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A sunny winter afternoon with what might be the most photogenic of sports. By Chris Erskine
"I won at Santa Anita the other day. Ditched my Racing Form, which only fills my head with too much biography bloodlines, sperm counts and did what I always do: prowled the paddock area in search of smart investments and a jockey on a roll.
To my mind, horses ridden by hot jockeys always perform 25% better, so I locate a steed on the verge of contending, circle his number in my program, then realize the horse is making clicking sounds, as if his dentures are coming loose. Click. Click. Click-click-click-click-click-click....
"That's the horse for me," I thought to myself, then bet the milk money. The only way I could've been more excited was if my horse had a neck brace.
February leaves us all champing at the bit filled with those inferior indoor sports so what better place to find ourselves than at Santa Anita Park on a sunny afternoon. What a beautiful location for a cemetery.
But I come to praise horse racing, not bury it. Certain sports are capable of running their fingers through your soul, and this is one of them. When cinematographers pass out, they must conjure soft-focus dreams of 4 p.m. turf races here in Arcadia. At least I do.
I mean, if horse racing isn't our most photogenic sport, what is? Golf? Greco-Roman wrestling?
Ice skating and skiing are the only sports that might compare, and last I checked there was no wagering there. At Santa Anita, they have a million ways to lose your money, all very legal.
The other day, between races, I bet on which tractor would finish grooming the track first. It was a $2 exacta, paid $25.80 but not to me. I blame the jockey, who lost it at the wire.
Santa Anita is the color of scarves, a LeRoy Neiman painting sprung to life. Augusta greens. Bloody mary reds. Compared to a racetrack, the rest of the world lives in the milky gray of the agate pages.
The other day I rented "Secretariat" the movie, not the horse and found it to be rather wooden and bloodless, all the things that real horse racing is not. Diane Lane seemed to approach her role as if in fear of breaking a facial muscle. For the record, I didn't much like the script either.
But horse racing I like deeply, something I've been following since the '60s. I went as a kid with my parents, went years later as a novice newspaperman at a point in life where I had to hit the trifecta if I wanted a decent dinner.
Now, if you're wagering in hopes of eating, the one thing you probably don't want to do is bet the trifecta: the first three horses in the exact order. But I did and won. Sometimes the devil is subtle, sometimes not. But that's the sort of positive/negative reinforcement I'll always succumb to. Been hooked on horses ever since.
Up in the Turf Club this day, Jimmy O'Hara is seating customers the way he has for 36 years, making a life of small talk and funny asides. By the way, I'm pretty sure the Turf Club is the only place you can wear a fedora and not look like the target of a federal inquiry.
Speaking of government, Bar Rock Omama goes off at 2-1 in the second race, leads most of the way and finishes second to First Settler, who lost the blinkers and won the race.
Lower down, closer to the Bolsheviks, track trumpeter Jay Cohen is serenading the crowd before the fourth race. Cohen's been playing this joint for 24 years. Unlike most racetrack bugle boys, he doesn't just launch into the usual "Call to the Post"; instead, he noodles around with "Black Magic Woman" or "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," then segues into the fanfare itself. Frequently, there is applause.
"It was a fluke," the former high school band teacher says of first getting the job. "I'm positive I got it because I was closest in size to the uniform."
Since then, he's been in 42 TV shows and movies, including "60 Minutes" and "Seabiscuit." He also does a dozen funerals a year gratis for folks who'd been affiliated with the track.
More often, he plays "Happy Birthday" to patrons between races, moving comfortably on the peripherals of sport the way sportscasters, valets, maitre d's and bookies do. Counting their lucky charms, happy just to be a part of things.
Click-click-click....
Yep, I won at Santa Anita this day. Hit one winner, overpaid for a beer. Came away feeling like a billion bucks.
I don't know how much the world loses if racetracks go away. Only the greatest ambience in sports. Only the link to a more genteel era a segue to a past as lush and graceful as Cohen's silver-plated horn.
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