My wife’s uncle is in the DC area this weekend. He doesn’t travel much at all outside Florida, where he retired early some time ago. But he comes up to DC at least once a year to visit his longtime G.P. and to attend the horseraces at Rosecroft Raceway. Elizabeth pointed out we’ve moved to the only part of the country outside the Sunshine State’s Gulf Coast where we’re ever going to see Bill. Tonight we took advantage of that silver lining of our exile from New York City to meet Bill and a number of his friends at Rosecroft.
I’ve never been to a racetrack before. I expected some seediness. I anticipated there would be sad- and rough-looking men there. I was correct. But I soon appreciated how easy it was to forget about what other people looked like, indeed that they were even there, once I got my hands on the racing program and began pulling dollar bills out my wallet and holding them folded in my fist as I pondered the advantages of trainer-driven trotters and looked for horses that had been given over-long odds. In short, I can see why people like betting on horses. If you’re perceptive, clever, and persistent enough, you ought to be able to make money just for sitting at a table or in a chair in front of a closed-circuit television.
I admit, I spent most of the night up in the “clubhouse”, where you have to pay at least $20 a person for a buffet dinner. The folks up there were in clean clothes and had all their teeth. So I shouldn’t say my visit offered any anthropological insights. I passed right by the unshaven men crouched in corners covering their mouths with a calloused hand either in concentration or despair as I went from the clubhouse to the open-air bleechers to get a good look at Bill and Ed’s horse, which ran in the tenth race of the night, at about 10:15pm.
By the tenth race there was fog coming in from the Potomac or the Anacostia river. I’d lost my four dollars already. The last two had gone in spectacular fashion on the sixth race. I’d picked a horse based on the fact that its trainer was its driver (therefore likely more familiar with the horse’s strengths and limits) and that both driver and owner seemed to have a better record that their 8-1 odds suggested. I’d left the table with Elizabeth to walk the dog before that race, not wanting to see the results, but we came back as the trotters reached the first quarter-mile mark. My longshot horse had ended up with 19-1 odds, and yet it took the lead at the three-quarter mark and held it around the corner and into the stretch, only to lose by a neck. That near-triumph still had me giddy as we sat in the clammy air watching the tenth race.
Bill’s racing partner Ed sat with us. I’m not entirely sure what Ed does for a living, but I know he follows horses and stocks. He was excitable and excited, talking quickly and precisely about their trainer; the driver who’d reneged on an assignment to drive their horse in the race; and the other drivers, trainers, and owners he saw and whose names he read in the program. Like all the friends of Bill we’ve met, he was unpretentious, guileless, and friendly. Bill’s taste in people is uniformly excellent. Ed gave us some advice about our new locale, and that advice boiled down to “Figure out how to get to Bethesda and then go to Bethesda. You’ll find what you want there.” Of particular interest was his recommendation of “The Corner Slice” as an authentic pizza place. Ed grew up on Long Island so, as I pointed out, he knows what real pizza tastes like.
The horse placed fifth, which was disappointing, but at least it got Bill and Ed a small piece of the pot for the race, enough to keep their horse-owning and horse-racing hobby going a while longer. After that, we scattered, in Bill’s words, “like a covey of quail.” Bill’s not for long goodbyes. He’s sweet, and friendly, and when it’s time to go, it’s time to go.
It was good to get out of College Park. Good to get away from houses and back yards. We brought Jevon, my wife’s new guide dog, so we had to spend some time out on the uncut grass down from the raceway entrance convincing him to relieve himself in a strange place. But he did eventually. He’s working out.
It was also a little exciting, I have to say. But I’m glad I only had four dollars, and I don’t think I’ll be going back right away.