New York, New York

New York Diary: A Day at the Races

Two-dollar champions or bank-drained losers, fortunes and retirements made over cocktails—what’s not to love about horse racing? Rosecrans Baldwin and TMN photographer Geoff Badner spend a day at Belmont with their wallets in their hands.

All photos copyright © 2004 Geoff Badner


* * *


I’m a reliable loser when it comes to slots and blackjack, but I had never bet on horses before Geoff suggested spending a sunny Friday at the track. New York City has two big racing grounds nearby—Belmont Park and the Aqueduct—and both are reachable by subway, making a day’s gambling as close a trip as the Cloisters or the airport.

We wondered before leaving if we were dressed appropriately; Belmont’s web site told us “elegant attire has long been a tradition” at the park and advised us to wear suits or sport jackets. Dressing up, the site assured us, is “always appreciated,” and went on to specify, “No abbreviated attire. Gentlemen may not wear tank tops.” Presumably they meant no tank tops underneath one’s suit; overcautious maybe, but still a smart bit of advice for today’s confused, casual-Friday Joe Wall Street.

Having misread the schedule, we pulled up a full three hours ahead of race time. The track was deserted. No loitering packs of tank-topped punks, but no GQ layabouts, either. Only one other car was in the massive Disney-scale parking lot, and its driver gave us a queer look, like he’d been caught at something sticky. There was a shuttle-bus stop but no shuttle buses. The grandstand looked like a World’s Fair relic left to crumble.

Belmont boasts three lakes, a duck pond, a swank restaurant, and innumerable betting windows. There are also grass and dirt tracks, beautifully groomed grounds and a concrete stadium built like a nuclear shelter. Not mentioned in the marketing swag are the barbershop inside the catacombs, the stands with friendly people from HealthFirst who want to help you with your Medicare, the signs advising you to report fraud or misconduct to the Integrity Hotline, the large number of ATMs. We sat down with a crowd of old men in tank tops—not under suits, just tank tops—and shorts, the Daily News horse pages in their fists. Just as some parents will offer their kid a car if she chooses a public university instead of a more expensive private college, you get the sense some baby-boomers told Dad he could have 1) the seniors community in Tampa, or 2) a retirement of $20 bills at the track. Post times came in from other races and the men watched placidly unless there was money at stake. Some races got their blood up, and under the commentator’s fast talk they squealed “Open up baby! Open up!” or “Take the six down!” or “Did I call it or what? Come on nine!” or “You fucking piece of shit, you fucking bitch horse,” before the photo-finish and one guy would spin around with his knuckles in his teeth while the majority, losers once more, ignored him.





* * *

We had no idea which horses would run better than others, so we picked based on the names. It’s not easy; you might guess “Christine’s Outlaw” is a smarter choice than “Big Tease,” but good luck to the bettor who has to decide between “Polish Times” and “She’s a Mugs.” What are these owners thinking? Who cracked open the lunacy box when the foal came sliding out, slippery wet and doomed to “Ryan Is Flying”? But an easy pick for the big spender: “Shoot the Wad.”

Some favorites that I would have put a hundred bucks on if I had a million: Frat Party; Irish Voyage; My Kind of Town; Ide Got Style; Dirty Martini; The Lamp Is Lit; Hippy Hippy Red; SmartBabe; Creative Dance.

There are signs and pamphlets all over the grounds explaining how to bet. The easiest way is “Win, Place, or Show.” If you bet “Win,” then you only make money if your horse finishes first. But if you bet “Place,” you win if your horse finishes first or second, and you win on first, second, or third if you bet “Show.” (Though in both cases less dough than if you’d bet “Win.”) There are other ways to bet—the “Two-Horse Wager,” the “Three-Horse Wager,” the “Exotic Wager”—but as a beginner they scared me off, maybe because even before the first race rolled around, I was already winning: The barmaid had called me “sweetheart” three times to Geoff’s one.




