8/22/08
Playwright's Tavern
Midtown Manhattan, New York City
It's the middle of hte day and I'm sharing the bar with a cast of characters that include a Kerouac-quoting guy with a neck tattoo, a pathetically lonely bald man hopelessly flirting with the bartender, and another 31 year old horseplayer - the only other bettor in the bar.
Playwright's is one of the last few OTBs left in Manhattan. Far less crowded than the Winner's Circle and with a far more tolerable crowd, I've often wondered why this place doesn't get more traffic.
The other punter doesn't have my vibe, really. He's all east coast. Fast talking and slick, he's a bit intense. He starts in on me immediately with his bad beat stories as soon as he notices my race form.
I was sure I'd win this last race. When the Stones got inexplicably louder on the jukebox as the horses came around the far turn, I thought maybe it was meant to be. But it didn't happen. Another handfull of tickets flutter to the floor.
Last night I was all alone and decided to walk from midtown to union square to play some chess. It was a gorgeous night. The street musicians made the air that much more comfortable. A saxaphone on 16th street, a plastic bucket drum down on University, it wafted on the summer breeze over the park almost as if they were in harmony.
None of the hustlers in the park would play me for free but a bus driver let me let him destroy me a few games before his friend showed up. His friend was a teenage black kid in an argyle sweater vest and slacks - overdressed for this crowd but came with some serious game. I didn't see him lose in 5 or 6 games. Eventually I gave up on them and made th elong trek back, buying a race form on the way and falling asleep later in the bathtub of my tiny, dank room.
Today I ate with an old friend that I hadn't seen in three years but our conversation felt like it was picking up right where it once left off. That felt right and good.
New York feels right and good and in much the same way. I can come back here all alone and pick up right where I left off the last time. I've often said that this is a great city for being alone and this week has been no exception.
The kid is talking to me again. It appears that he had the 50-1 shot that just bombed the last race is inexplicably on one of his pick 4 tickets. It isn't his biggest ticket, but it's a live ticket nonetheless. This ought to be fun.
Unfortunately the next race he doesn't have the favorite. He's got a couple horses, one of which is over 10-1. So no reason to get too excited.
He tells me about how he has to bail on the Travers tomorrow because his friends are all dropping out of the trip. He even had his parent's summer house all lined up. I'm burning with envy. A live pick four ticket and a free place to stay in Saratoga. Alls I got is a voucher for $10 and my racetrack hat. I'm planning to go to the Travers tomorrow no matter what I tell him. I'm all alone, too. My friends all dropped out, too. I plan to drive up for the day and drive back. I don't even have seats yet. He smiles. I can tell he's thinking about the prospect of going anyway. I'm wondering if I could take hanging out with this intense stranger for a whole day. Then the 10-1 shot wins the race and suddenly we are in this.
He's got the chalk in the next two races. He's got Ginger Punch in the Ensign and the favorite in the last leg, too. Ginger Punch is a lock and wins the race true to form. In the next one he's got the 3-2 favorite and a ticket worth $15,000 plus another pick 3 worth $5,000 more. He starts rocking back and forth in his chair. He starts frantically dialing everyone he can to tell them what's going on. The rest of the bar is oblivious to the sweat we have before us. A real live $20,000 sweat on the chalk. It's unbelievable. I'm nervous as hell for the kid. But I believe he's going to win. Why? And I tell him this part - because it isn't me holding the ticket. I'm positive that this wonderful thing will happen to him today because I am there to witness it and to not partake in it.
"If you win this you're going to Saratoga tomorrow no question."
"If I win this I'm buying this bar a round and I'm buying you two!"
Why build the suspense for nothing? The poor schmuck lost. It wasn't even close. He leaves the bar with his cell phone on his face making plans for that evening. I leave the bar to head back to the hotel and rest up for my drive tomorrow.
Tomorrow I find out if the spa feels right and good.
8/23/08
Saratoga Race Course
Saratoga Springs, NY
What a place! What a place indeed! The stand-up bass and banjo would make the mood all on its own but the guy dancing a jig certainly adds a nice touch. The crowd is huge. It touches all walks of New Yorkerdom or Horse Racingdom.
I'm wearing my seersucker suit, my race form rolled up under my arm, my clubhouse seat in hand. I don't know why I do this, get dressed up all by myself. But it feels good to be dressed for the occasion. It feels more celebratory. And this is truly a day to celebrate. It is Travers Day. It is a holy day.
The morning was spent at Spiro's of course. But not drinking ginger ale, instead packed in the back like an animal waiting for the scraps that Steve Crist throws off the table for us to fight over. He walks us through the day's card giving us his thoughts and picks and we mark our forms dutifully. The whole operation takes a mere 45 minutes and the herd pushes forward towards the track.
I take my seat in the clubhouse stands next to another lonely party, an old woman who isn't even betting just cheering on the horses and telling anyone within earshot her history of working with horses and horsemen. Behind me is a large party of men in their 40s and 50s who are loud and boisterous and smoking cigars. They aren't strangers to the track, but clearly don't do this very often. They are having fun and intend to make the most out of the day. In front of me is a father and his son, the father teaching the son how to decipher the numbers on the program. My past present and future surround me.
7th race
It's the 7th race and it is revenge of the palooka day so far. The longshots are murdering the chalk and the apron-dwellers are losing their collective shit. They leap for joy with their $2 exacta tickets clutched tightly in their raised hands. Ordinarily I'd love a day like today, but I can't hit a barn with a brick. I have $100 left and 3 more races to go.
8th race
Things aren't going so well. I told myself to be more confident but the scary thing is that I interpreted that to mean "bet more." Its 5 minutes to race and I feel like I'm all-in. If I hit this one I'm looking good. If I miss I'm treading water to get out of the track with money for tolls. The lump is growing. The tension builds.
9th race
There is no more confidence only desperation. The hole has grown so deep it seems insurmountable. How often I find myself in this predicament, right before the feature.
Shakis is strutting on the track. He knows where he is. He owns this track. It is as if all his prior losses were his stubborn way to get his trainer to bring him back to the spa.
I wish I had as good an excuse for my recent form. At least I know I'll have a long price when I finally make my comeback. 6-1 on the reigning champ of this race? What was I thinking?
10th race - The Travers
Officially all-in on the Travers. I've staked my hopes, my dreams, and my gas money on an untested up and comer named Mambo in Seattle. I think my main rival is Macho Again. Neither name inspires anything poetic for me, nor do they seem intimidating.
The natives are in full force for the feature now. I just saw a drunk man with a small boy who was wearing jockey goggles and crying up a storm while his drunk old man laughed hysterically. Behind me in the gallows the possee of east coast punters are having a heated argument about why the winner of the last race should never have won. The goon who had him is smartly just smiling and nodding his head.
They are loading the gate now. The crowd roars. I'm beyond being nervous. This is it...
