rich.
The 6 horse had lost by a neck to the favorite in a mile race last time out. The 6 had been overtaken by the favorite after a two-length lead at the head of the stretch. The 6 had been 35/1. The favorite had been 9/2 in that race. Both were coming back in the same class. The favorite was adding two pounds, 116 to 118. The 6 still carried 116 but they had switched to a less popular jock, and also the distance was a mile and a 16th. The crowd figured that since the favorite had caught the 6 at a mile, then surely it would catch the 6 with the extra 16th of a mile to run. That seemed logical. But horse racing doesn’t run to logic. Trainers enter their horses in what seems unfavorable conditions in order to keep the public money off the horse. The distance switch, plus the switch to a less popular jock all pointed to a gallop at a good price. I looked at the board. The morning line was 5. The board read 7 to 1.
“It’s the 6 horse,” I told Vi.
“No, that horse is a quitter,” she said.
“Yeah,” I said, then walked over and put 10 win on the 6.
The 6 took the lead out of the gate, hugged the rail around the first turn, then under an easy hold kept a length and a quarter lead down the backstretch. The pack followed. They figured the 6 would lead around the curve, then open up at the top of the stretch, and then they’d go after it. That was standard procedure. But the trainer had given the boy different instructions. At the top of the curve the boy let out the string and the horse leaped forward. Before the other jocks could get to their mounts, the 6 had a four-length lead. At the top of the stretch the boy gave the 6 a slight breather, looked back, then let it out again. I was looking good. Then the favorite, 9/5, came out of the pack and the son of a bitch was moving. It was eating up the lengths, driving. It looked like it was going to drive right past my horse. The favorite was the 2 horse. Halfway down the stretch, the 2 was a half length behind the 6, then the boy on the 6 went to the whip. The boy on the favorite
had
been whipping. They went the rest of the stretch that way, a half length apart, and that’s what it was at the wire. I looked at the board. My horse had risen to 8 to 1.
We walked back to the bar.
“The best horse didn’t win that race,” said Vi.
“I don’t care who’s best. All I want is the front number. Order up.”
We ordered.
“All right, smart boy. Let’s see you get the next one.”
“I tell you, baby, I am hell coming out of funerals.”
She put that leg and breast up against me. I took a nip of scotch and opened the Form. Third race.
I looked it over. They were out to murder the crowd that day. The early foot had just won, so now the crowd was conscious of the speed horse and down on the stretch runners. The crowd only goes back one race in their memory. Part of it is caused by the 25 minute wait between races. All they can think of is what had just happened.
The third race was six furlongs. Now the speed horse, the early foot was the favorite. It had lost its last race by a nose at seven furlongs, holding the lead all the way down the stretch and losing in the last jump. The 8 horse was the closer. It had finished third, a length and a half behind the favorite, closing two lengths in the stretch. The crowd figured that if the 8 hadn’t caught the favorite at seven furlongs, how in the hell could he catch it with a furlong less to go? The crowd always went home broke. The horse who had won the seven-furlong race wasn’t in today’s race.
“It’s the 8 horse,” I told Vi.
“The distance is too short. He’ll never get up,” said Vi.
The 8 horse was 6 on the line and read 9.
I collected from the last race, then put a 10 win on the 8 horse. If you bet too heavy your horse loses. Or you change your mind and get off your horse. Ten win was a nice comfortable bet.
The favorite looked good. It came out of the gate first, got the rail and opened up two
The 6 horse had lost by a neck to the favorite in a mile race last time out. The 6 had been overtaken by the favorite after a two-length lead at the head of the stretch. The 6 had been 35/1. The favorite had been 9/2 in that race. Both were coming back in the same class. The favorite was adding two pounds, 116 to 118. The 6 still carried 116 but they had switched to a less popular jock, and also the distance was a mile and a 16th. The crowd figured that since the favorite had caught the 6 at a mile, then surely it would catch the 6 with the extra 16th of a mile to run. That seemed logical. But horse racing doesn’t run to logic. Trainers enter their horses in what seems unfavorable conditions in order to keep the public money off the horse. The distance switch, plus the switch to a less popular jock all pointed to a gallop at a good price. I looked at the board. The morning line was 5. The board read 7 to 1.
“It’s the 6 horse,” I told Vi.
“No, that horse is a quitter,” she said.
“Yeah,” I said, then walked over and put 10 win on the 6.
The 6 took the lead out of the gate, hugged the rail around the first turn, then under an easy hold kept a length and a quarter lead down the backstretch. The pack followed. They figured the 6 would lead around the curve, then open up at the top of the stretch, and then they’d go after it. That was standard procedure. But the trainer had given the boy different instructions. At the top of the curve the boy let out the string and the horse leaped forward. Before the other jocks could get to their mounts, the 6 had a four-length lead. At the top of the stretch the boy gave the 6 a slight breather, looked back, then let it out again. I was looking good. Then the favorite, 9/5, came out of the pack and the son of a bitch was moving. It was eating up the lengths, driving. It looked like it was going to drive right past my horse. The favorite was the 2 horse. Halfway down the stretch, the 2 was a half length behind the 6, then the boy on the 6 went to the whip. The boy on the favorite
had
been whipping. They went the rest of the stretch that way, a half length apart, and that’s what it was at the wire. I looked at the board. My horse had risen to 8 to 1.
We walked back to the bar.
“The best horse didn’t win that race,” said Vi.
“I don’t care who’s best. All I want is the front number. Order up.”
We ordered.
“All right, smart boy. Let’s see you get the next one.”
“I tell you, baby, I am hell coming out of funerals.”
She put that leg and breast up against me. I took a nip of scotch and opened the Form. Third race.
I looked it over. They were out to murder the crowd that day. The early foot had just won, so now the crowd was conscious of the speed horse and down on the stretch runners. The crowd only goes back one race in their memory. Part of it is caused by the 25 minute wait between races. All they can think of is what had just happened.
The third race was six furlongs. Now the speed horse, the early foot was the favorite. It had lost its last race by a nose at seven furlongs, holding the lead all the way down the stretch and losing in the last jump. The 8 horse was the closer. It had finished third, a length and a half behind the favorite, closing two lengths in the stretch. The crowd figured that if the 8 hadn’t caught the favorite at seven furlongs, how in the hell could he catch it with a furlong less to go? The crowd always went home broke. The horse who had won the seven-furlong race wasn’t in today’s race.
“It’s the 8 horse,” I told Vi.
“The distance is too short. He’ll never get up,” said Vi.
The 8 horse was 6 on the line and read 9.
I collected from the last race, then put a 10 win on the 8 horse. If you bet too heavy your horse loses. Or you change your mind and get off your horse. Ten win was a nice comfortable bet.
The favorite looked good. It came out of the gate first, got the rail and opened up two
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