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Compared to those I've read here, my bad-beat story involves small money. And I've suffered far costlier -and unlikely-defeats, but this one hurt worst, and still twinges on occasion.
It was 1985 (or so), my mom had just been diagnosed with terminal cancer, and I had moved back home to offer support and hopefully assuage her fears.
Tragically, I was broke with scant prospects, and we were struggling to exist. To exacerbate matters, my gambling partner and inseparable friend, Phil, had recently been imprisoned, a merciless slump had driven my other backer (another bad dude with "indeterminate" sources of income) away, and my confidence was shot.
But a horse I was high on was in-camouflaged form, certain to be long odds..the whole bit. And, somehow, I managed to scrape up 80 bux by the finale, which saw the horse in easy, and at 12-1.
After betting it all on the nose, I walked to the 1/2 pole to watch. At the time, mom lived in a mobile home right across from the track, and I often walked it instead of taking my car. When the hoofbeats reached me, my play had the lead, but one foe had emerged from an increasingly distant pack of pursuers to gather him in. I knew that foe was a hanger, though, and by mid-stretch the announcer began shouting, a sure sign my horse had met fire with fire and that a tight one was in store.
The photo sign remained up when I reached the apron. A buddy of mine who NEVER missed a photo walked past and opined that the 7 (my horse) had won it and it wasn't even all THAT close. My odds, by the way, had climbed to 18-1. I steeled myself and focused unflinchingly on the board. Ten eternity's passed. The numbers went up. 8-7.
The air went out of my world. Nothing since comes even close to that despair.
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