Teach
02-03-2015, 08:17 PM
That night, I was dreaming. Not unusually, I was dreaming about horse racing. In my dream, I was sitting down in a seat at Boston's Suffolk Downs Racetrack. I remember that I had just gotten up to make a bet. I recall that as I was about to reach the windows, I ran into a dear friend. His name was Bob. He had recently died of cancer. As I looked at Bob, he appeared covered in a shroud. For a few seconds, I just stared at Bob. I really wasn't 100% sure it was him (he looked older than I remember). "Yes," I thought, "it's Bob." I asked, "What are you doing here, Bob?" It was a foolish question. Bob was a regular at Suffolk Downs (he owned and trained horses; he'd run them at Lincoln and Narragansett). Whenever I questioned his advice or a tip he had given me, Bob would reply: "Is The Pope Catholic?"
Well, seconds later, Bob answered my question. He said, "I'm a jockey's agent." I wasn't surprised. Bob had been a high school business teacher for many years; yet he confided to me many times that he always wanted to be a jockey's agent. Sadly, Bob died before he ever got that chance.
I would then asked Bob, "Like anything?" I remember he thought for a moment and then in a hushed, almost inaudible tone, said, "Ronny's Red Robin." At least that's what it sounded like. I really wasn't quite sure. All I knew is that the horse that Bob was recommending had three "R's" in its name. After he mentioned the horse's name, Bob vanished.
Seconds later, I was rushing back to my seat in the Suffolk teletheater to tell my friend "Bucko" when suddenly ---- I woke up.
That next morning, "Bucko" and I had made plans to go the Foxwoods in southeastern CT. I took one look out the window and thought to myself, "I've got to be crazy to be driving an hour-an-a-half in this weather." Overnight, heavy rains had been frozen solid by an Arctic front. The roads were like sheet of ice. Good judgment would have cautioned: "Don't take a chance. It's too dangerous!" But no. Two degenerate gamblers cannot be kept from their appointed rounds. In this case, a visit to Foxwoods.
About a half-hour later, I had reached "Bucko's" house (it usually takes me no more than fifteen minutes). The roads were nearly impassable. We then proceeded south toward Foxwoods. I recall that we were literally inching our way along. In fact, one of our shortcuts was closed off by police because of numerous skidding accidents.
Eventually, we made it to the main highway. By now, DPW crews had begun sanding and salting the major roads. The worst, as far as travel was concerned, was behind us.
Well, in a more relaxed road-condition environment, I began chatting with "Bucko" about my dream. I might mention that as soon as I mentioned the word "dream," "Bucko's" ears pricked up like a mule in a donkey race. I remember "Bucko" saying, "Walt, tell me about your dream." I recall replying, sarcastically, "Yes, Doctor Freud."
Over the next several minutes, as we were heading south through Rhode Island, I told "Bucko" about my dream and my chance meeting with my late friend Bob at Suffolk Downs. I then said, "Oh, by the way, Bob gave me horse." "A horse," "Bucko" repeats. "What was the name of this horse?" "Bucko continues. I said that I could hardly hear Bob in my dream, but it sounded like "Ronny's Red Robin." I added, "It was a horse with three "Rs" in its name.
As I remember, "Bucko's now looking at me like I've just provided him with a map to "The Treasure of Sierra Madre." "Bucko" says, "When we get to Foxwoods, we've got to look at the Suffolk form for a horse with three "Rs".
Eventually, we turned the corner and gazed off in the distance at the teal blue roof of "The Palace in the Connecticut Woods." I park the car and we head into the gaming area not far from Foxwoods' racebook. I remember we shot craps for awhile and then headed over to the nearby racebook to buy (actually we had enough wampum points) the DRF and an array of individual programs.
We find two carrels and sit down to study the form. "Bucko" immediately looks through all the Suffolk Downs races. Just as he's doing so, an announcement comes from the P.A. saying that Suffolk has cancelled racing because of unsafe track conditions.
I recall saying to "Bucko", "So much for the three Rs." Just then, "Bucko" blurts out, "I've found it!" It's like Archimedes calling out: "Eureka!" "Found what?" I asked, in a tone of disbelief. "The horse with the three Rs," he answered. "Yeah," I said, "and the moon is made of green cheese." "No, seriously," he said.
