Not long ago, I overheard a group of kids talking about what they would do if they won the lottery.
Yes, people, I was eavesdropping. Don’t judge me. It’s their fault for talking so damn loudly. Besides, at my age, sometimes you don’t even have to try to listen. Conversations just find their way into your ears.
Anyway, I listened.
And before you ask, yes, they were talking about all the things you’d expect. Fancy cars, expensive jewelry, enormous mansions, traveling the world, paying off their parents’ debts, and, of course, getting the f*** out of here.
You know, all that jazz. I couldn’t help but smile.
These were kids from a small border town, a community where money is often tight, opportunities aren’t always plentiful, and dreaming about a different life can sometimes feel like the only thing that doesn’t come with a price tag.
And you know what? Dream big, kids!
Reach for the stars. Buy that mansion. Drive that ridiculously expensive car. Wear a watch that costs more than my house. Hell, buy two! If fortune ever smiles upon you, enjoy it. Be a little selfish. There’s nothing wrong with wanting nice things, especially when you’ve grown up watching people work themselves to exhaustion just to make ends meet.
But their conversation stayed with me. And it got me thinking… What would I do if I won the lottery? What would I do with millions? Billions?
Now, don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t exactly turn down a beautiful house, a nice car, or the luxury of never having to look at a price tag again. I’m older, not stupid.
But somewhere along the road, between the foolishness of youth and the questionable wisdom of my seasoned years, something changed.
The things I dream about today aren’t necessarily things I want to own. They’re things I want to experience. Moments I want to create. Memories I want to leave behind.
First, I’d take my dad to a Dodgers game.
Not just any Dodgers game. I’m talking front-row seats, directly behind home plate at Dodger Stadium. The kind of seats where you can practically hear the umpire breathing and where a foul ball might require a quick decision between saving your beer or saving your face.
We’d eat Dodger Dogs, crack open some peanuts, have a couple of beers, and talk. About baseball. About life. About nothing in particular. Maybe we’d laugh about things that happened forty years ago. Maybe we’d sit quietly between innings, watching the game unfold.
I wouldn’t need anything spectacular to happen on the field. I’d already have the best seat in the house.
And while we’re talking about my dad, I’d make damn sure he never had to worry about paying another bill for the rest of his life. No more worrying about the electric bill, the water bill, or whether something around the house needs fixing. I’d want him to wake up every morning knowing that everything was taken care of.
Then I’d buy him the Corvette of his dreams. And we’d go cruising. No particular destination. No schedule. Just the open road, a beautiful car, and two guys enjoying the ride. I’d probably have to remind him not to drive too fast.
Who am I kidding? I’d be encouraging him.
But there’s something else I’d do for him.
I’d find the finest sastre in the world, someone who truly understands the artistry and tradition of the Mexican charro suit. I’d have a complete outfit custom-made for him. The suit, the boots, the belt, the buckle, and a magnificent sombrero.
Every detail perfect.
Then I’d hire a professional photographer to capture him wearing it.
Not just a few snapshots. A proper portrait session. The kind of photographs that become family treasures, the ones future generations look at and say, “Now THAT was a man who knew how to dress!”
And then?
I’d book a recording studio, hire a full mariachi ensemble, and let my dad record the songs he’s always wanted to sing. A real recording session. Professional musicians. The whole works.
I’d want his voice preserved, not just in our memories, but in recordings that could be played long after the years have carried us somewhere else.
Because voices are funny things. We hear them every day and take them for granted, never imagining how precious the sound of someone’s voice can become.
I’d give just about anything to hear certain voices again.
And that brings me to my mother.
I’d hire Mariachi Los Camperos to perform at a gathering of family and friends at my dad’s house. My mother loved that mariachi.
I can imagine the music filling the house, drifting into the yard, wrapping itself around conversations and laughter. There would be food, of course. Lots of food. We’re Mexican. We can’t gather three people in one place without somebody asking who’s bringing the rice and beans.
