Off at the Races (Cigar Smoke 4-9-09)

I am not a big horse-racing fan. I’ve only been to maybe six or seven tracks in my lifetime. So I average about one race every decade. But I should go more often because, well, I am pretty damn good at betting the ponies.

And I’m going to share my system with you so you can take out what’s left of your 401(k) and finally make a little money. Here’s what I do. I get a copy of the Racing Form and look over the odds. Some horses will be 2 to 1, others will be 34 to 1. Whatever.

First of all, I never bet either the favorites or the long shots. If the favorite wins, I don’t make much money, and if the long shot wins, I just swear a lot. So I always pick a horse with medium odds, say, 8 to 1 up to 15 to 1. These horses usually will not be glue in the near future. And if they happen to win, you can make some nice money.

Armed with this fail-safe strategy, I went to Santa Anita Park last Sunday with the Altadena Soroptomist Club. My wife, Marge, is a member, and I like all the gals in the club. In fact, I’ve hung around with them for years now. One day I asked longtime member Shirley Manning why they let me, a man, run with their all-women club. And she said, “Because occasionally we need heavy objects lifted by someone not quite as smart as we are.” You can probably guess that I have warm feelings for them.

Anyway, they invited me to join them for A Day at the Races last Sunday, and I lifted a heavy object (myself) and accepted the invitation. We had great seats right near the center of the track. Had a super lunch of a corned beef on rye with crusty fries and a piece of cheesecake that took a couple years off your life. Oh, that’s another reason I like these people. They eat pretty well … for women.

For some reason (cheesecake withdrawal) I miss the first race. I bet 20 bucks to win on the No. 4 horse, High Note, in the second race. He goes off at 8 or 9 to 1. He starts off in last place. But I am screaming for him. I mean screaming. Soroptomist members are clutching their purses and their mint juleps to their bosoms like sick children.

But my screaming pays off. High Note wins the race. By a nose in a photo finish. I win $216. My system is a killer. My throat and nearby Soroptomist eardrums are broken.

So I kind of strut off to the window to collect my winnings and I come back waving two one-hundred dollar bills and I puff my chest out a little and ask if maybe any of the women are getting just a tad tired of their current husbands and might want a change. Marge supports me in this. She yells, “Take the bastard!”

In the third race, I find another horse that fits my system. I put another 20 bucks to win on the No. 3 horse, Patriotic Soldier. I think he went off at about 10 to 1. Well, this turns out to be an incredible race. It doesn’t get more exciting than this. My horse and the No. 5 horse were neck and neck. Coming down the stretch I was screaming, “Go 3! 3! 3! 3!” And the announcer says, “Down the stretch they come.” And me and my throat are raw. I’m yelling “3.” A guy next to me, a commie, is yelling “5.” I yell a louder “3!” He yells a pissy “5!”

It ends up in another photo finish. We have to wait over five minutes for them to figure out who won. I am weak. I would cry but there are too many Soroptomists around. Finally, the winning number flashes on the tote board. It’s No. 5. Not No. 3. I lost by a damn nose. No, by a damn nostril. No, by a damn booger. Yes, I lost another sure $220 by a booger.

I was devastated. My throat was wiped out. My chest was unpuffed. I felt weak and vulnerable. My wallet was lighter. Then another Soroptomist, JoAnn Formia, came up to me and said “You couldn’t carry my husband’s shoes, you loser.”

I lost another $20 on Bad Boy in the fourth. So then I gave up on that system and I went to my surefire backup system: picking horses by their funny names. I almost picked Cardinal Zin, but finally decided on Grylls because how could a horse without any vowels lose. I yelled Grylls as often as I could. I even yelled it with a German accent once and put an “a” on the end of it — Gryllsa.

Go Gryllsa! Go you vowel-less piece of dog food. Grylls did not win. Grylls did not finish. Grylls is still out on the track. Grylls is trying to buy a vowel from Vanna White.

So now that my system of medium odds wasn’t working, and my funny names system had mysteriously failed, I had to turn to my last great scientific strategy — always picking a gray horse. Somehow this had worked for me in the past. And I could always see my gray horse easily. It just stood out. And it made my screaming easier. “Go gray horse. Beat the brown and black horses.” Well, I yelled, “Go gray horse” in the final four races and lost all four. I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe gray horses are hard of hearing.

But just send me your retirement money, anyway. I hear there’s a sure thing running at Hollywood Park next week — 12 to 1. A Hawaiian gray horse. No consonants in his name.