Teach
01-10-2008, 07:09 PM
Pink sands. Balmy breezes. Moonstones. Our honeymoon. Following a tradition that had been started by my father- and mother-in-law, my wife and I spent our honeymoon on the island of Bermuda. When we first talked about sites for our honeymoon, my wife (then my fiancee) said, "Wouldn’t it be neat if we honeymooned on Bermuda where my parents went. We could take pictures," she added, "of some of the same places they visited." I accepted her choice. Personally, I’d have preferred the Bahamas, or one of the Caribbean Islands – where there was gambling.
In mid-June, 1969, we were married. That next morning, we took off from Boston for our honeymoon. Two hours later we were approaching this speck on the map in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. One of the first things I notice when I arrive is a sign saying the water temperature is 80 degrees. I’m thinkin’, "This is gonna be quite an adjustment. I’ve swum off the coast of Maine and declared myself ready for a cryogenics lab. I swam at Hampton Beach, NH and nearly suffered from hypothermia. I swam in Boston Harbor and risked being infected with toxic poisons. But now I’m going to take a bath in the Atlantic Ocean
Well, we did all the touristry things: hit the beach; visited an aquarium, with these multi-colored fish; went down into a cave; went to a grotto; climbed up a lighthouse; went riding on motor bikes (on the other side of the road); downed several rum drinks and went deep-sea fishing. I caught a tuna but got seasick.
Yet despite all these wonderful attractions and activities, there one thing was missing — gambling . I was beginning to go through withdrawal symptoms. I needed a fix, and I needed it bad. I was thinking of lining up two hermit crabs on the beach and racing them. I’d book the action.
Then, about three or four nights into our week-long honeymoon, I notices this announcement on a bulletin board in the lobby of the hotel. It’s billed as "A Night At the Races." Well, I gotta tell ya, just the sight of that notice sent chills up and down my spine. I looked further at the announcement. There was little more information, except for the time. At first I think, maybe it’s a misprint, I’m thinkin’ they’re showing the Marx Brothers classic: "A Day At The Races." But no, it is billed as "A Night At The Races." Finally, I’m thinking to myself, "Finally, some action."
Well, the evening for "Night At The Races arrives. I rush down to the large room near the lobby where the these races are gonna be "held". I see that someone is setting up a 16mm projector. Nearby are several cans of film. I put two and two together and come with whoever is doing this is gonna show us past races on film that we can bet on.
Well, that’s exactly what was going down. A few minutes later this Trevor Denman-sounding chap stands before me, my wife and about twenty other people and spells out what this is all about. They are, as suspected, showing us black & white films of past races. In these films that were obviously spliced, they show us the post parade, the loading of the horses into the gate, and finally the race, itself. You could walk up to a little makeshift betting window and bet on whichever horse you wanted. Yet, there was one problem — no programs. No past performances. Nothing but hunches.
As it turns out, the races they have in the can are from Philadelphia Park in Bensalem. They must have been run about ten or fifteen years earlier. I did recognize one of the jockeys, Sammy Boulmetis.
I pretty much sat and watched the eight races they showed. I did notice some people heading to "the window." It was win bets, only. As I look back, I don’t recall that there was much betting action. Oh, a few people were betting lucky numbers and hunches.
Personally, I couldn’t trust it. I may not be the brightest bulb in the room, but I smelled a gimmick. What was to stop these guys who run the "Night At The Races" from colluding with someone from the hotel, or have one of their own people pose as a tourist and then rake in the money from the suckers who were betting. Let’s face it: The results of these races were known to those who were running the show. There wasn’t a thing to stop them from taking advantage of that knowledge.
Well, when it was over, my wife asked me, "Dear, how did you like "The Night At The Races?" I said, "It was OK." But then I added, "There’s nothing like the real thing, baby!"
In mid-June, 1969, we were married. That next morning, we took off from Boston for our honeymoon. Two hours later we were approaching this speck on the map in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. One of the first things I notice when I arrive is a sign saying the water temperature is 80 degrees. I’m thinkin’, "This is gonna be quite an adjustment. I’ve swum off the coast of Maine and declared myself ready for a cryogenics lab. I swam at Hampton Beach, NH and nearly suffered from hypothermia. I swam in Boston Harbor and risked being infected with toxic poisons. But now I’m going to take a bath in the Atlantic Ocean
Well, we did all the touristry things: hit the beach; visited an aquarium, with these multi-colored fish; went down into a cave; went to a grotto; climbed up a lighthouse; went riding on motor bikes (on the other side of the road); downed several rum drinks and went deep-sea fishing. I caught a tuna but got seasick.
Yet despite all these wonderful attractions and activities, there one thing was missing — gambling . I was beginning to go through withdrawal symptoms. I needed a fix, and I needed it bad. I was thinking of lining up two hermit crabs on the beach and racing them. I’d book the action.
Then, about three or four nights into our week-long honeymoon, I notices this announcement on a bulletin board in the lobby of the hotel. It’s billed as "A Night At the Races." Well, I gotta tell ya, just the sight of that notice sent chills up and down my spine. I looked further at the announcement. There was little more information, except for the time. At first I think, maybe it’s a misprint, I’m thinkin’ they’re showing the Marx Brothers classic: "A Day At The Races." But no, it is billed as "A Night At The Races." Finally, I’m thinking to myself, "Finally, some action."
Well, the evening for "Night At The Races arrives. I rush down to the large room near the lobby where the these races are gonna be "held". I see that someone is setting up a 16mm projector. Nearby are several cans of film. I put two and two together and come with whoever is doing this is gonna show us past races on film that we can bet on.
Well, that’s exactly what was going down. A few minutes later this Trevor Denman-sounding chap stands before me, my wife and about twenty other people and spells out what this is all about. They are, as suspected, showing us black & white films of past races. In these films that were obviously spliced, they show us the post parade, the loading of the horses into the gate, and finally the race, itself. You could walk up to a little makeshift betting window and bet on whichever horse you wanted. Yet, there was one problem — no programs. No past performances. Nothing but hunches.
As it turns out, the races they have in the can are from Philadelphia Park in Bensalem. They must have been run about ten or fifteen years earlier. I did recognize one of the jockeys, Sammy Boulmetis.
I pretty much sat and watched the eight races they showed. I did notice some people heading to "the window." It was win bets, only. As I look back, I don’t recall that there was much betting action. Oh, a few people were betting lucky numbers and hunches.
Personally, I couldn’t trust it. I may not be the brightest bulb in the room, but I smelled a gimmick. What was to stop these guys who run the "Night At The Races" from colluding with someone from the hotel, or have one of their own people pose as a tourist and then rake in the money from the suckers who were betting. Let’s face it: The results of these races were known to those who were running the show. There wasn’t a thing to stop them from taking advantage of that knowledge.
Well, when it was over, my wife asked me, "Dear, how did you like "The Night At The Races?" I said, "It was OK." But then I added, "There’s nothing like the real thing, baby!"