We’d tell stories about her. We’d laugh. Some of us would probably cry. And when the mariachi played one of her favorite songs, I imagine we’d all feel, if only for a moment, that she was there with us.
I’d like that. I’d like that very much.
Then there are the things I’d do for myself.
I’d convert my garage into a painting studio.
Nothing extravagant. Just a comfortable, well-lit space with canvases, brushes, paints, an easel, and enough room to make a glorious mess without somebody asking why there’s paint on the floor.
I’d retire.
There. I said it.
Retire.
And I’d spend my days painting, playing music, taking photographs, and drinking coffee.
Lots of coffee.
I’d wake up without an alarm clock, unless you count my bladder, which, at this age, has become remarkably punctual.
I’d paint when inspiration struck, pick up an instrument when a melody wandered into my head, and grab my camera whenever the light looked interesting. Some days I’d create something wonderful. Other days I’d create something that probably belonged in the trash. But I’d have the freedom to do either. And that, to me, would be a luxury money could actually provide.
I’d travel, too. But probably not the way most lottery winners imagine traveling.
I’m not particularly interested in lounging on a yacht in the Mediterranean or sipping champagne in some ridiculously expensive resort where a sandwich costs more than my first car payment.
I’d want to visit places with history. Old towns. Historic landmarks. Battlefields. Forgotten roads. Buildings that have stood long enough to witness generations come and go. Places where ordinary people once lived extraordinary moments, or where extraordinary events unfolded in otherwise ordinary surroundings.
I’d want to sit on an old bench, drink a cup of coffee, and imagine the lives that passed through that place before mine. I’d want to walk streets worn smooth by time, stand in places where history was made, and listen to the silence left behind.
Sometimes the most interesting places aren’t the grandest. Sometimes they’re the places where the past still feels close enough to touch.
And speaking of the past, I’d find an old 1953 Pontiac Chieftain. Not a beautifully restored one.
Nope.
I’d want a beat-up, rusted, neglected old thing. The kind of car most people would look at and say, “Why the hell would you waste your money on that?”
Because it was my dad’s first car.
I’d bring it home and restore it myself. Piece by piece.
I’d learn what I didn’t know, make mistakes, scrape my knuckles, curse at stubborn bolts, and spend hours trying to figure out why something that worked yesterday suddenly decided it didn’t want to work today.
I’d take my time. No deadlines. No pressure. Just an old car slowly coming back to life under my hands. And somewhere along the way, perhaps I’d feel a little closer to the young man my father once was, long before I knew him as Dad.
I’d do the same with a 1973 Camaro Super Sport. That one’s for me. My dream car. I’d restore it until it looked like it had just rolled off the showroom floor, then take it out for a drive with the windows down and the engine rumbling. And yes, I’d probably act like a teenager behind the wheel.
Some things never change.
I’d also want to do something with my brother. Something wonderfully ridiculous.
I’d rent Dodger Stadium for an afternoon, if they’d let me, and play catch with him on that beautiful field.
Just the two of us tossing a baseball back and forth where so many Dodgers legends once played.
And then, because we’re apparently incapable of behaving like normal adults, we’d find some old rags, wrap them tightly with black electrical tape, and make ourselves a ball.
Banana ball.
Not the fancy modern version people might be thinking of.
I’m talking about the kind of improvised ball we made as kids, when imagination was plentiful and sporting goods were whatever you could find lying around.
We’d play right there on the field at Dodger Stadium. Two grown men, probably with aching knees and questionable throwing arms, laughing like a couple of kids.
Imagine that.
A multimillion-dollar stadium, perfectly manicured grass, legendary baseball history all around us, and two fools playing with a ball made out of old rags and tape.
I’d pay good money for that. Apparently, in this scenario, I could.
I’d also remodel my kitchen. Not because I need a kitchen that looks like it belongs on a television cooking show, although I wouldn’t complain. I’d want a kitchen where I could spend hours experimenting with recipes, preparing meals, and gathering people around the table. A place where the next great meal takes shape. Or the next spectacular culinary disaster.
