I was at the track and losing my ass. I hadn’t seen a winner all day. There is nothing worse – statistically speaking – in the gambling world than the horse track, save keno and the lottery. Between the State and the operators fee the juice is close to eighteen percent. I sucked down beer after beer to try to numb my pain, but was hardly succeeding.
I put twenty bucks on an eight to one shot to win, which would get me close to even if it came in. My nag lost in a photo finish to a thirty to one long shot. The exacta paid over two hundred dollars. I could hear someone near me shouting in joy at his triumphant win while I pondered my mounting losses. The desperation was welling up within me. I began walking toward the bar.
At this moment I became consciously aware of my surroundings in a way that I had not been all day. Time slowed down as it does sometimes, and I felt contained in the moment. All around me the detritus of humanity: the black guy with the clam chowder dribbled down the front of his shirt, greedily slurping up the last of the liquid from the bottom of the bowl. The motley group of Asian men sitting at a round table chattering incoherently at one another with an unknown excitement seemingly unrelated to the horses. The two forty-something white guys with the unshaved faces, broken teeth and anachronistic 1980’s era clothing talking quietly, secretively: abject burn outs whose glory days were far behind them. The Hispanic father instructing his young son on the intricacies of the racing sheet. The bum picking up tickets off the ground to see if any winners had been accidentally thrown away. Gamblers in general are a species, with their own common and easily identifiable traits. Horseplayers are a breed, among the lowest of their kind, their hopes and dreams dashed with indefatigable regularity. It can be generally stated that losers play the track. The proof was right there in front of my eyes.
But not only my eyes, oh no. My sense of smell also told me of the veracity of my belief. The odor of wet turf. The aroma of tobacco and hot dogs. That faint whiff of cheap gin on the breath of the man standing next to me. These were the smells of the horseplayer, the fragrance of defeat.
And I was proud to be counted in their number, to share in some small way their struggle. God help me, but I felt more genuine brotherhood, more sympathy, more affection for these people than all the Salvation Army do-gooders and Hospice volunteers the world could belch forth. And I know it’s illogical to feel this way; I know that on some level it’s wrong. For all their weakness, their hatreds, their vice, sin and degradation, I choose their company. They had hope in the face of utter despair, a belief they could win in a game where we all lose in the end.
I put twenty bucks on an eight to one shot to win, which would get me close to even if it came in. My nag lost in a photo finish to a thirty to one long shot. The exacta paid over two hundred dollars. I could hear someone near me shouting in joy at his triumphant win while I pondered my mounting losses. The desperation was welling up within me. I began walking toward the bar.
At this moment I became consciously aware of my surroundings in a way that I had not been all day. Time slowed down as it does sometimes, and I felt contained in the moment. All around me the detritus of humanity: the black guy with the clam chowder dribbled down the front of his shirt, greedily slurping up the last of the liquid from the bottom of the bowl. The motley group of Asian men sitting at a round table chattering incoherently at one another with an unknown excitement seemingly unrelated to the horses. The two forty-something white guys with the unshaved faces, broken teeth and anachronistic 1980’s era clothing talking quietly, secretively: abject burn outs whose glory days were far behind them. The Hispanic father instructing his young son on the intricacies of the racing sheet. The bum picking up tickets off the ground to see if any winners had been accidentally thrown away. Gamblers in general are a species, with their own common and easily identifiable traits. Horseplayers are a breed, among the lowest of their kind, their hopes and dreams dashed with indefatigable regularity. It can be generally stated that losers play the track. The proof was right there in front of my eyes.
But not only my eyes, oh no. My sense of smell also told me of the veracity of my belief. The odor of wet turf. The aroma of tobacco and hot dogs. That faint whiff of cheap gin on the breath of the man standing next to me. These were the smells of the horseplayer, the fragrance of defeat.
And I was proud to be counted in their number, to share in some small way their struggle. God help me, but I felt more genuine brotherhood, more sympathy, more affection for these people than all the Salvation Army do-gooders and Hospice volunteers the world could belch forth. And I know it’s illogical to feel this way; I know that on some level it’s wrong. For all their weakness, their hatreds, their vice, sin and degradation, I choose their company. They had hope in the face of utter despair, a belief they could win in a game where we all lose in the end.
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