COLUMNS

Track Talk
Sherry Burgin
May 2007
The sounds and smells at the race track are invariably rich and plenty, to the point of distraction. On any given day, you'll hear a myriad of assorted sounds to tickle your senses that thankfully surpass most of the smells. Diverse groups of people offer quite the flavor to your auditory experience from different perspectives, always making for an interesting tone to garnish the day. As we walk through the entrance, a Racing Form or program is top priority. "Good Luck and win lots of money!" the vender smiles and tells us, as she holds her hand out to collect the first expense of the outing. She gives us a little hope of maybe doing just that. As we make our way through the crowded paddock where the bettors are perusing the horses for the next race, we hear "Who ya got?" "The Six has too much white," the other man replies. I think about that for a moment as my friend and I make our way to the fence to get a better look, while glancing at the odds on the tote board and see the Six installed as the favorite.

Taking a look, I see too much white on the face is what the man was referring to. The white blaze was indeed thick across the face of the colt in question. I had heard this angle awhile ago and had to question the theory behind it then, as one hears so many of these different sayings, phrases, or myths. Some may call them myths, and some may call them betting angles. No matter what the phrase be termed, there is usually some long thought and good reasoning behind it. This particular "saying" goes back to the breeding of thoroughbreds from Arabian horses when white was not a desired color trait in the newer breed. The more white that appears on a horse could be indicative of one who may possess the trait of speed, yet have a slighter stamina and may not go the distance in the timely manner required of him in this race.

Along those lines and using the train of thought that can be associated with breeding of thoroughbreds in the early stages, I say to my friend, "the Three has a white right hind sock." The phrase constitutes a power play for a horse who has a lot of speed, as in 'fly with the wind' in the old days. "His butt is big. Look at the carved muscle," my friend quips back at me. The large butt and muscular angle to which he refers is in hopes that the horse may have an edge with his hind muscles propelling him faster for longer distances than a horse with lesser rear muscle. Through inspection of the various bodily conformations of the contenders, we search for a horse who is carrying more staying power and be able to outlast the speed which had been determined of the number Six horse who we had previously examined.

"But with this being a long turf race, we need to find one with big feet and a big butt," I put out there for thought as we look at the conformation and qualities of a rather large group of horses that appear nearly equally capable of winning upon our short perusal of the racing program. My thoughts went back to the ferrier who had told me that "saying" long ago in nearly the same spot where we now stood. He was an older fellow who everyone in the racing business seemed to know and love, by the name of Charlie Nichols, or it may have been spelled N-i-c-k-l-es. He always wore silver jewelry and a big hat, and I never forgot his words to me about a horse with big feet and big butt on the turf. I often think about him while inspecting the horses before a race. "Big feet on the turf are a must. The little hooves tend to sink," he said. "And a large hind ends helps to move them over the grass, rather than digging down into it."

A young boy's elated squeal brings my focus back to the horses walking past us in the paddock for the final time. "Daddy, that black one just took a poop!" Kids are great at the track when they are amused with the simplest of sights. Rarely a visit will be had when you don't hear a child say something that brings a light to their eyes and a smile to your face. The youngster's father asks "do you like that one?" "Yeah, yeah, yeah! He's awful brave to poop in front of everybody," the son declares with eyes the size of golf balls. I knew his father's thoughts before he answered the observant youth. "He took a dump and lightened his load. C'mon now, let's go," Dad thought aloud. We all turned from the paddock and walked toward the massive building together.

Within too short of a period of time to thoroughly gauge these horses that we were preparing to bet on, the sound of the bugle is heard, and the horses make their way out to the track for the post parade. Now our heads go back into our programs to study, as we walk up to the cashiers to place our bets. Person after person is overheard and the sounds and smells are starting to distract me again. My friend and I stumble into each other while we're walking, reading and listening. "Let's eat after this race." That phrase requires no response nor explanation, as I'm listening to a lady asking "Which one was the gray horse? I always bet on the gray horse!" My thoughts are that she doesn't know about "betting a gray on a rainy day," because it's a lovely, warm and sunny day with not a drop in the sky. Should it be that this particular phrase is myth, I may figuratively "eat my ticket" rather than cashing it and paying for lunch. It's my turn at the cashier, and I don't give the gray another thought as I say "five to win and five to place on the Three." "Good luck" says the cashier, obviously not a man of many words, as he looks to his next customer with the same smile that he flashed at me just a moment before.

