The other day a bettor from Santa Coloma de Gramanet won 7.6 million euros in the draw for the primitiva. Mathematics affirm that the chances of hitting that draw are one in thirty million, infinitely less than those of hitting the Christmas jackpot, which only (I have put this word just for the fun of labeling it) are one in 100,000, and even so, despite the numerical evidence, the staff continues to bet with deluded perseverance.
The good thing about games of chance, as long as you're not a gambler, is that when your ticket doesn't have a prize, or at most it's refundable, you don't experience it as a big disappointment either. In raffles you can't have a bad lose, because you wouldn't win for trouble, but in life in general the loser doesn't have a bad time, even if someone tells you, as if you were a marathon runner, that the important thing is to participate.
The loser has always had a bad press, no matter how much we sublime Rick Blaine (Humphrey Bogart), the one from Casablanca; although who knows if he ultimately came out on top by letting Ilsa Lund (Ingrid Bergman) get away with Victor Laszlo's (Paul Henreid) nonsubstance. From which it follows that better than winning is knowing how to lose, with dignity, with what they call lordship. We leave the matter of seniority for legal proceedings, in which, definitely, you cannot lose.
It is also very angry to lose objects whatever their value, almost more than losing people (as long as they are not irreparable losses) and it is easy to lose time and patience. Probably the worst is missing the bus, train or plane. Having doors slammed in your face, including the boarding gate, is Proust's madeleine of all losses.
Who has not remembered in that sad moment all the occasions in which the day you have all the numbers the draw is suspended. In short, just like the one who has won the 7.6 million of the primitive ends up losing peace of mind and calm. Me, with a million I am satisfied, the rest I give up as lost.