Aidan Sears

I have a great deal invested in my 9-year-old son's Little League playoff game. I don't mean emotionally invested. Well, okay, I do mean emotionally invested. I love my son Owen. It brings me such joy to see him happy and such great sorrow to see him sad.

These emotional investments are indeed, however, currently superseded by the $20,000 I have riding on several wagers across Kalshi, Polymarket, Robinhood, and FunFun.tr, a Turkish market site for which I had to convert a significant amount of my portfolio into Turkish Lira, the volatility of which is providing a separate, yet no less financially ruinous, strain on my mental wellbeing due to international circumstances that are, as far as I am aware, out of the control of my 9 year old son Owen.

"Strike one!"

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

"Way to take a pitch, buddy!"

With the benefit of hindsight, sure, I should have been more careful entering the world of gambling on my son. I should have asked questions such as:

Why is there a robust betting market on my son?

Who is setting the odds for my son and his fellow Mount Prospect Sea Lions?

Could engaging in this behavior lead to a slippery slope of being emotionally and financially overleveraged in my son's Little League performance?

Instead, I was blinded by my insider knowledge that on that fateful goddamn Thursday night, Owen had the sniffles, and his line of over/under 1.5 base hits was simply too high. I placed a bet on the under, won, and thought that if there was money to be had predicting the future of one Owen Hatmaker, there would be no one better to take advantage than his father George Hatmaker, through his knowledge of statistics, youth baseball, and the physical and mental abilities and limitations of his genetic progeny.

"Strike two!"

Holy sweet Jesus of Nazareth fuck.

"You have him right where you want him, champ!"

Owen doesn't know anything's wrong. Or, more accurately, he does. He just doesn't understand. He's nine. Last Tuesday when he was slated to pitch I bet the other team to score over 4.5 runs. Owen does so many things well -- reading, being kind to neighborhood dogs, keeping his room clean -- but the kid cannot control a changeup to save his life, and I made what I believed to be the correct financial decision for not only my future but my son's future and bet that the other team would light him up like a Christmas tree.

When afterwards the team and parents were at Baskin Robbins to celebrate Owen's one hit shutout, Owen noticed his solemn father and asked if I had been crying.

"No, kiddo," I said, which was a lie, and a bad one at that, because I indeed looked exactly like a man who'd been uncontrollably sobbing in an ice cream parlor bathroom over the fact that his attempt at emotional arbitrage of his pride and joy blew up in his face and that he was now staring down an increasingly spiraling financial albatross that was his son's Little League career and his father's misguided gambling thereof.

"Foul ball!"

This kid swings at god damn everything.

"Way to stay alive, son!"

I open Polymarket and look through the bets I created.

Hatmaker Nissan goes bankrupt.

George Hatmaker of Hatmaker Nissan goes missing.

George Hatmaker of Hatmaker Nissan gets arrested for DUI.

George Hatmaker of Hatmaker Nissan gets arrested for public intoxication, public indecency, and treason.

No action. I see the future so crystal clearly and I can't even bet on it. This is a sick joke.

What happens to me will not be Owen's fault. It will, literally speaking, but I will not blame him. I cannot control him. Although I tried desperately. Hypnosis. Subliminal messaging. Good old-fashioned begging on my hands and knees. There is only so much a father can do to mentally coerce a nine-year-old into hitting a home run.

And clearly, as evidenced by his pedestrian outing today, there is only so much I can do to affect him physically as well. Despite a four week cycle of performance enhancing drugs -- Turkesterone, Trenbolone, Stanozolol -- all snuck into brown sugar cinnamon oatmeal with cut up bananas in a smiley face, he seems to be no more likely to hit a home run today than he ever has been, and seems to only have suffered the side effects of rage, as evidenced by him yelling at the dog to shut the fuck up this morning.

I feel nothing but shame. Seeing Owen like this makes me remember what's important. I will not be a good father by gambling. I will be a good father by loving my son and supporting him. I can only try to tell others to heed my warning of the dangers of-

"It's out of here!"

He did it. He did it. He actually did it. I'm rich. We're rich. They say you can't beat the market. I'm here to say you can beat the market with patience, discipline, and chemically enhancing your son.

My son celebrates with his teammates at home plate. He looks at me. He smiles.

I check my phone.

We've invaded Turkey.

The price of the Lira has cratered.

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