Steve and Jean went to the track on Wednesday afternoon, not because a Castle Village Farm horse was running – none was – but just to be handicappers again. It was an exceedingly warm afternoon, so they found it a special pleasure to sit, out of the sun, in the third floor grandstand, with a Diet Coke and a cooling breeze, and the most beautiful race track in the world spread out before them. Belmont was at its quietest. Belmont is very quiet on a Wednesday. They had almost an entire section of the grandstand to themselves. Well, them and six guys sharing their betting strategies with each other – “Go for the 5 – I hate the trainer, but nothing can beat that 5.” “That 7 couldn’t hit the Board if they aimed him at it.” (Yup, you guessed it: at the finish line, the 5 was way down the track; the 7 up for first.) There were at least 10 seats for every person in the third floor grandstand on Wednesday, and the six guys had spread themselves and their racing forms accordingly, so their shared handicapping had to be pretty loud. (Not so much “I gotta have the 4 in the next race” as “I GOTTA HAVE THE 4”) which meant the Zorns got the benefit of every insight. It always helps to know which horse not to bet on.
Best overheard repartee of the day:
“Last I heard, NYRA’s run out of money. They’re gonna tear this place down and put up a senior citizens center.”
“Whaddya think it is now?”
[Note to NYRA: Much as Jean and Steve and the other senior citizens enjoy their peaceful Wednesday afternoons, maybe it’s time to consider going to a 4-day, or even a 3-day week. Even though Wednesday’s cards were pretty small, the track still probably needed more grooms for that afternoon than there were people in the stands.]
Steve was feeling badly, because he’d been too busy to visit Strings & Arrows on Sunday. Nobody wants Strings to feel that, just because he isn’t racing any more, he’s yesterday’s news. The short drive from the track to the barns took Steve and Jean back into a countryside that hadn’t existed since Tom Sawyer set his friends to work painting picket fences. The wooden barns stretched like sleeping cats in the warm sun, and wide-canopied oaks and maples cast patches of shade across the dappled grass. Inside the dark, cool shedrows, fans whirred, a hen clucked, and horses slept and dreamed of races to be run.
Strings was glad to have some company, gladder to see a couple of carrots. He already looked less like a race horse than he had just a few weeks ago. With his morning workouts reduced to sedate walks around the shedrow, he’d put on a few pounds, and, compared to his sleek racing self, was positively plump. But his coat and mane were as red and glossy and Secretariat-like as ever. In the paddock, a big, handsome white horse stood watch over the shedrow, like a wild stallion watching over his herd. It was Diligent Gambler, who once upon a time was dark gray and a pretty good race horse himself (Florida bred claimer of the year, in fact, in 2004, when he won nine races and raced for Castle Village Farm). He, too, was happy for a couple of carrots, and, after the first batch was gone, nosed the Zorns’ pockets, hoping to find a few more. But he was more interested in chatting with Steve about racing and memories. Nose to nose, they carried on an earnest colloquy for a while, while Jean contemplated skipping the rest of the races in favor of stretching out under one of the trees with a big summertime novel in hand.
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