Rio: 1932

Up the Creek at Oaklawn

JB and I spent Friday afternoon at Oaklawn watching the horses run.  We had a great time visiting with a couple of friends of mine that work at one of the betting booths.  We learned how to place some new kinds of bets, and we got some pretty good tips--in hindsight--if we had known how to listen to horse betting tips.  By the end of the eighth race, with one race to go, we were about $70 in the hole between losing bets and $5 beers.  

I had missed a golden opportunity in the 5th race.  I go to my friend at the booth and say, "$2 for the win on 2 and $2 to show, the 8."

  

And my buddy at the booth says, "Have you turned gay?"  

I didn't have a clue what he was talking about, and I said, "Yeah, I want to play this one conservatively." 

"Then put your money in your pocket if that's what you want to do."  He handed me the ticket, 2 to win, 8 to show and mumbled, "betting a show on a short field."

The 8 won the race.  It paid $58.  I won $7 for my show bet.

Before the ninth race, I studied the card.  M had given me a hot tip right when we had arrived earlier in the afternoon, "the 3 and the 12 in the 9th race," he had said, almost before hello.  Luckily, I had subconsciously grabbed a pen B was holding out toward me and circled the two while I introduced JB.  

B had said a couple of things throughout the day that were starting to get to me.  "Bet your lucky numbers.  Bet the names you like."  He's worked there for years.  "You can beat a race, but you'll never beat the track."  I needed a win badly.  I had never dropped so much money on gambling before and wondered how I would explain it to H.  I looked in my wallet--$2, I cashed in the winning $7 ticket from the stupid "show" in the fifth, and I called the bet out to B. 

Dollar amount first, then type of bet, and then the horses last.  "$6 exacta box on the 3, the 12, and the 2."  

B nodded his head and smiled.  First time he had done that all day.  When we heard the bugler, JB and I ran outside to watch the last race.  He got set up to take a picture of the break.  For the mile and a sixteenth, the starting gates were directly in front of our spot on the track.  At the bell, J squeezed off the beautiful picture below.  In it, you will see the 2, Uptstream, getting out of the gates well ahead of the rest of the field.  Also, closest to you in the photo is the 12, Indian Moonshine.  Upstream led the race wire to wire, and Indian Moonshine came from second to last with a stormy charge down the stretch to finish second on a photo finish as I danced alongside them screaming, "They're gonna do it, they're gonna get it, they got it, they did it!" 

I proudly went to see B at his booth and collected $78.  M had put me on the 12 horse before I had stood inside Oaklawn for five minutes.  And I picked Upstream because, well, I was up the creek at that point and needed a miracle.  Right before the bell, JB leaned over," "You picked that horse cause you're a fisherman."  

I said, "Goin' Upstream, where no one else wants to walk." 

The bell sounded, and he snapped his best photograph of the day. 

These are a few of my favorite things

from The Old Man and the Sea

by Ernest Hemingway

"Your stew is excellent," the old man said.

"Tell me about baseball," the boy asked him.

"In the American League it is the Yankees as I said," the old man said happily.

"They lost today," the boy told him.

"That means nothing, the great DiMaggio is himself again."

"They have other men on the team."

"Naturally. But he makes the difference.  In the other league, between Brooklyn and Philadelphia I must take Brooklyn.  But then I think of Dick Sisler and those great drives in the old park."

"There was nothing ever like them.  He hits the longest ball I have ever seen."

"Do you remember when he used to come to the Terrace?"

"I wanted to take him fishing but I was too timid to ask him.  Then I asked you to ask him and you were too timid."

"I know.  It was a great mistake.  He might have gone with us.  Then we would have that for all our lives.

"I would like to take the great DiMaggio fishing," the old man said.  "They say his father was a fisherman.  Maybe he was as poor as we are and would understand."

"The great Sisler's father was never poor and he, the father, was playing in the Big Leagues when he was my age."

"When I was your age I was before the mast on a square rigged ship that ran to Africa and I have seen the lions on the beaches in the evening."

"I know.  You told me."

"Should we talk about Africa or about baseball?"

"Baseball I think," the boy said.  "Tell me about the great John J. McGraw."  He said jota for J.

"He used to come to the Terrace sometimes too in the older days.  But he was rough and harsh-spoken and difficult when he was drinking.  His mind was on horses as well as baseball. At least he carried lists of horses at all times in his pocket and frequently spoke the names of horses on the telephone."

"He was a great manager," the boy said.  "My father thinks he was the greatest."

"Because he came here the most times," the old man said.  "If Durocher had continued to come here each year, your father would think him the greatest manager."

"Who is the greatest manager, really, Luque or Mike Gonzalez?"

"I think they are equal."

"And the best fisherman is you."

"No.  I know others better."

--MJF