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River City Confidential

"This is how I make my living … My whole year was based on tonight … This is going to be fun. Beautiful horses, interesting people...and colorful jockeys." -- The late John Candy in "Uncle Buck"

In horse wagering, luck and superstition are just as important as handicapping acumen, otherwise known as your skill at pickin' the ponies. Maybe more so.

Sometimes there's a horse running who shares a name -- and hopefully not a physical likeness -- with your ex-girlfriend. Sometimes the rain falls just in time to level the muddy playing field for your long shot in the sixth race. And sometimes, your dad's old bookie calls you out of the blue on the same day you plan on going to the Colonial Downs Off-Track Betting (OTB) parlor.

I grew up outside a destitute thoroughbred racetrack in upstate New York. While friends were mowing lawns for baseball card money, I paid for my first bike with winnings off $2 show bets. And that's where I got to know my dad's good friend, the Handicapped Handicapper, aka, the Disabled Enabler. I won't use real name, but you know now two things about this anonymous mentor already: He's a paraplegic and has his gambling scruples in spades. Another fun fact: He's also one of the kindest men you'll ever meet.

Anyway, I hoped this random blast from the past meant that serendipity was striking. Getting a call from the Handicapped Handicapper right before hitting up the OTB was kind of like getting a call from George Hamilton before going tanning.

Off the beaten track

Richmond has two OTB parlors: One in a Hull Street shopping plaza off Chippenham Parkway and the other on West Broad Street next to the old Richard's Rendezvous location. (And yes, there is a well worn track of winners' footsteps leading from one to another.)

I frequent the West End location, and considering live racing at the Colonial Downs track in New Kent just wrapped up earlier last month, I knew the place would be ripe with matchstick men, retirees in checkered pants and the occasional mystery cougar looking for a little action. Adding to the excitement was the fact that a big-time horse was racing at a big-time track. Curlin', the best racehorse in the world and winner of the 2007 Preakness (one of the Triple Crown events), would be racing later in the afternoon at Saratoga Racetrack. Giddy up.

You see, the "Off" in "Off-Track Betting" refers to the fact that you're not actually anywhere near real, live horses. I don't even think the OTB has windows. Often times, you're betting on ponies who are running hundreds of miles away in different time zones on tiny TV monitors. This can be dangerous because at a real live racetrack, like Colonial Downs, you're usually betting every 30 minutes or soon a couple of live races. But at an OTB, there are an endless amount of races showing on dozens and dozens of TVs. You can have money on three different races simultaneously. It's sinful; after an hour, you feel like you're living a deleted "kill scene" from the David Fincher classic "Se7en."

A question of characters

When I arrived at the OTB at about 2 p.m., the parade of humanity had already sent in the clowns, including a disgruntled, shirtless dude walking back from the building toward his truck. He popped open the gate, grabbed a shirt and threw it on. I was downright giddy at the prospect that this guy literally lost his shirt -- or the even more likely scenario that he thought shirts were simply optional. And by the time I walked in the gate and paid my $1 admission charge, I couldn't hide my beaming smile.

All the regulars were there, which means that by recognizing them, I was also a regular, at least an aspiring one. The leader of the pack was a middle-aged guy named Reggie who always picked the winners -- or at least he hooted, hollered and wildly smacked his ass with a rolled up racing form with the vigor of a master handicapper. There were some skeptics, however, who scoffed every time Charlie bellowed "Call the track and tell'em Charlie told them to stop the race" or when he instructed the jockey to "Stroke it and flow." Whatever that means.

I don't mean to poke fun at this fraternity of horse racing fans. Quite the contrary. These hobbyists and enthusiasts are no different from scrapbookers or crossword puzzle solvers -- although you likely won't win enough money to purchase a purebred puppy, buy a new washer and dryer or outfit your entire family with winter wear and skis by coming up with a four-letter for a 220-yard unit of measure (furlong). I mention these random purchases because after lucky days at the track, my dad bought us all these things. What a swell fella.

Heck, my dad even briefly had a racehorse named Miss Jones. I remember the first day that she ran the whole family gathered trackside to celebrate the occasion. Miss Jones finished last. And we now have a glue stick on the mantle to remember her by. I assume Miss Jones also boldly lives on in a couple of knock-off Coach bags and well-done truck stop steaks.

Settling up

Anyway, two hours in to my day at the OTB, I had been to the ATM twice (never good), and was joined by my friend Hog, who's expecting a kid any day and whose wife probably wouldn't appreciate the fact that they can't buy the car seat with the higher safety rating because daddy missed the trifecta in the sixth race at Ellis Park. (I kid, I kid).

With both of us down two pitchers of beer and substantial booty, we gave ourselves two final race to make it up. One of those was the big Saratoga races involving Curlin'. Coming out of the gates at 1-4 odds, there was no money to be made on the favorite, but you could make some cash banking on one of the longshots coming in second or third place. This was our bold strategy. And a couple of white-knuckled minutes later, we watched a 40-1 underdog cross the line in second. For me, it meant that I didn't have to tell my fiancé a finely concocted story about getting mugged outside of Food Lion. And for Kit, disappointing enough, it meant he didn't get to crack me in the eye to make that story a bit more believable.

Somewhere, I hoped the Handicapped Handicapper had made the same winning wager. Maybe that's what I like most about the OTB experience -- you're not just rooting for yourself to win, you're rooting for everyone to win. Well, everyone except those evil horses you haven't bet on. You hope they choke on their oat-bag.



Mike Ward is a Richmond-based writer and editor. Check him out at underdogcopy.com .