I finally got off the couch, aided by the lame hum of the TV, still lamely humming the same Sportscenter bit that I had fallen asleep to the night before.
One of the usual talking heads was going on his usual rant that I expected and somehow remembered.
“Here we are at Churchill Downs. . . ” and “blah, blah, blah” and all the other BS. No real help, not that I expected any. The favorite is in the 20 spot. I already knew that.
Tiptoeing, anticipating the defeat of the day, I kissed Izza, told her I was getting a paper, and proceeded to get my credit card ready. I would need it.
There is something unique, especially for horse racing fans (or sporting fans in general, for that matter) such as myself, about the Kentucky Derby. I am no expert, by any means, but I follow it enough to at least know what the word around the campfire is.
The average no-account gambling fiend has no special draw to the event; it is just another race -- he carries on with his addiction every day. But the slacker, the novice, the specialist, the woman in the large hat, the mint julep junkie, the poverty-stricken journalist, even the shattered-dreams Bobby Hurleys of the universe; we have a place in this race, and by extension, a place in this world, if even just for two minutes.
The Kentucky Derby is proof that Americans can take a European sport and do it better, bigger, grander and with more whiskey that any filthy Euro could ever imagine. I guess that is why they hate us.
The race is still hours away.
I won my pool last year but I doubt my luck will carry over.
Despite whatever luck I had last year, I know this year I’ll end up in the red. It is inevitable. The favorite is in the 20 so I suppose a horse in the middle is a smarter bet. I hate those bottlenecked packs though. There is nothing more frustrating than a fast horse blocked in by a slow pack.
I suppose a Kentucky Hot Brown sandwich would make it all better, loss or not.
I suppose nothing will help me pick a winner, God or not.
I suppose the only comfort is the assurancy of defeat.
That is why the guy who started Bodog.com or the Kentucky Derby or gambling in all its forms is a rich man and I am left with the sad task of tearing up useless tickets and lost riches in the sorrows of an over-priced beer and nothing more.
Still I come.
I have to.
Without the thrill, without the charm and comfort, I would feel as if there is no point at all. What would be the point?
As I look back now, with hindsight 20-20, I realize that my mother tried to raise me to be a better man. I wish I could be a better man.
She dedicated all of the free time she had to assure that her first-born son would not grow up to listen to wild country music, not drink too much, not shoot guns, not covet motorcycles, not enjoy the fruits of the pornography industry, and most of all, not bet on the ponies.
But things just didn’t work out that way. Its seems that in racing, as with children, things just never turn out the way we want them to.
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