The Horse That Broke My Streak

So the train out to the park was more crowded than usual. The people didn't look any different, there were just more of them is all?most of them wearing hats. The lines at the betting windows and at the beer stands were longer, too. For the first time we could remember, Belmont seemed to have a little life to it. Fewer freaks this time, which was a little disappointing, but we figured we could find freaks most anywhere.

Despite the crowds, though (which, to be honest, were still nothing compared to what you'd find at the zoo, or Central Park or a downtown Brooklyn sidewalk at 6 in the morning), we got our beers, placed our first bets and found a seat outside, just off the rail near the finish line.

There were a lot of kids in the crowd that day?little kids?it being a Saturday and babysitters being hard to find I guess. At one point, I heard a grandmotherly type behind us tell her husband, bitterly, "I let these goddamn kids pick my horses for me?and I'm already down 50 bucks."

By the end of the second race, we were doing okay. Well, I say "we." I hadn't won in 17 years, so I wasn't expected to do anything. But Morgan was doing okay, putting a few bucks down on Astrapi?a two-year-old filly jockeyed by Diane Nelson. It wasn't a huge win, but a win it was. Enough for another round.

Since our friend Gary couldn't make it with us that day, we decided to lay a few bets down in his honor. So in that same race, the second, I put $10 for him on Go Bubby Go. Also in his honor, we yelled "Run, you whore!" as the horses came around the final turn, much to the horror of the stroller-wielding parents around us.

Go Bubby Go didn't win. Which was okay, because none of the horses I've ever bet on has ever won.

Things slowed down until the fifth race?we ate dogs, drank more, lost money. In the fifth, though, we laid bets for ourselves, for Gary and for our friend Kevin. Morgan and I had missed Kevin's pre-wedding party earlier in the week, and felt kind of shitty about it. So to make up for that, Morgan put five on Chasin' the Wimmin for him, and I laid five on Stalwart Member for Gary.

Gary's, well....he's just that sort of a fellow. The kind of a fellow with a, well, stalwart member.

We sat back, beer in hand, as the horses broke from the gate. My horse stopped to scratch an itch or smell some flowers or admire the geese. Much to my dismay, however, Stalwart Member pulled out in front, and stayed there, crossing the finish line a full length ahead of the pack.

"He...won?" I asked.

"What?" Morgan asked.

"Throbbing Pudenda just won?"

"Yeah?you mean you finally won?" she asked excitedly.

"Well, not exactly. It was Gary's horse."

"I know that?but you actually placed a winning bet?"

"For somebody else."

"Yeah, but still."

"Oh, it doesn't count."

Morgan's been listening to me complain about and celebrate my losing streak for too long now. I think she was anxious for it to be over. But were we really anxious for Babe Ruth's home run record to be broken? Or to have some Hollywood blockbuster knock Gone with the Wind out of the "top grossing film of all time" position? I think not! Some records simply have too much sentimental value.

Well, Gary won $30 on that one, and as I pondered whether or not to tell him about it, we got some more beers and placed some more losing bets.

On a video screen in the middle of the field, a track reporter in a funny hat was interviewing Miss New York, who was saying that this was her first time to the races, but that she really loved it there, on account of all the teamwork involved.

I found that very funny.

By the ninth race?the Empire Classic?in a 10-race card, we were pretty drunk. So much so, in fact, that I, following Morgan's lead, actually started considering odds and statistics and track records and jockeys before placing my bets, instead of just, you know, being stupid about it.

When the horses broke, we sat back and waited for them to come around the far corner. I just didn't pay that much attention anymore. I felt comfortable and relaxed and was having a good time, but I just wasn't paying that much attention to the race. I never heard the announcer call "Turnofthecentury," so I figured I was simply out of it again. No big deal. Same as always. The horses flew past us in a group and I didn't see his number anywhere.

Oh well, on to the 10th, I thought, wondering at the same time if the beer stands would sell us one more round before they shut down for the night.

"Turnofthecentury? Was that yours?" Morgan asked.

"Yeah, why?"

"You just won, baby." She sounded as disbelieving as I was.

"You're shitting me."

"They just posted it."

"Jesus Christ," I said. Sure enough?his number was up there on the board. "Now what do I do?"

"You go cash your winning ticket," she said as she slapped my leg. "It's over!"

"Yeah, I guess it is."

There was a vague sense of loss, of disappointment. Maybe even a little shame.

Not enough loss and disappointment and shame to keep me from cashing in my ticket, though.

I stumbled up to the cashier and held the ticket aloft.

"This ends a 17-year losing streak," I slurred proudly.

"Uh-huh," he said, as he counted out $65. "You got 50 cents?"

This confused me, so I gave him 50 cents, collected my money and laid another bet down on another horse that lost, knowing it was going to be a long 17 years before I'd be able to make the same claim again.

On the train back into Manhattan, Morgan and I leaned on each other and dozed.

By the next morning, I could not, for the life of me, remember that fucking horse's name.