by Brian RoanI clutched my ticket in my hand, looking down to make sure for the tenth time that I had placed the bet on the correct horse. This was only my second time betting on the horses at Laurel Park, and I was still shaky on the particulars.
"One dollar, Village Band to win." I had said to the ticket taker.
He looked at me for a hard second before asking for the horse's number. I struggled a moment and then looked down at my program. I flipped a few pages and said the number, took my ticket, went outside to wait.
The races are a strange kind of sport. I walked into the park with a
certain expectation, though what it was I could not say. The place,
however, was like a shopping mall. Video screens showing simulcast
races from all over the country, a food court, some bars, and the long
line of windows where electronic tellers or actual human tellers would
take your bet and hand you a small ticket to mark your alliance.
At first it had seemed as though most of the people there weren't aware that they were at a racetrack. Outside the benches that lined the final stretch were empty but for a few hunched over smokers.
Then the bell rang, and people began standing, shuffling about. It was six minutes to post, when all bets on the coming race would have to be in and the horses would soon gallop out of the gate.
I meandered outside and watched as the faces of those around me - mostly old, mostly seasoned track veterans, I imagined - turned to the big screen on the center of the field. They remained almost stoic until the final turn, when they began cheering, shouting, begging their horse to pick up speed and make the final pull into first place.
And then it was over.
The winners cheered and the losers cursed. Then they went inside to ponder and post bets or eat a meal or read the paper.
My first foray into betting was a half-hearted attempt. My choices were based off of something a drunk girl told me the night before ("Always bet on five! It's the best number. Ever!") and the fact that I liked one of the horses names.
Then I spotted a younger couple and began chatting with them, trying to work out the intricacies of the odds and statistics printed in our programs. The husband and I pondered over the pages for the better part of the 22 minute post period until the bell rang.
I pulled my fedora over my brow and marched inside, purposefully slapping down two dollars.
"One dollar, Village Band to win." Then the correction, with my second dollar going on Heza Disco to show. Which is to say come in at least third.
"And they're off."
I remained silent, standing next to the young couple as the horses began their charge.
The voice came over the speakers, painful words on my newly minted betting ears. "And Heza Disco stumbles out of the gate."
Wonderful, I thought to myself, I make a wide bet and even that'll be toasted. I looked down at my tickets.
Racing is an odd sport in that no one cheers when a horse stumbles or falls behind. In a football game the spectators marvel and whoop over the misfortunes of the other team. A fumble of an incomplete pass come as welcome gifts. In racing, however, you only cheer for your horse. You plead to the gods that he will overcome, but not that misfortune will befall another.
And so as I cursed the almost insurmountable boundry that Heza Disco had created, I still remained hopeful. Surely, I thought, Village Band will come out on top.
From the far side of the track, next to the finish line where we were standing and hoping, the horses looked like hardly-perceivable figures being pulled by some unknown force. The pumping legs and rocking heads of the horses were too far away to be seen. Then, as they came into the curve, they took on form, and suddenly our hopes and our abstract objectives became crystallized in the form of these majestic and stories beasts.
I thought about the horses, the training and money and time spent prepping them and preparing them for this moment. Years of slaving over their lineage and care, capsulated and justified in a minute and a half long race. To the owners, I thought as the horses came into the final stretch, the gamble isn't printed on a ticket. It is woven into the sinew of the very steeds that we were watching.
Dirt flew from below the hooves of the horses.
"That's our horse!" The man next to me said, "Village Band, he's coming up!"
Indeed Village Band was in second, pulling hard against the leader, coming up on his flanks. I gripped the railing and leaned over it, hearing myself suddenly shouting.
"Come on Village Band! Come on! Catch 'em!"
And the din of cheers around me grew, horses names shouted like an ecstatic chorus. The animals drew closer, coming right before us before crossing the line.
Pause.
Look at the board.
A photo finish.
The husband and I turned to look at one another.
"Seriously?" he asked, echoing my own incredulity. This was the type of thing that happened in movies.
Though I had only bet a dollar I felt fully invested in the outcome. We watched the screen and then listened for the voice. Everyone paused and stared. To my mind, not a single person breathed for fear of breaking the magisterial musings of the officials out of our favor.