I lost $2 on my only bet of the day: “BK’s on the Park,” who placed fourth. Geoff lost too, and though his wife had told him he could spend up to $200, we decided to dedicate ourselves to drinking to our health and wisdom.

It’s disconcerting to hear people all day yelling “Take the whip to him!” until you hear yourself screaming the same thing. When the horses are a few seconds from the finish line, everyone’s on their feet, ranting and grabbing each other, men clutch elbows, women toss their race forms. One man, seeing his horse had just lost, stood glaring at the field while everyone sat down, his jaw trembling and his face red around the lips. A friend standing next to him put an arm around his shoulders and held him for a minute.


* * *

A janitor and her supervisor are fighting outside the men’s room. She’s complaining how another janitor only has one bathroom to take care of compared to her two, and her boss, though nodding that it’s unfair, that it’s bullshit, stands there berating her with his finger up her nose, yelling loud enough to reverberate down the hall.

I tell Geoff about the argument and we agree: No matter where you work, sometimes office politics can be reduced to which person has more toilets to clean.

“Yeah,” Geoff points out, fixing his sunglasses, “she’s got twice as much shit to deal with.”


* * *



When the horses are about to come out, a top-hatted man in a red jacket and riding boots blows a four-foot bugle into a microphone and then talks to his buddies. Some try to bring him beer but he waves them off, worried his boss might see. One time before he plays the horn, he mutters, “I need to loosen up,” and a guy, overhearing and opening his cooler, responds, “I got something to loosen you up.” A high-risk occupation for the teetotaler.

The jockeys ride their horses down a muddy alley that passes through the grandstands. Some people call out encouragement. The jockey ignores the calls, and when on the track, he raises himself high in his stirrups and crouches over his horse like someone peering over a ledge.



Before one race, as the jockeys appear, a man who’s been dancing by himself and yelling things in Spanish goes to the rails and shouts at one of them, “Mr. Pabalo! Your write-up, in the Daily News! In the Post! I saw it, I showed it to everybody!”

He keeps yelling while the jockey ignores him, and steps his dance up to a one-man salsa, turning the name into a song, “PA-BA-LO! PA-BA-LO!” None of the jockeys turns a head.




* * *

We watch the races and drink beer. I’m tempted a few times to lay down more money but I can’t hop the hurdle of knowing I’ll lose. Around us are a gaggle of old men who came together, driven by a team of sons and grandsons and younger friends who hump six-packs and take the old guys’ insults cheerfully, aware they’ll someday be here in their own retirement.



At one point, one of the elders strikes up a conversation with a track employee who’s emptying a garbage can. They compare their losses and the garbage man woefully brags—holding the plastic bag in one hand, he flies the other around and pops his eyes open wide—that he lost a hundred dollars on the last race. A fucking hundred dollars, he says, grabbing at something, but he shrugs it off and fits a new empty bag into the can. But what can you do. The old man tosses his beer can through the trash man’s arms and leaves.

By late afternoon, it’s too hot in the sun, so we move upstairs into the stands and join the Belmont Club. (The application process isn’t too rigorous: you pay $3 and push through a turnstile.) The air inside smells clean and the lights are brighter. A photograph of Giuliani at the races hangs next to one of Jack Nicholson. Painted murals of horses provide trim to the walls, much improved from the downstairs lounge and its fading photographs. Apparently those three bucks add up.


* * *

We don’t bet again. As we’re leaving, around five, we notice the crowd is swelling—Manhattan’s office workers ride the escalators by the dozens, their ties loosened and their jackets slung over their shoulders. The field behind the stadium is crammed with young men and women flirting, old women petting the horses by their stables. On our way out we notice a sign that says “Betting Instructor” and underneath it a large man, in a vest and suit, reading the Post.

“Are you the betting instructor?”

He looks up. “Yup, can I help you?”

“No,” I laugh. “I’m taking off. The only time I bet, I lost.”

He shrugs and looks back at his paper. “Who cares?” he says. “You’ll always win next time.”

—Published July 15, 2004

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