My friend Dave and I took turns scanning through the newspaper’s Horse Racing section, hoping we’d once again see our favorite steed listed among the day’s races at Rockingham Park.
Amongst all of the park names, horse names and jockey names, there’s information that makes reading the Stocks section of the paper feel like a bit of light reading. Stable name, breeder name, owner name, full horse name (yes, they have a last name), horse age, horse color, horse clothing color, horse sibling names, last race stats, last ten race stats, lifetime race stats, last medication administered, lifetime medication administered, feed type, last training date, and injury history. I may have missed some in there, and then of course you have the jockey’s stats and horse’s starting odds.
I’ve learned from my early years at Rockingham Park, there’s one statistic the paper won’t tell you. One important fact about each horse that can ultimately determine its result in the next race. A factor that’s nearly impossible to report in any written media, as the timing of such an event in the horse’s lifetime needs measuring in mere milliseconds. That event, of course, is when the horse last took a dump.
It was the first time I had gone to the park with Dave and my dad. I had been several times before as a younger kid, which at the time meant all I really understood was how pretty the horsies were. In later years we’d run around the park looking at discarded bet tickets, hoping some dummy tossed a winner by mistake. My uncle owned a horse that raced several times at the park as a “trotter” (the jockey sits in a sort-of carriage behind the horse instead of on the horse itself), which partly influenced why we went to the park so often. Or it could’ve been that it was a place the mom’s hated to go. Or the gambling.
As I was getting old enough now to understand more about the intricacies of horse racing science and lore, my dad slammed down in front of me his heavily written-on cut-out from the Boston Globe racing section and his copy of the racing program he bought for a dollar at the entrance (which has yet more information). As the next race was about to post, he showed us the stats for each horse and how to interpret them.
As we yawned our way through my dad’s explanations of this dying art form, he threw us for a loop and let us pick a horse to bet on which he’d place for us. Dave and I were as giddy as, well, a couple of kids betting on horses. We thought carefully through all of the information presented to us on the racing form, the Globe and my father’s wisdom. As we took our own notes in our own copy of the racing form, we hashed through a multitude of calculations — so much to consider, and only two minutes to post time!
As Dave and I stared at the final result of our calculations, we nodded in agreement and finally agreed to base our pick on one long-standing and, what we thought, reliable fact: the horse’s name. In this case, she was Luck O’ The Irish.
Quickly my father ran off to place the bets as Dave and I hopped over to the stable where the horses were kept before the race. There she was, number eight, Luck O’ The Irish. Going at 7-1 odds, and the laugh my dad gave as we uttered our pick, didn’t seem to bother us.
The horses started to make their way to the track. Just as Luck’s first leg touched the soft soil of the track, there she blew. To this day I don’t think I’ve seen a larger keester cake taken by man nor beast. She just stopped in her tracks and let it all go, shuddered a bit (as, y’know, some people do after they take a good satisfying shite), and continued on with perhaps a little more pep in her step. I had a newfound respect for the term “horseshit”.
A few people laughed at the sight, but they didn’t seem to realize that they just witnessed the one thing that would determine that race. Luck O’ The Irish did indeed win that day, and Dave and I walked away rich men ($35.73).
We visited the park a few more times after that night when ol’ Luck was running, and on the nights she felt particularly regular we profited, and on those rare constipated nights, we left with lighter wallets. There was no doubt that we had been witnessing a higher power at work.
“Ah hah!” Dave shouted as he jammed his finger into the paper. “She’s a-runnin’!”
Sure enough, our girl was running again that night. We circled the race time and, silently, we both said a little prayer to the laxitive God.
I snatched the paper from the table, folded it up under my arm, and marched with a smile to the bathroom. This dump was in her honor tonight.
