After dropping the missus off at JFK Airport yesterday -- which was a cultural experience in itself -- I made my way back via the AirTrain and subway. And guess what was right along the way, complete with it's own stop: Aqueduct Raceway.
Now let's be upfront: Southerners have a mixed history with horse racing. Andrew Jackson was a big horse racer and gambler, but the ultra-religious element of the South has kept horse racing out of most states save Kentucky and small parts of Alabama, Florida and Louisiana.
That said, I've attended a few, and have always enjoyed the spectacle and excitement that a warm sunny day, a little betting and a few mint juleps can bring. I still have fond memories of actually walking away a winner 25 years ago during the inaugural weekend of the doomed Birmingham Turf Club.
My trip to Aqueduct was another example of how Northern versions of institutions differ from their Southern counterparts.
First, it was fortunate that I got there in time just for the final race of the day. Because I was spared a full afternoon of chaos, craziness and grime. A 45-minutes exposure to the track and its denizens was more than adequate.
To start with, the whole environment gives of an aura of -- how best to say this -- not being clean. The floors are dirty. The racetrack was founded in 1894, but the last major construction project was in 1959. This gives the front facade and the main grandstands an interesting 1950s Rat Pack kind of feel, but the elements and abuse of the years have clearly aged the structure. It has certain charm, but it's that gritty, New York, boy-wouldn't-a-pressure-washer-do-wonders kind of charm.
That last race of the day brings out the color of the clientele, too. By race 9, everyone's pretty much drunk. They're tired. Most aren't winners, so they're cranky. I arrived just after the running of race 8, and I got to enjoy one particular drunk -- who felt the jockey of the losing horse he'd bet on had phoned it in -- yelling and cursing derisively at the jockey as he slunk back to the paddock area. Aqueduct has an overhang that allows fans a balcony right over the paddock area, so this guy had an unobstructed stage to hurl abuse down on the Dominican jockey who probably didn't understand the words, but clearly got the sentiment.
The ground was littered with the torn-up tickets of losing hopes and dreams, and the regulars were busy scanning over their Racing Forms and scribbled notes in the columns, looking for that one final win that would -- if not make them winners -- at least send them home close to even.
The announcers -- safely ensconced 400 million miles in the air above masses in a huge booth barely bolted to the roof of the giant facility -- blared out information and warnings about impending post times.
I had no Racing Form, no information about who to bet one, but felt the urge to throw $2 down for the heck of it. Early betting showed Number 9 was the favorite, and Number 4 was the second-best, with odds of 9-2 and 4-1 respectively. Following an old trick I'd learned 25 years early, I went with the early money and put two bucks down on an exacta 9-4 bet, meaning I was betting that Number 9 would win and Number 4 would come in second. If I was right, I'd score about $26 bucks for my two-dollar wager.
Post time came, the familiar recorded trumpet fanfare blew and the horses paraded in order past me to the opposite side of the dirt track for the start. They were off, and quickly darted around to the finish line.
My two horses finished one-two. Unfortunately, Number 4 was the winner and Number 9 finished second, so my "exacta" bet wasn't quite "exactanuff." No biggie. My lost dreams were small, much smaller than most of the people I shuffled out the door with and back to the subway platform.
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