My son’s Little League is conducting a fundraising raffle and tickets — only 300 will be sold — cost a whopping $100 each. (The good news is we don’t have to buy one and the money raised is substantial enough that we’ll be spared the indignity of selling junk to our neighbors; win-win). Here are the rules, then my question:
Your ticket number will be entered for the Grand Prize.
When ticket numbers are selected, they are disqualified. There will be a number of disqualification prizes given. When there are 10 tickets left, participants will be asked if they want to split the $10,000 or continue. If any of the 10 left want to continue, we will disqualify 5 more. The 5 will then be asked if they want to split or continue. If any of the 5 left want to take a chance, 4 will be disqualified to determine the lucky $10,000.
My question: You’ve made it to the final 10, now what are you going to do? Take the sure $1,000 or roll the metaphoric dice for a 1 in 10 chance of winning $10,000?
(At the end of this post, we’ll hear from a woman who has actually watched these dramas play out.)
Me? Despite being a gambler by avocation, I’m voting to split the pot: A 100% chance at $1,000 is more appealing to me than a 1 in 10 chance at $10,000. Neither sum will substantially change my life, so why not take the grand and go home smiling.
However, I live in a suburban community that features a wide mix of family income levels: We have a fair number of affluent families in town; I presume their children play Little League; and, I also presume that the sure $1,000 will mean less to at least some of them than it would to me. In other words, the game theorist in me is guessing one or more of my nine other lucky raffle players will want to gamble.
But dare they do so? I mean what of the social implications? Will Mr. or Mrs. High Roller want to look me in the eye and say, “Sorry, Paul, I know you want that extra grand — and the triplets always need new shoes — but I’m feeling lucky.”
Not very neighborly, but I could see it.
And how exactly are these decisions to quit or continue made and communicated? A secret ballot would seem to give both the timid and the high rollers more cover. If it’s a raise of hands, I’m thinking caution and camaraderie carry sway.
But I’ve never played, so I sent an e-mail to Maura Stanley, a member of the Little League fundraising committee:
Buzzblog: When the drawing gets down to the final 10 people is there a secret ballot?
Stanley: The finalists get together in a private room and discuss.
Buzzblog: Does the final 10 usually/always/never vote to split?
Stanley: For the events I’ve been involved with I believe they’ve spilt at 5.
Buzzblog: Have you seen anyone get mad at anyone for voting to continue?
Stanley: Not sure how things play our behind closed doors, but from what I heard in the past there have been “side deals” among the finalists.
Bet those negotiations are spirited, but not sure I want to invest $100 for a chance to find out.
What would you do if you were one of the final 10 … or final 5? Don’t be shy.
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