Worthless Wager

Spending time with degenerate gamblers affords one a window into all manner of willful delusion, every form of destructive rationalization. After all, just like baseball hitters, even the very best of wagerers lose significantly more often than they win. That certainty is built into the odds; it’s the house edge. Otherwise, as they say, everybody would do it.

In the more than 30 years I have been betting the horses, the best days, the most rewarding experiences, are vastly outweighed by coulda, shoulda and woulda regrets. Moreover, and even more emblematic, some of those great days resulted in net losses, just not near as much as they could have been, with one or two winners coming through to dramatically reverse my steady decline. If life is a journey, betting the ponies is surely one of its dicier routes. And make no mistake, only a flair for reformatting events makes it tenable. Otherwise, absolutely nobody would do it.

For the first time since 1989 late April does not fill me with the same anticipation as a seven-year old during Christmas week. This year there will be no Kentucky Derby on the first Saturday in May. The void created is made all the emptier as one day slides into another, and I sit here alone, worried and in search of distraction, which, when synthesized to its essence, is what handicapping has always been for me – the greatest of distractions.

The late 80s and early 90s were glory years for Maryland horse racing. With purses on the rise and a vibrant local colony of both trainers and jockeys, Laurel Race Track was one exciting place to spend the afternoon, or… er, afternoons, depending on one’s particular level of interest. Single, with nobody but me to look after, my interest quotient was high. It is no coincidence that my introduction to horse racing and move toward a career in sales occupied the same chronology. An office and 9-5 was probably never going to work for me anyway, but that question became academic once I started formulating my own “speed figures” and experienced my first “thousand dollar day,” to use a term coined by a mentor I learned at the knee of. Control of my schedule soon became a guiding priority.

Any serious horse player remembers their first big score with unfaded clarity, on a par with other life watersheds, perhaps a level below their wedding day or the birth of their children. For me it was the fall of ‘89 and a claimer named Russian Diplomacy, believe it or not. He was coming out of a “key race” where he had been compromised by a wide post and bad racing luck, but still finished a courageous third. Two horses he beat won next asking and the time of the race compared favorably with classier horses who ran later that day at the same distance. Now he was stepping up in class and was listed at 15-1 in the morning line. I woke up excited and preoccupied about making sure I cleared my calendar to be at Laurel by its opening post time of 12:30pm. My horse would be running in the third.

I hit the ATM on my way out, withdrawing $100 from a checking account with a balance anemic enough to require vigilance to avoid overdrafts. Traffic was slow near the Mormon Temple, making me nervous enough to consider alternative routes. I need not have worried, arriving just as the second race was being run. When the odds came up for my race Russian Diplomacy was 12-1. Even better, Amerrico’s Bullet, who I thought stood out from the rest for second, was a surprising 9-2, and the exacta – that is a finish of my horses running first and second in that order, was paying $173 for a $2 bet.

I took no chances being shut out and bet with plenty of time to spare. I put $40 to win on Russian Diplomacy, now down to a still generous 9-1, and bet a $20 box exacta with Amerrico’s Bullet. At the last minute, I bet the remaining $14 in my pocket to place, simply to recoup my money in case my horse ran second to any of the rest. It was never close. Russian Diplomacy took charge at the top of the lane and drew off with only Amerrico’s Bullet finishing within shouting distance. My $40 became about $400. The $20 exacta payed $1712. I’m here to tell you nothing makes a person’s walk lighter than a wad of crisp $100 bills. As Paul Newman, portraying Fast Eddie Felson in The Color of Money, declared… “money won is always sweeter than money earned.!” As true as words get….. at least when the teller is counting out your cash!

Of course, if every gambler quit after a big score, casinos and race tracks would be out of business. Nothing in this world is more ruinous than “house money.” No intoxicant has yet been created to manufacture more confidence and greater subsequent heartache than the opportunity to “play with their funds.” Up to my big win I had never lost more than $260 at the track, and that was one dark day I swore wouldn’t happen again. Before I snapped out of my psychosis and forced myself out of there, I gave back $450 of what I had masterfully procured. All lost on races I wasn’t really interested in before I lifted the burden of betting my hard earned dollars! I’d love to say that was the last time I behaved so foolishly, but this is a truthful accounting.

Throughout the years since my reckless days flirting on the fringes of addiction, I have developed a discipline designed to allow me my passion without the destructive side effects. Win or lose, my wife has disliked it from the start and will surely shed no tears about this year’s postponement of the Triple Crown. We have found a balance she doesn’t fully bless but tolerates because it’s the best I will offer. The proposition I put forward is simply the horses are no different than golf or fishing, stamp collecting, or any other distraction others count on to add meaning to life’s necessary routines. Within my rationalization, the time and money I spend trying to pick winners equates with golfers paying dues at a local club, or fisherman spending plenty on charters looking for a trophy Marlin. The point is to enjoy life, float your boat. My wife counters she’d much prefer those “healthier” pursuits and would sign off in a minute were I to switch. My reply? Er, Crickets…. Have I said my wife knows how to argue?

Of course, I have always been afforded glimpses of the dark side by racetrack amigos far less concerned about tempering their enthusiasm than I. Some have destroyed marriages, families, careers and finances chasing that big Pick 6 ticket. The justifications they employ to convince themselves no problem exists are as textbook as they are complex, as meandering as they are catastrophic. It is as they want to describe it. Nobody will ever know at the end of any day whether they are up or down the mortgage; and they’ll never tell. What they will do is remember the big takedowns and write off losers as the price of business. Nothing ventured nothing gained. Just another day at the office. You can’t win if you don’t play. Who am I to judge.

By any metric Donald Trump is one of American history’s worst gamblers. Those wagering their money on his selections have lost everything, every time. It’s now well established how grievous a lie the story of our President hitting the jackpot after his father loaned him $1 million is. The New York Times meticulously documented how Trump actually went through near $500 million of his father’s money to finance his schemes, each and every one utterly failing to the point of liquidation. There is little doubt the tax returns Trump will never voluntarily disclose only further confirm his inadequacy in the risk management department. His Presidency may very well owe to the debts he incurred to Russian oligarchs, setting him on the course we now suffer. Time and the history it creates will tell. One thing has always gone along with his failures: a certified loser’s sorry excuses and recriminations.

Now he is ready to gamble thousands of American lives for his own position and relevance, betting that we can become unique and ignore COVID-19 without utter disaster. Even as the death toll tops 60,000 AFTER more than a month of social distancing, Trump, like a Laurel railbird chasing a winner with house money, figures he can will the results to his liking, despite what the touts have to say.

His wretched core, who proudly share his lack of empathy and basic humanity, as well as appreciation for fundamental science, need little convincing. Their grotesque servility now equates his rabid objectives with their own basic interests. Most have been glad to look past death and elevate personal inconvenience to a dire matter of liberty denied them. A Tea Party redux. Principles of community and shared sacrifice have never meant a thing to this bunch, just more libtard nonsense, political correctness run amok. The only thing that’s changed is the stakes they are willing to wager, the lives of others. Like one in six nursing homes now saturated in Covid-19.

It’s hard to imagine anything more important than the health and lives of our families and neighbors. MAGA has reduced that to a bet on a hunch by a guy whose only talent is braying about his “genius.” Perhaps the most seductive allure of the racetrack is how both fast and conclusive one is proved right or wrong. Two minutes is all it takes to know whether you knew what the hell you were talking about or not. The confirmation is either a wad of cash or a worthless ticket. Tragically, it’s not going to take long to know just how misguided Trump and his mob’s wager was. Death will provide the indisputable verdict. The loser’s proposition of ruin. BC