Have You Ever Cried Over a Game at 3 a.m. in Chicago?

I used to think strategy was about odds—until I sat alone at 3 a.m. in my South Side apartment, watching the glow of a digital baccarat table flicker like temple lanterns. The numbers didn’t lie—but they didn’t heal me either.

My mother, a Puerto Rican immigrant, taught me that luck is danced, not chased. My father, raised on jazz and Sunday barbecues in Milwaukee, said: ‘The house doesn’t win—you do.’ So I stopped betting. I started observing.

I tracked ten consecutive rounds—bank wins, tie outcomes—not because I believed in trends, but because silence gave me clarity. In those quiet hours between hands, when the screen dimmed to gray-white tones, I felt something real: this wasn’t entertainment. It was meditation.

Platforms call it ‘lucky’—but what if the algorithm knows your soul better than your bankroll? What if the true reward isn’t cash—it’s stillness?

I now invite you: next time you’re tempted to double down after three losses… pause. Breathe. Look out the window. The city is asleep—but the game? It’s still playing.

Who says one can’t win? Maybe no one ever did—and maybe that’s why we keep coming back.