Luck, Fate, and the Big Game
More takeaways from my recent rereading of The Rum Diary:
There’s a character obsessed with luck. He sees conspiracies everywhere, convinced forces beyond his control are stacking against him. Thompson describes him like this:
“He was like the fanatical football fan who runs onto the field and tackles a player. He saw life as the Big Game, and the whole of mankind was divided into two teams—Sala’s Boys, and The Others. The stakes were fantastic and every play was vital… but he knew all the while that nobody was paying any attention to him because he was not running the team and never would be.”
It’s a passage that struck me because I’ve known people who share his perspective; hell maybe even been one of those people at times in my life. That sense that everything happening around you is charged, significant, cosmic. That you’re either riding a wave of momentum, or drowning under the weight of setbacks.
I’ve lived versions of that. When things line up, it feels like the universe is throwing open doors: projects click, opportunities flow, conversations turn into connections. I tell myself I’m “on a run.” But when things stall, the story flips. Suddenly I wonder if I’ve missed my chance, if I’m forcing what isn’t meant to be, if luck has turned against me.
The truth is simpler, if less romantic: it isn’t luck or fate, it’s cycles. Sometimes things align, sometimes they don’t. The danger is in clinging too tightly to either narrative. If you believe every moment is do-or-die, you end up like Thompson’s character: running onto the field, shouting advice no one hears, convinced you’re part of a cosmic struggle that doesn’t exist.
What I’m learning to practice instead is detachment. To accept that I can’t run the Big Game, but I can play my part in the moments I’m given. I can focus on the work directly in front of me, on the people and projects that matter, instead of interpreting every stray setback as a cosmic omen.
That’s not to say detachment means indifference. It’s about balance, caring enough to commit fully, but not so much that every missed pass feels like the end of the world. Thompson’s “fanatical fan” becomes a cautionary mirror: a reminder not to let passion slide into obsession, or investment collapse into paranoia.
Life is less about luck and more about rhythm. It’s not ours to control, but it is ours to meet with steadiness. And maybe that’s the game worth playing.