Our Year of Gambling

I sat in the old wooden porch chair, pulled up close to the computer screen, immobile, paralyzed with memories. The You-Tube screen flashed “Play Again”, but I ignored it. I was being transported by something more substantial than the technologies of today – the revived remembrances of three decades ago. Thirty years. Sunday would have been my 30th wedding anniversary had I stayed on that particular winding path, yet I hadn’t. But it wasn’t lament or sorrow that had me transfixed. The hubby and I had chosen wisely to diverge and when I did think of him, it was with a wry fondness. Life was one adventure after another back in those days, and it was Our Year of Gambling, as I called it, which had me slunk down in my chair, chuckling, shaking my head, recollecting the smells of horses, beer, tobacco smoke and the noise of a crowd as the thoroughbreds came around the last curve, some lost soul shouting above the din, “You’ve got to win – that was the milk money.” I usually put down my book, a mystery, by that point and stood in respect to watch the powerful animals in the grand game of their particular existence.

My husband hated any idea of gambling. We were mathematicians, statisticians, historians, a hard-working team using a handicapping system. “The Daily Racing Form” became our textbook and we learned it well. There was no place for socialization or emotion in our track life – precision led to survival in the gambling world. He had stumbled upon a man and his mountain farm in the hills of West Virginia, bought with race money, and this wise old soul had taught him the secret and he believed.

I grew up in a home where ‘playing cards’ were thrown in the trash. School fundraising ticket books were promptly sent back to the teacher with a donation and a note, “we don’t believe in gambling.” We played Friday night games of Rook and of Lindy, the cards bent from the age of the Lindbergh era and mother’s youth. We laughed and ate root beer floats – but we did not gamble. Two things happened that knocked me right off that narrow path: I became a percussionist in the school band and, at the age of 17, I hopped on a plane to Australia. Drummers play cards and they’re not immune to throwing a penny ante in the pot. And Australians love their horse racing and this was no exception with the veterinarian and his wife, my dear friends who took me off to Gloucester Thoroughbred Park for an evening of wining and dining in the club house. The vet turned to me after we had finished our meal and laughingly said, “I’m going to put a few dollars on a horse for you and speed up your pulse a bit.” Battling between my upbringing and politeness, I quickly scanned the racing program and saw a horse called “Angel of Mercy.” Surely this was God giving me a way out of a sticky situation – a horse with a religious name! No matter the odds were high and he wasn’t expected to win. But, of course he did win, as did the next one, “Heaven’s Gate.” That made a believer out of me. Even in the unemotional professionalism of Our Year of Gambling, I would sometimes sneak a two dollar bill under the ticket window and whisper, “Two to win on “Road to Mecca” – I was quite ecumenical in my choices.

As we traveled from track to track in our old VW van with the wooden bumpers (named ‘Simplicity’), I learned not to approach people with my West Virginia exuberance, but rather to accept the slightly nodded head of fellow professional gamblers whom we would frequently see all along the eastern seaboard. Crossing the border of the Mountain State and settling down for a week of handicapping at Charles Town brought deep gulps of air, as if I had been holding my breath in the grandstands of New Jersey, Maryland, New York, and Pennsylvania. I smiled, people smiled back. I talked, folks chatted. So it wasn’t all that surprising one day when a woman saved me from a $200 disaster. The husband and I had carefully calculated a certain horse and were confident of his win – everything lined up. We were well aware that not every horse is in the race to win, many are there for exercise and practice and for a number of other reasons, but we had factored in that possibility. Before placing the bet, I wandered down to the paddock area to take a look at this animal who would add much to our dwindling coffers. Standing next to a sweet looking elderly woman, I said “Beautiful. What a lovely name and intelligent eyes. I think I’ll put a little something on this horse.” - knowing full well I had two hundreds in my pocket ready to ride on him. “Sweetheart,” she answered. “That horse is named for my granddaughter, Mary Elizabeth. Come back in a few days and put your money on him then.” She winked, smiled, and walked away.

I got back to the stands just as the horses were rounding the first curve and our horse, “Son of Mary”, was in a substantial lead. My husband stood there silently watching, but with a small turn of satisfaction at the corners of his mouth. “Well,” I said. “I didn’t buy the ticket. I met his grandmother.” He simply turned to look at me as I inwardly grinned and watched the rest of the race.

Now it is the 21st century and I watch races on my computer. On the day of what would have been our anniversary, at a track called Monmouth, two horses ran neck to neck at the finish line. The second place horse was called “The Wife Doesn’t Know.” The winner was “My Wife Knows Everything.” I hit the “Share” button and put in the hubby’s email address. And laughed – knowing he, too, would chuckle.