He then showed me the 6th race at Calder Racetrack in Miami. There was a horse entered named Rory's Rolls Royce. "That's it!" I blurted out,
"That's it! That's the horse!" "Bucko" adds, "Besides, Rory's the name of my niece's husband."
As the sixth race at Calder was still close to three hours away, we had time to plan our strategy. We both agreed that we should definitely flat-bet the horse, but that we should also use him in a Pick-3.
Finally, the 6th at Calder was about to go off. I recall that it was a route race and that Rory's Rolls Royce was going off at 6-1. I remember that we each bet "a sawbuck" on Rory's nose (I'm sure it would have been more, but we both foolishly frittered away part of our grubstake betting earlier races) and used him as a singleton in the first leg of a Pick-3.
I remember the Rory race like yesterday. Rory was lagging far behind on the backstretch as the front runners were blazing ahead on the front end. I gave Bucko this "We're in trouble look." But as the horses were reaching the far turn, Rory's Rolls Royce was pickin' em up and layin' em down. As the horses reached the top of the stretch Rory had hit his best stride and easily passed the tiring front runners. He went on to win by two lengths.
Well, Bob and I were ecstatic. Rory paid $14 and change. Our $10 wagers had helped us recoup much of our early racebook losses. And --- we were still alive, as partners, in a Pick-3 that started off with a $14 horse.
In the second leg of the Pick-3, we had combined to pick three horses. "Bucko picked one, I picked one and, by consensus, we selected another. Well, Bucko's pick, a longshot, popped at something like 10-1. We were now alive with two horses in the final leg.
The third and final leg was about to begin as the horses were beginning to load for a mile-an-an-eighth race that had been taken off the turf. I had been intrigued by a MTO horse that was piloted by Jorge Chavez (then riding Florida) I recall my choice, Chavez's horse, had the extreme outside post.
Well, the gates opened. "Chop Chop" (Chavez's nickname) had his horse (our horse) on the lead. "Our" horse was challenged several times throughout the race but was never headed. As the horses reached the top of the stretch, jockey Chavez was feverishly getting into his horse with his karate-chopping motion. At the wire, there was a photo, but from the naked eye, he had appeared to have hung on.
About a minute later, the numbers were posted, our horse, the #12 horse, had hung on to win by a neck. He didn't pay a lot--- I believe $6 --- but he did complete a lucrative Pick-3. Needless to say, we were overjoyed.
On the way home, I said "Bucko," you've made me a believer. Before today, I didn't think much of dreams, but after today..." I then continued, "'Bucko,'didn't Freud call dreams 'The Royal Road to the Unconscious Mind'? "Yeah," he answered, "that's right. But in this case," he continued, "It's been the 'Royal Road to Riches'." We both laughed.
Well, seconds later, Bob answered my question. He said, "I'm a jockey's agent." I wasn't surprised. Bob had been a high school business teacher for many years; yet he confided to me many times that he always wanted to be a jockey's agent. Sadly, Bob died before he ever got that chance.
I would then asked Bob, "Like anything?" I remember he thought for a moment and then in a hushed, almost inaudible tone, said, "Ronny's Red Robin." At least that's what it sounded like. I really wasn't quite sure. All I knew is that the horse that Bob was recommending had three "R's" in its name. After he mentioned the horse's name, Bob vanished.
Seconds later, I was rushing back to my seat in the Suffolk teletheater to tell my friend "Bucko" when suddenly ---- I woke up.
That next morning, "Bucko" and I had made plans to go the Foxwoods in southeastern CT. I took one look out the window and thought to myself, "I've got to be crazy to be driving an hour-an-a-half in this weather." Overnight, heavy rains had been frozen solid by an Arctic front. The roads were like sheet of ice. Good judgment would have cautioned: "Don't take a chance. It's too dangerous!" But no. Two degenerate gamblers cannot be kept from their appointed rounds. In this case, a visit to Foxwoods.
About a half-hour later, I had reached "Bucko's" house (it usually takes me no more than fifteen minutes). The roads were nearly impassable. We then proceeded south toward Foxwoods. I recall that we were literally inching our way along. In fact, one of our shortcuts was closed off by police because of numerous skidding accidents.
Eventually, we made it to the main highway. By now, DPW crews had begun sanding and salting the major roads. The worst, as far as travel was concerned, was behind us.
Well, in a more relaxed road-condition environment, I began chatting with "Bucko" about my dream. I might mention that as soon as I mentioned the word "dream," "Bucko's" ears pricked up like a mule in a donkey race. I remember "Bucko" saying, "Walt, tell me about your dream." I recall replying, sarcastically, "Yes, Doctor Freud."
