he?

Yet, he’s gone on to be quite successful. He has kids and a loving wife. And despite all the hardship, he’s always had a great attitude. He has lived in defiance of the groundwork for so much sorrow.

I know many others, who are born into relative privilege and spared of major tragedies, myself included, who have struggled to appreciate their lives at times.

My father-in-law is one of the happiest men I know, despite having a troubled and turbulent childhood. He’s a big storyteller and relays everything interesting from his life. Yet he has a DMZ line drawn on his childhood. We know nothing. That’s how bad it was.

People forget that luck, good or bad, is all a construct. It isn’t actually a proven thing — in the sense of a mystical universe choosing favorites among us. Luck is just probability playing out in real time. It’s more accurately defined as how humans choose to describe their lives.

It’s also a decent proxy for how people frame their problems. For example, those who believe in good or bad luck tend to be more cynical and less happy.

The name Alfred isn’t intrinsically unlucky. I just looked up a bunch of Alfreds from history and cherry-picked those who’d had the most bad luck. It was a whimsical way of framing a narrative, just as people do with their own life stories.

I’ve heard from many readers over the years, who had horrible childhoods and lives —going through unimaginable trauma and disappointment. Yet many have gone on to be quite happy. I’ve also heard from people with lives you’d give anything for.

I’ve tended to downgrade my definition of problems as life has improved. It’s another pesky byproduct of hedonic adaptation. Yesterday, I caught myself cursing up a storm while setting up a new soundbar. You’d have thought I just caught someone cheating on me. I’d lost sight of how first-world, and truly spoiled I sounded.

It is in the quieter moments, when sleep is evasive, that the mi nd can wander and wallow in misery and egregious mistakes. I am reminded that happiness and contentment require intent. Life is messy and complicated, and one cannot feel better simply by comparing themselves to those less fortunate. It takes more work.

It is a sense of presence in the moment, gratitude, perspective, lifestyle, community, and purpose that I have found the most happiness, as my unlucky friend Al did.

But he’ll be the first to tell you how lucky he is.