Origins

There's death in the air tonight. I can't explain why it seems that way; it just is. Sometimes you're just sitting there, enjoying a nice bit of sunshine or fresh air, or a $4,000 claiming race from Charles Town, and you feel it, and there it is: the feeling of death, on your shoulder like a gentle breeze on a soft May afternoon. Hello, my friend, it says, here I am, waiting for you...

If you're normal, you ignore those feelings... you go out for a walk, for a quick half-pint at the neighborhood pub, for some kind of activity that will shake the demons. If it weren't winter, I would go fishing, or at least think about fishing; that usually gets rid of my heebie-jeebies. But it's deep winter here, even if it doesn't feel like it, and there's nowhere to go, so tonight I'm left to sit here with death on my shoulder.

Maybe it's because I'm feeling particularly maudlin tonight, or maybe because I feel like I owe whatever readers are here (none, most likely) an explanation, but tonight I'm thinking back to how I became a fan of horse racing; tonight I'm thinking back to a night in the spring of 1998, and to my racetrack mentor, Jack Corso.

I moved to Los Angeles in November of 1997 because it seemed like the stupidest thing I could do. I looked for work, and bounced around a few places, until in March of the following year I talked my way into a job as a caddie at Wilshire Country Club, in Hancock Park. Needless to say, the caddie yard was filled with gamblers, and I think learned the layout of the turf course at Hollywood Park before I learned the sequence of holes.

All through that spring, Corso patiently took me to the track and taught me how things work there. To many people, I suppose, his efforts were at best corrupting, and at worst self-serving, but I think that I would have ended up at the racetrack anyway, and being with Corso - he was a racetrack lifer - shortened my learning curve considerably.

The night that I remember so vividly - to quote John Kerry, it's "seared in my memory" - was in May of 1998. Corso had patiently instructed me on the heiroglyphics of the Racing Form, to the point where I felt that making a bet was not a stab in the dark. It was a Friday night at Hollywood Park - how I miss, sitting here on a Tuesday night in Philadelphia, those Friday night cards at Hollywood Park - and I had cautiously placed $5 win bets on the first six races without cashing a ticket.

I had gone to the track with $150, and after buying beers and hot dogs, and paying for the losing tickets, I was down to about $60. The 7th race was a turf sprint, 5 1/2 furlongs on the sod, and I figured that if I was going to go broke at the racetrack, I might as well do go down in flames. I took a look at the form, decided that I liked the 3, who was 20-1.

I didn't say anything to Corso; I walked to the window, bet $20 to win and to place on the 3, and put the rest of my money - enough to get me home, I figured - into my pocket. We walked out onto the sloped blacktop in the grandstand of Hollywood Park. Corso was lighting a cigarette when he looked at me and said, "You bet anything in this race, Chrissy?" I told him what I had done - the 3 horse was now 19-1 - and he looked at me and shrugged.

"Jack," I said, "how much are you down tonight?"

"A hundred and a half."

"I'll tell you what, Jack. If the three wins this race, I'll get you back to even."

"Honest?"

"Sure."

"Come on the three!'

We stood there and watched as the three, Cuvee Brut - I'll never forget that name - shot to an early lead and held on to win. I still remember jumping up and down with Corso that night, hugging each other as Cuvee Brut hit the line first; I hope that someday I'll feel a sense of joy that pure. With horse racing, anyway.

Cuvee Brut paid $41.20 to win and $17.60 to place. My $40 ticket was worth almost $600.

I went to the window and cashed - as I look back on it now, I can see Corso's face watching me, and it's the face of a proud father - and we went back to our seats. I peeled off $150 worth of bills and laid them on the table. He looked at me funny. I told him that I meant what I said; that the dough was his. He took it, and... well, after that we went and played the last few races at Los Alamitos. We had a few more beers. And I was hooked on this great game.