Either way, somebody’s eating it.
I’d want the smell of food filling the house, music playing in the background, and friends and family wandering in to see what’s cooking. Because some of the best memories I’ve ever known didn’t happen in expensive places. They happened around tables.
In kitchens. In backyards. In homes filled with people who didn’t need a special occasion to be together.
And then there’s something I’d want to do for my hometown.
Calexico.
My beloved, imperfect, stubborn little border town. I’d build a proper recreation center. Not some halfhearted project with a basketball court, a couple of folding tables, and a sign out front announcing how wonderful everything is.
I’m talking about a real place for our kids. A place where they could play basketball, make art, learn music, explore photography, work with their hands, learn a trade, discover a talent, or simply hang out with friends. A place with studios, workshops, classrooms, courts, and spaces where young people could create things without being told their ideas were foolish. A place where a kid who couldn’t afford an instrument could learn to play one.
Where a kid who had never held a paintbrush could discover a love for painting. Where someone who felt like they didn’t quite belong anywhere might finally find a place that felt like theirs.
Somewhere safe. Somewhere welcoming. Somewhere full of possibilities.
I’d want it to be a place where kids could make the kind of memories that stay with them long after childhood has slipped away. Because I know what it’s like to grow up in a small border town. I know that sometimes the world can seem impossibly far away, even when you’ve got a head full of dreams. And I know that talent, imagination, and ambition aren’t reserved for kids who grow up in wealthy communities.
They’re everywhere. Sometimes all they need is a place to flourish.
Maybe some kid would walk into that recreation center one afternoon just looking for something to do and walk out having discovered a passion that would shape the rest of their life.
Wouldn’t that be something?
And maybe, years later, that kid would remember the place where it all began. The way I remember the places and people that helped shape me. You know, the more I think about all this, the more I realize something.
When I was younger, I probably would have answered that lottery question much like those kids did.
Cars. Houses. Money. Freedom.
And there’s nothing wrong with any of that. But time has a peculiar way of changing what we consider valuable. At some point, you begin to understand that the people sitting beside you are more important than the seats you’re sitting in.
That an old car can mean more than a new one. That a song can be worth more than a diamond. That an afternoon playing catch with your brother can be more memorable than a vacation halfway around the world.
And that sometimes the greatest gift you can give someone isn’t a thing. It’s an opportunity to live a moment they’ll never forget. I suppose that’s what I’d really want to buy with all that lottery money.
Time.
Not more time, exactly. Even a winning lottery ticket can’t do that. But the freedom to make better use of the time we have.
To slow down.
To create.
To remember.
To laugh.
To spend another afternoon with Dad.
To hear his voice singing through a pair of studio headphones.
To honor Mom with the music she loved.
To play like a kid again with my brother.
To sit in a garage surrounded by old car parts, or in a painting studio with coffee growing cold beside an unfinished canvas. To give some kid in Calexico a place to discover that the world might be bigger than they ever imagined.
And that brings me back to those kids whose conversation I was so shamelessly eavesdropping on.
I hope they never stop dreaming.
I hope they get their fancy cars, their mansions, their travels, and all the wonderful things they imagine money could bring them.
I hope they make it out into the world and discover everything it has to offer.
But I also hope that, somewhere along the way, they discover something that took me a good many years to understand.
Sometimes the richest moments in life are the simplest ones. And sometimes, if we’re fortunate, we get to recognize them while they’re still happening.
So, what would I do if I won the lottery?
Well, I’d do quite a bit, apparently. And after writing all this, I’ve come to another realization.
I should probably start buying lottery tickets.
Because, as it turns out, I have some pretty expensive plans.
And most of them have very little to do with money.
There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com.
Telling stories, sharing thoughts, and drinking coffee. A blend of fiction, reflection, and whatever’s brewing—one post at a time.
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© 2026 Mariano Velez ~ InkBlotz Press
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