Over the next several minutes, as we were heading south through Rhode Island, I told "Bucko" about my dream and my chance meeting with my late friend Bob at Suffolk Downs. I then said, "Oh, by the way, Bob gave me horse." "A horse," "Bucko" repeats. "What was the name of this horse?" "Bucko continues. I said that I could hardly hear Bob in my dream, but it sounded like "Ronny's Red Robin." I added, "It was a horse with three "Rs" in its name.
As I remember, "Bucko's now looking at me like I've just provided him with a map to "The Treasure of Sierra Madre." "Bucko" says, "When we get to Foxwoods, we've got to look at the Suffolk form for a horse with three "Rs".
Eventually, we turned the corner and gazed off in the distance at the teal blue roof of "The Palace in the Connecticut Woods." I park the car and we head into the gaming area not far from Foxwoods' racebook. I remember we shot craps for awhile and then headed over to the nearby racebook to buy (actually we had enough wampum points) the DRF and an array of individual programs.
We find two carrels and sit down to study the form. "Bucko" immediately looks through all the Suffolk Downs races. Just as he's doing so, an announcement comes from the P.A. saying that Suffolk has cancelled racing because of unsafe track conditions.
I recall saying to "Bucko", "So much for the three Rs." Just then, "Bucko" blurts out, "I've found it!" It's like Archimedes calling out: "Eureka!" "Found what?" I asked, in a tone of disbelief. "The horse with the three Rs," he answered. "Yeah," I said, "and the moon is made of green cheese." "No, seriously," he said.
He then showed me the 6th race at Calder Racetrack in Miami. There was a horse entered named Rory's Rolls Royce. "That's it!" I blurted out,
"That's it! That's the horse!" "Bucko" adds, "Besides, Rory's the name of my niece's husband."
As the sixth race at Calder was still close to three hours away, we had time to plan our strategy. We both agreed that we should definitely flat-bet the horse, but that we should also use him in a Pick-3.
Finally, the 6th at Calder was about to go off. I recall that it was a route race and that Rory's Rolls Royce was going off at 6-1. I remember that we each bet "a sawbuck" on Rory's nose (I'm sure it would have been more, but we both foolishly frittered away part of our grubstake betting earlier races) and used him as a singleton in the first leg of a Pick-3.
I remember the Rory race like yesterday. Rory was lagging far behind on the backstretch as the front runners were blazing ahead on the front end. I gave Bucko this "We're in trouble look." But as the horses were reaching the far turn, Rory's Rolls Royce was pickin' em up and layin' em down. As the horses reached the top of the stretch Rory had hit his best stride and easily passed the tiring front runners. He went on to win by two lengths.
Well, Bob and I were ecstatic. Rory paid $14 and change. Our $10 wagers had helped us recoup much of our early racebook losses. And --- we were still alive, as partners, in a Pick-3 that started off with a $14 horse.
In the second leg of the Pick-3, we had combined to pick three horses. "Bucko picked one, I picked one and, by consensus, we selected another. Well, Bucko's pick, a longshot, popped at something like 10-1. We were now alive with two horses in the final leg.
The third and final leg was about to begin as the horses were beginning to load for a mile-an-an-eighth race that had been taken off the turf. I had been intrigued by a MTO horse that was piloted by Jorge Chavez (then riding Florida) I recall my choice, Chavez's horse, had the extreme outside post.
Well, the gates opened. "Chop Chop" (Chavez's nickname) had his horse (our horse) on the lead. "Our" horse was challenged several times throughout the race but was never headed. As the horses reached the top of the stretch, jockey Chavez was feverishly getting into his horse with his karate-chopping motion. At the wire, there was a photo, but from the naked eye, he had appeared to have hung on.
About a minute later, the numbers were posted, our horse, the #12 horse, had hung on to win by a neck. He didn't pay a lot--- I believe $6 --- but he did complete a lucrative Pick-3. Needless to say, we were overjoyed.
On the way home, I said "Bucko," you've made me a believer. Before today, I didn't think much of dreams, but after today..." I then continued, "'Bucko,'didn't Freud call dreams 'The Royal Road to the Unconscious Mind'? "Yeah," he answered, "that's right. But in this case," he continued, "It's been the 'Royal Road to Riches'." We both laughed.