And what of the owners and trainers? I realized as I looked at the winner's circle where they stood in anxious expectancy. I had a dollar on this race, and stood to win $3.60. They had their lives and labor and stood to win $10,000. And yet our worry over the outcome was equal.
The final ruling came in. Village Band, by a nose.
And I cheered, and the losers sighed and went to study the odds of the next race, and Village Band stood in the winner's circle with his entourage of humans.
Twenty-two minutes until the next race. Twenty-two minutes until the next gamble.
At first it had seemed as though most of the people there weren't aware that they were at a racetrack. Outside the benches that lined the final stretch were empty but for a few hunched over smokers.
Then the bell rang, and people began standing, shuffling about. It was six minutes to post, when all bets on the coming race would have to be in and the horses would soon gallop out of the gate.
I meandered outside and watched as the faces of those around me - mostly old, mostly seasoned track veterans, I imagined - turned to the big screen on the center of the field. They remained almost stoic until the final turn, when they began cheering, shouting, begging their horse to pick up speed and make the final pull into first place.
And then it was over.
The winners cheered and the losers cursed. Then they went inside to ponder and post bets or eat a meal or read the paper.
My first foray into betting was a half-hearted attempt. My choices were based off of something a drunk girl told me the night before ("Always bet on five! It's the best number. Ever!") and the fact that I liked one of the horses names.
Then I spotted a younger couple and began chatting with them, trying to work out the intricacies of the odds and statistics printed in our programs. The husband and I pondered over the pages for the better part of the 22 minute post period until the bell rang.
I pulled my fedora over my brow and marched inside, purposefully slapping down two dollars.
"One dollar, Village Band to win." Then the correction, with my second dollar going on Heza Disco to show. Which is to say come in at least third.
"And they're off."
I remained silent, standing next to the young couple as the horses began their charge.
The voice came over the speakers, painful words on my newly minted betting ears. "And Heza Disco stumbles out of the gate."
Wonderful, I thought to myself, I make a wide bet and even that'll be toasted. I looked down at my tickets.
Racing is an odd sport in that no one cheers when a horse stumbles or falls behind. In a football game the spectators marvel and whoop over the misfortunes of the other team. A fumble of an incomplete pass come as welcome gifts. In racing, however, you only cheer for your horse. You plead to the gods that he will overcome, but not that misfortune will befall another.
And so as I cursed the almost insurmountable boundry that Heza Disco had created, I still remained hopeful. Surely, I thought, Village Band will come out on top.
From the far side of the track, next to the finish line where we were standing and hoping, the horses looked like hardly-perceivable figures being pulled by some unknown force. The pumping legs and rocking heads of the horses were too far away to be seen. Then, as they came into the curve, they took on form, and suddenly our hopes and our abstract objectives became crystallized in the form of these majestic and stories beasts.
I thought about the horses, the training and money and time spent prepping them and preparing them for this moment. Years of slaving over their lineage and care, capsulated and justified in a minute and a half long race. To the owners, I thought as the horses came into the final stretch, the gamble isn't printed on a ticket. It is woven into the sinew of the very steeds that we were watching.
Dirt flew from below the hooves of the horses.
"That's our horse!" The man next to me said, "Village Band, he's coming up!"
Indeed Village Band was in second, pulling hard against the leader, coming up on his flanks. I gripped the railing and leaned over it, hearing myself suddenly shouting.
"Come on Village Band! Come on! Catch 'em!"
And the din of cheers around me grew, horses names shouted like an ecstatic chorus. The animals drew closer, coming right before us before crossing the line.
Pause.
Look at the board.
A photo finish.
The husband and I turned to look at one another.
"Seriously?" he asked, echoing my own incredulity. This was the type of thing that happened in movies.
Though I had only bet a dollar I felt fully invested in the outcome. We watched the screen and then listened for the voice. Everyone paused and stared. To my mind, not a single person breathed for fear of breaking the magisterial musings of the officials out of our favor.
And what of the owners and trainers? I realized as I looked at the winner's circle where they stood in anxious expectancy. I had a dollar on this race, and stood to win $3.60. They had their lives and labor and stood to win $10,000. And yet our worry over the outcome was equal.
The final ruling came in. Village Band, by a nose.
And I cheered, and the losers sighed and went to study the odds of the next race, and Village Band stood in the winner's circle with his entourage of humans.
Twenty-two minutes until the next race. Twenty-two minutes until the next gamble.
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