Seemingly, most people who aren't employed by the track pick up a faster pace in their walk while heading outside for the race after their bets are placed. By staying at the paddock rail until the bugle is sounded and then placing our bets, there's not much time before the race. We barely set our feet onto a nice spot for a view when the horses are out of the gate. "And they're off, breaking for the lead ..." are the words that echo through my head from years of listening to Mike Battaglia calling the races. In reality, Luke Kruybotsch is up in the announcer's booth, richly booming "They're off and running."

The sound of hooves over grass is felt more than heard as the horses pass us by heading into the first turn. One of the jockeys can be heard shrilling "Aieee," as he maneuvers his mount into contention for the turn. Bettors are assaulting any ear in their near vicinity with rants, cursing, hooting and hollering from the start. All eyes are peeled on the horses as they pass out of view, while heads turn to the various television screens showing the numbers of the 4 leading horses. Finally, the pack reaches the top of the stretch, back into view of the fans, while Luke's call of the progression of the race seems to rise over the din of the crowd. "Battles on and just up" was all that could be heard.

It was a close race with one colt edging out the leader for the win by the length of a head. My friend and I let out a "Woo!" and look at one another with food in mind since the horse that we had each chosen to bet was an obvious winner from our vantage point. As we turned to make our way back to the smells of the concession stand, I hear "it's official," and big grins cover our faces. Others could be heard cheering the winning jockey and colt; and still yet, others could be heard cussing the jockeys for their loss on wagers.

With the winner's presentation behind us and the concession stand pungently wreaking before us, we walk up to the window nearly salivating over our usual Big Smokey hotdogs. The prices had risen from the meet before. "Three dollars and seventy-five cents for a hot dog!" flies out of my mouth while the attendant looks blankly past me. My friend had been looking over the choices and indignantly decrees "it's not even a big Smokey!" Not very happy with the realization that we are not getting the large plump hotdogs that we envisioned, we order one of the smaller dogs anyway with a soft drink to wash it down with. "That'll be $5.75, please," the attendant states as yet another hand is coming our way for more cash. We take our small hotdogs and watered down sodas over to a bench and plop down for a meager lunch and immediately put our heads back into or programs to study the next race.

Having finished with lunch and washing off the inevitable condiments being worn by the both of us, we make our way back to the paddock where the horses are already being saddled for the next race. We walk past a man who is mumbling as he's reading to himself, "six furlongs, fillies and mares, three years old and up, non winners of two." I am thinking "Thank you for that information, sir," as I don't have to read the conditions now; and my attention goes straight to looking at the contenders. Having done well in the race before by betting conformation angles, I immediately begin looking for the big chest of a fine filly or mare, or the whites of an eye to indicate to me that she is built for digging into the dirt track and acutely aware of her surroundings, ready to get her job done so that she can head back to the barn for her afternoon meal.

As we once again size up the contenders, we look at eyes, ears, feet, chests, rear ends, shiny coats, the distance between feet as each hoof hits the cobblestone, the lathering up and foaming of the mouth against the bit, and their overall body language, I stood thinking about all of the phrases, sayings, betting angles or myths. With most of the crowd watching the horses and glancing between them and the program, I ponder how many ways there are to pick a horse. There are probably a dozen times the number of people present in numbers of ways for one to choose a horse. I hear "look at her mane! They've braided her mane! She's going to win it!" "Nah, check out Dallas. He's got his good suit on today."

No matter your skill in handicapping, whatever your angle, whatever your reasoning, there's definitely one thing that all of us can say is a sure bet: "That'll be $5.75!" The reasoning behind the price of mere hotdog is not going to win, lose, or scratch; and I seriously doubt that will ever change. It's a phrase that is neither theoretical, rational, reasonable, or myth. In the end, it's one that we can all bet on and take to the bank.