Silence.
That is all that welcomed me as I entered the satellite
horse racing facility at the fairgrounds’ Sports Pavilion. No
yelling, no swearing, not nearly what one would expect
from a gambling establishment. The place resembled an
opium den more than anything else. This was certainly no
Kentucky Derby. This was the equivalent of betting on the
outcome of a television game show … and they all want to
be millionaires.
Men betting in secret, their wives unaware of their location.
Betting away the house payment, the electric bill,
Junior’s college tuition, or their lifesavings. Three minutes
and two dollars at a time.
Having never bet on a horse race before, I would have to
rely on my very basic knowledge of the “Sport of Kings” to
get by. I purchased my program and form, made my way to
the tables and found a seat. It was at this moment that my
eyes were assaulted by 12 massive television sets, broadcasting
feeds from Louisiana, Saratoga, Arlington, Del Mar
and others.
“Dear God,” I mumbled to myself. “What the hell have
I gotten myself into?” I felt panic, an overwhelming sense
of confusion and an immediate urge to scream. The universe
would have to be aligned just right if I were to walk
out of this hedonistic den of fools with any money in my
pockets.
I opened the form to discover page after page of unidentifiable
numbers and statistics. After 20 minutes of staring
dumbly at these symbols before me, what appeared to be
utter gibberish revealed to be any information one could
possibly need. Lineage, trainer, breeder, owner, past scores
and a myriad of other aspects on any horse set to race that
day.
“What’s the good word, bubba?” I asked the man sitting a
few seats down from me, attempting to form a camaraderie
that may make this grueling experience a little easier on my
psyche and ego. The man only stared at me with accusing
green eyes, looking me up and down. Then, without a word,
returned his focus to the screens before us. Covering the
papers laid out in front of him simultaneously, like a person
hiding positive HIV test results.
“Oh don’t be like that,” I said. “Let’s be friends. We can
be brothers…champions! Come on, I’ll be Turner and you
can be Hooch.”
Hooch remained silent with eyes forward. He was ignoring
me. Blocking me out. There would be no sharing of
his righteous victory, if there was indeed a victory to be
had. The realization came to me that I was in a room full
of lone wolves, men of a solitary disposition. Make as little
human contact as possible. Preferably none. This was the
creed that they lived by.
This is business. Work. Nothing to be, by any means, joyous
about. Win or lose, same gloom. After all, pride is one
of the seven deadly sins, right? Better not to gloat, unless
you’re looking to cause trouble. A fact I wish I was privy to
prior to screaming like a banshee when Race 6 in Saratoga
started.
You see, here’s the thing: After struggling to figure out
exactly what I was doing and building up enough confidence
to place a bet, I made my way to betting window
and made my prediction. The first thing an inexperienced
bettor should know is that there is a specific formula to be
adhered to. First there is the track, then the race number, the
the amount and type of bet, ending with the horse’s number.
Simply hearing bets being placed and the lingo involved is
enough to make one’s brain falter. But I have digressed.
Anyway, I bet $2 on the No. 2 horse, an equine by the fine
name of Spanky Fischbein, to win in Race 6 at Saratoga. I
figured I had a decent shot with Spanky having 3-1 odds.
At 12:48 the seven-furlong race began. Immediately the
race was in my favor. Spanky shot out of the gate and into
the race like a bullet. All awareness of my surroundings
faded into oblivion. My heart raced. I felt lightheaded. I
could feel a shock of madness climb up my spine.
And then I began yelling.
“Come on you bastard!” I shrieked frantically at the
screen. “Go. Go! GO!”
The horses had reached the turn and were coming up fast
on the finish line. My Spanky still leading proudly. I began
jumping and flailing like a deranged jockey riding a phantom
horse. Chanting, my phantom beast and I rode alongside
Spanky and the other horses.
“By God, Hooch, We’re gonna do it!” I said to my silent
friend.
As the horses made their way around the end of the turn
and into the final furlong of the race, Spanky was still in
the lead. This looked like it might actually happen. Would I
actually come out of this victorious?
Suddenly, at the last moment, a filthy bastard of a steed
named Grasberg, the No. 6 horse, snuck up and overtook
Spanky, crossing the finish line a fraction of a second before
us. My triumph had been robbed. Spanky had betrayed
me.
BAM! Back to reality. This room full of gargoyle-like
personalities. My phantom horse had vanished. I had lost,
if only by a little. The rush was gone and there was nothing
more to do but place another bet … and another … and
another.
And so, I walked out of the Pavilion defeated. Having
not made myself any richer … and actually making myself
poorer. I returned to my car in degradation, humiliation and
stupefaction. I had brushed shoulders with a blatantly powerful
addition. My associates for the day had shown testament
to that.
Horse racing truly is an overly seductive and complex
sport, on in which full immersion is required for confident
and correct participation. Even losing can be fun, but somewhere
along the line the fun stops and all enjoyment is negated.
It must have something to do with removing the live
action, taking away the horses must take away the excitement,
making this a very paranoid, very obsessive, lonely
and possessive crowd to be in or around. It is as if the patrons
are grasping at thin air and simply hoping that their
luck will pan out.
Having such a close call with victory is reason enough
for me to want to return. But I have too many monkeys on
my back as it is, and I need a new one like I need a shotgun
blast to the face. So, for now, I am washing my hands of
this madness and moving on. That is, until the inevitable
desire overpowers me and I am drawn back like a fly to
excrement.