Le Weekend

For reasons I do not care to disclose, this weekend was shaping up to be horrible. Per the usual, I'm broke. (It happens when your rent suddenly and unexpectedly doubles and you decide to get the spiffy cable package because, well, because if you didn't, you'd go fucking insane with your sleepless nights and fear of the vacuum of silence.) So what was I going to do?

If my focus here from now on will probably be sport and cooking, then Friday was neither one nor the other. I knew that I wanted to wager on the Belmont, I knew that I was going to watch the Magic/Lakers game on Sunday, I knew that I was going to the NOLA Jesters game Saturday night, and I knew I was going to put in at least a cameo at Lisa's birthday bash Sunday afternoon. That is a considerable amount of dough for a broke man.

Friday I did nothing. End of.

Saturday--I will confess, I started drinking at about 9 something in the blessed a.m. I'm sorry for that. I know it is not generally accepted, nor a good idea, to do such a thing, but just understand that there was a big bowling ball headed at me, and I was the pin, and I didn't want to feel the impact. I got to see a bit of the Iran-North Korea "Irony Bowl" World Cup qualifier (something not seen since the 1998 US group featuring "the facists, the ethnic cleansers, and the fundamentalists"), I ignored the Safina French Open final (made me long for the days of the Swiss Miss because, uh, those gals were a bit tought to watch). FSU lost to Arkansas in the CWS Super Regional. Hillbillies everywhere rejoiced and had sex with a cousin to celebrate.

The focus of the day was the Belmont. I play the horses. I like it. I like it more than boxing. OK, I'm not gonna lie any more, I love horse racing. It is a mental exercise unlike anything else I know, including Civ. It is tied with cooking as the thing I really, really freaking love. I love the track, I love the study, I love sharps, I love wise guys, smart money, the Daily Racing Form, exotics, longshots, Emma Jane, a girl in New Orleans I won't name but she was a placing judge at the Fair Grounds, trainers, jockeys, writers, the two guys in the paddock who run the oyster bar...

When the Fair Grounds season ends, I feel vorklempt. I hate it. I want to watch ponies all year long. In my long gone consulting days, they put me in a hotel room overlooking Turfway Park. Before that assignment, they had sent me to Keeneland--I mean, Lexington. I drank with incredibly charming Oirish grooms (and the name grooms hides the fact that they were actually very cute girls) and dreamed of the final turn at the Bluegrass...

The Belmont, I have suddenly decided, is the real deal Triple Crown race. The distance requires a smart jock, bloodline, guts, and Woody Stephens as your trainer. Since Woody is dead, you see what you need. I love the Belmont. I hate the Kentucky Derby. I hate a field of 20 horses and jocks trying to kill each other. I hate boneheads ruining the odds. The Preakness--well, really, two weeks after the Derby? Not in this day and age. Or even just in this day. Or age.

The Belmont has become the "race of the longshot." But in my opinion, it's the "race where sharps can make some dough because a lot of dopes will bet on a potential Triple Crown winner."

When I saw the field and the post positions, I said, "Bah, I have lost many dollars on the previous TC races, I will just bet one horse, but if I were going to bet many horses, I would bet the two Birds plus Dunkirk." (OK, everybody says this in retrospect, but I actually have proof on a messageboard I post to regularly.) I knew, just like I knew in the Breeder's Classic, what horse would win. No matter what I read, I settled on Summer Bird. Friesan Fire had kicked my ass hard two races in a row. So who to bet? Who was the "invader" who would ruin the party?

How about MTB's half brother? How about a jock who had a serious fucking axe to grind, who had to listen for a year how he once again ruined a Triple Crown runner? How about a rookie trainer who had studied under some of Louisiana's best? Yeah.

I said after the Preakness that I would bet an unknown horse with a seasoned jock because that's who wins the Belmont.

Well, I didn't hit the damn tri ($295) because I didn't bet it because I didn't think I had enough money because I was going to the footie match and Lisa's party. Imagine. I didn't make a 12 dollar bet because of that, a 12 dollar bet that would have given me back 270 bucks. Oh. That hurts. Ouch. Kick me in the nards.

I did bet Summer Bird ONE ACROSS. Yeah! I did manage to turn 3 bucks into 20 thanks to that wisdom.

I told everyone I worked with "the two birds with Dunkirk."

Yeah, I'm smart. When I'm rich, I'll be smarter.