A Day at the Big A

I went out to Aqueduct on a recent Saturday to sit on a cold bench, rest my feet on a railing and watch some horses. It took me four trains to get out there, the result of some typical MTA machinations, but by the time the A train surged above ground in Queens, I was ready to piss out my morning coffee and place some small, cautious bets.

Walking from the subway, my date and I fell in with a small Jamaican man I'll call Tony, both to protect him from his girlfriend and because I never asked his name. I had noticed him pulling European tourists off the Lefferts Blvd.-bound train and redirecting them to JFK a few minutes before, and now he turned his attention to us.

"I just want to get in and play some fucking horses, you know," he told us. "I'm done with the exacta. No, now it's only playing to win."

At this point I had no idea what he was talking about. I'd been to the track twice before. The first time, in fourth grade, our homeroom teacher took us on a class trip to watch the morning workouts at Belmont. It was the year that Alysheba was the Triple Crown threat. We sipped orange juice in the grandstand and watched the early mist come off the turf. The trainers were out with the jockeys on the track, and the horses would gallop for 20 yards and then ease off. It was all quite thrilling. Twelve years later I hit Auteuil, on the outskirts of Paris, for a damp day of incomprehension. I didn't understand horse racing, and I don't understand the French, but I chalked it up to achieving cultural literacy and cheered for the one American horse, who balked at the start gate and did two laps at a torrid pace, in the wrong direction.

Tony confided in us. "My girlfriend thinks I'm at work. Every morning I wake up, take a shower, eat something and then come to the track. I make sure to throw out all the betting slips and pencils before I leave here. As long as I come home with some money, she doesn't suspect. But who wants to work when you can come here?"

Tony headed off for the grandstand, while we sprang three dollars for entrance to the clubhouse. Walking through the indoor part of Aqueduct is much like strolling through an unrenovated airport when you have a few hours to kill. There are vast rooms with linoleum floors and banks of television screens all showing the same thing. Litter, in this case discarded betting slips, and cigarettes cover the floor. You can get a little lost, but it doesn't much matter, because most of the rooms offer at least similar services: some chairs to sit in, screens to watch the races happening outside, a snackbar and some beer. On the upper level-there are three floors-the decor changes a little and some wood paneling is thrown in. In the Man O' War saloon I found some surprisingly good chicken gumbo. Dr. Brown's soda is served, but whether as an authentic continuing tradition or replicated nostalgia for the old days I couldn't say.

The rampant drinking and the oppressive sense of common depression that I had expected on a February day at New York's lesser track was hard to find. Of course, there weren't a great number of families with picnics, but there also weren't too many sadsack old drunks. Occasionally you'd spot one of them: older men in threadbare suits and shabby overcoats, with severe side parts and Daily Racing Forms stuck in side pockets. But mostly the bettors were in their 30s or 40s, traveling with a few associates. In one of the smoking lounges, we passed a group of Rastas lounging in molded plastic chairs, smoking weed and staring up at the screens with practiced languor.

Very few bettors ventured outside. There were maybe 200 people outside by the track, but the remaining thousands stayed inside, watching on screens what was happening over their shoulders 100 feet away. Part of this was so they could watch the horses on the back stretch, but it also gave them the impression of seriousness; they weren't there to watch animals, but to play odds.

We developed a routine: we'd watch the horses parade in the paddock while checking their odds. Then we'd go inside to warm up a little, and place our two-dollar bets. It would then be post time, and we'd rush outside to watch the race. After, the horses, the losers mud-covered, would more solemnly return through the paddock, before the horses for the next race came out.

Our betting strategies depended heavily on names and looks, as well as whether the horse had sufficiently long odds to make some money placing a "show" bet. A man next to us excitedly explained his winning strategy of the day: bet on the largest horses. In front of us at the betting line, a more seasoned bettor put $200 on the favorite, Flo's Charm, to win. The horse lost. My horse won, and I picked up my winnings of $2.30 behind a man who had won $312 but seemed no happier.

We stayed through the last race of the day, the sun having dipped behind the grandstand, the wind picking up. The horses were beautiful thoroughbreds, all descendants of the founding sires, the three Arabians imported to England at the turn of the 18th century.

We walked through the clubhouse on the way back to the train. The place was emptying out. An employee on a modified sitting lawnmower with a broom on the front was moving across the floor, sweeping hundreds of betting slips before him.