By Ashley Zimmerman
By David Von Bader
By Sayre Berman
By Steve Brennan
By Ashley Zimmerman
By Michele Eve Sandberg
By Abel Folgar
By Ashley Zimmerman
My dad occasionally speaks of our family clan's unluckiness: "We never win anything." I've never asked why he thinks that, but knowing my eccentric assortment of relatives, I don't doubt that one of them could have pissed off some voodoo queen enough to get the whole family hexed. Whether luck is real or it's pure superstition, I don't take a gamble on betting. Why risk your money when you might have bad luck? If Lady Luck hates me, well, that bitch ain't getting my hard-earned cash.
But that doesn't mean I don't enjoy watching other people in the throes of losing money. With the all horseracing fever inspired in the past couple of months by Big Brown (winner of the Kentucky Derby and Preakness), I wanted to get in on the action. On the rainy Saturday of the Belmont Stakes, a couple of friends and I hit Gulfstream Park Racing & Casino (the same place where Big Brown won the Florida Derby on March 31 and propelled himself into national prominence) to witness an assload of people putting their cash on chance.
Ambiance: Hot on the ever-appealing trail of drinking, gambling, and general seediness, I high-tailed it through the parking lot, past the lavishly designed paddock amphitheater with its majestic fountain. A covered breezeway stretched from the paddock to the broad, park-like track itself, devoid of actual races since April, when the 2008 Gulfstream season ended. A bar with a strong tan-and-beige color scheme sat there smack-dab in the center of the space. Pink and orange rotating spotlights hit the lantern-like light fixtures hanging from the ceiling, and a row of flat-screen TVs was strung between two pillars on opposite sides of the bar, with broadcasts from seven or eight other tracks around the country. Spots to sit were scarce, as a crowd of mostly sandals-and-shorts-wearing gentlemen had formed a thick ring around the bar.
I skirted the throngs of drinking bettors and found a spot at a round, marble-topped table near the racetrack, enjoying the broad sweep of its green, perfectly groomed foliage. The megascreen TV over the empty racetrack was showing some preliminary Belmont Stakes commentary; the mounting anticipation was as thick in the air as the impending precipitation.
Drinks: As it began to drizzle, my companions and I decided to head back under the roof and procure some alcohol. Bartender Steve, tall, lean, and clad in a casino polo shirt complete with nametag, was swamped and almost impossible to flag down, but eventually we ended up with five Miller Lites for $15, which resulted in our own double-fisting race to consume our cold beers before the muggy, humid air warmed them.
No sign among the Gulfstream rabble of anyone drinking the official drink of the day, the Belmont Breeze (Jack Daniel's, Harvey's Bristol, lemon juice, orange juice, cranberry juice, and sweetener, all topped off with soda). But, hey, don't Floridians prefer their booze neat and uncomplicated, preferably without a lot of fruit juice to dilute the effects?
Customers: The place was packed with regular gamblers, groups of horseracing enthusiasts, scores of Big Brown supporters, and occasional well-dressed couples. Three guys, slightly removed from the occupied bar, stood off by themselves, drinking and laughing. The shortest of the three, a dark-haired dude named Chris, wore an oversized T-shirt featuring a big red heart situated between the boldfaced words I and Big Brown.
"So, do you really love Big Brown?" I asked.
"Yeah — I'm betting on him, and if he wins, I'm gonna go hug him," Chris said.
"Are all three of you betting on him?" I asked, glancing at his two friends.
Matthew, who was tall and tan and wore a bright-green shirt, shook his head vehemently.
"No way. He's injured — he had a cracked hoof," he said, his eyes flashing as he gestured wildly with his drink. "You wouldn't run a marathon if you had a shin splint!"
"It's no big deal; it's just like having a broken nail or something," shrugged the third friend, Ben, well-built with bright-blue eyes.
"What they're doing is cruel — they're running him just because of all the hype. Look at my arm!" Matthew pointed at his forearm. "My skinny arm is like a horse's spindly leg!"
Chris laughed and held up his arms. "Yeah, our four arms are like Big Brown's legs!"
"Imagine running a race on these!" Matthew said.
"I'm not arguing," I said, recalling that I had read somewhere about how horses are being bred with big muscles and fragile bones. Matthew was no fool. "Who are you betting on?"
"Macho Again and Icabad Crane," Matthew said.
"You guys think those horses will be any competition to Big Brown?"
"Casino Drive was Big Brown's stiffest competition," Chris said. "But now that his trainers pulled him out of the race, Big Brown's sure to have the Triple Crown." Ah, yes. The Japanese horse, its fragile bones acting up, no doubt. (Well, no. A sore hoof, actually.)
The Bet: As rain poured down, it blew into the open areas, misting the crowd awaiting the big race. The prerace programming on the flat screens showed horses moving through a hot, muggy afternoon 2,000 miles away.