Red Delicious

Oil on wood panel 12"x16" 2007

Rain in the Lights - a short story

© Jive Dadson 1998, 2008

There's slop and then there's slop. Take that Friday night back in January at Bay Meadows. It was misty, not rainy like the day races earlier that week. The slop took on a whole new personality. I had to figure it out. Just two races left, and I hadn't cashed a ticket all night. I hadn't cashed a ticket Thursday or Wednesday either. I needed me a winner, I can tell you that.

I saw Bobby Pearson, a trainer. Nice guy, Bobby. He let me hang out around his barn on the back side a couple of weeks before. He said if I ever hit a big pick six, he wanted to claim a horse for me, and I said, "Hell, Bobby, we'll claim two or three."

The truth is, I just like to hang out back there. I like the austere old cafe (the "kitchen"), the little tailor's shop where the woman makes the racing silks, the goats and chickens that they keep as pets for the horses. I like to watch the early morning gallops. There's an exercise rider who stands up in the stirrups and sings while he rides. He's damned good, too. Last time he was singing something about when he was a lad, he was "an office boy for an attorney's firm". Hell, I even like the smells, if you can believe that.

I say "Bobby". He's "Robert L. Pearson" on the racing form, but everyone calls him Bobby. I think he's more horseman than businessman. I never saw him in a business suit like some trainers wear. Bobby always wears an ironed white shirt, with the collar open. Some of the shirts are frayed at the cuffs, but he uses heavy starch, so it's not so noticeable. When he's on the front side, he wears his newest Wrangler jeans, with starch and a crease. He's got tooled leather boots, and he polishes over the scuffs. He doesn't use a hat, even in the January rain. Fact is, Bobby wouldn't have any problem landing a job modeling those blue jeans for magazine ads, but he would find the idea plain ridiculous, I can tell you that.

Bobby was at his usual spot, on the porch outside the clubhouse. The location is convenient, being near the top of the stairs that go down to the paddock, and it's dry. There are eaves that protect some TV monitors from the rain and all. You can see things in the TV replays that you miss with binoculars. It's the best place to watch from, no doubt about it.

Bobby had a filly, Beyond Reproach, entered in the last race, the ninth. On the form, she looked pretty hopeless. Too bad. Bobby needed him a winner too. He's a good trainer, I can tell you that, but sometimes things just don't go your way.

The eighth was coming up. That was the feature, but it was only a "non-winners of two other than" allowance race, not a stakes race or an overnight handicap. They don't run the best horses on Friday nights. It's dollar beer night, and sometimes there's a band.

I said, "Hey, Bobby. Who do you like in the eighth? You looking at maybe claiming one if it drops down?"

Bobby said, "Probably not. I like to get horses with conditions left. I don't usually like them if they drop from allowance to claiming races. Nowhere to go but down."

No doubt that's absolutely true, but still, most of his are claimers that won't ever win another allowance race.

I asked, "What do you think about Golden Knight?"

Bobby said, "Well, he's the speed."

I said, "Yeah, he figures to get loose on the lead. That's been good all week, but that's daytime, and it rained. I mean when one got loose on the lead he ran off and won for fun. But I don't know. It's night and it's just kind of misting. The horses are bogging down. Front runners are tiring bad, I can tell you that."

He said, "Well, you're the handicapper."

I continued to make the case for and against. "Golden Knight ran in the slop twice this month, and he beat some horses that looked every bit a good as these."

"Yeah, some of those could run a little."

I said, "But you know what? There's been seven races tonight, and not one horse that stayed close to the lead finished in the money. Golden Knight always goes to the front."

Bobby said, "Yeah. He'll shake loose of this bunch, no doubt about that."

I said, "He's got fair to middling mud breeding. Maybe he'll take hold of this slop. What do you think? On top, you got Tough Knight, which isn't too bad. And he's out of a Search For Gold mare."

Bobby said, "Well, I'm just going to watch. I don't ever bet. My filly's by the same sire. Maybe if Golden Knight can grab this track, mine can too, right? You tell me. I'm a lousy handicapper."

"Sure, Bobby. If you say so. You don't know which end bites and which end farts."

He smiled just a bit.

I said, "Well, good luck in the ninth."

He said, "Thanks. I've only had the filly a couple of days. I don't know what kind of form she's in."

I thought to myself, "Well Bobby, I think I know," but saying that would have been rude.

Instead, "Well," I said, "I'm going to go down to the paddock and count their feet."

I took about four steps before a man's voice stopped me.

"Pardon me, sir. Could I ask a favor of you?"

I had barely noticed him before, standing alone a few feet from Bobby and me, near the glass doors to the clubhouse. He was a black man, thin, perhaps 60 years old. He wore an old fashion tan suit. It didn't show much wear, so I guessed it had hung in the Goodwill store for some years. I've had suits like that, but to tell you the truth, I didn't always press them as neatly. He wore a white shirt and a maroon, patterned silk tie. On his head was a homburg with a small maroon feather in the band. There was something about the way he stood. I remember thinking he carried himself like a diplomat. Hell, I've never even seen a diplomat. I wouldn't know a diplomat if he bit me on the ankle.

I said, "Sure. What can I do for you?"

He said, "I hate to bother you, but could you tell me a horse to bet on?"

Notice, he didn't say, "Could you give me a horse?" or "Who do you like?" He said, "Tell me a horse to bet on." He wasn't carrying a racing form, a tout sheet, or even a program. I recognized the slip of paper that he had in his hand. It was a train schedule. The train stops right outside the front side entrance to the track.

I said, "Well to tell you the truth, I think I'm just going to watch this one myself. It's pretty tough."

He said, "I certainly would appreciate it. Just tell me a horse to bet on."

I said, "Maybe you should ask someone with a stronger opinion. Like I said, I don't think I'll even bet myself."

He glanced at the clock and then at the train schedule. He said, "Look, I really would appreciate it very much. If the horse loses, it's not your fault. Just tell me one."

"You need you a winner, huh?"

He just looked at me, waiting.

I said, "Okay. Look. I think Golden Knight has a shot at it. He's not a bad price. Five to two, right now. That might even go up. But look, it's no sure thing, I can tell you that."

He said, "Oh, thank you very much. Now tell me, which one is Golden Knight?"

"Number three."

"Thank you again. I really do appreciate it."

"You know it's no sure thing."

"Thank you very much. I hope you have a wonderful evening."

I didn't see anything in the paddock -- not enough to throw a horse out, that's for sure. None of them were acting fractious. No kidney sweat. No kicking. I didn't see any ears pinned back. Their eyes all looked clear. No heads pulling down from the rein to favor a sore leg. No walking short. Nothing. None of them looked really on the muscle either. They just looked like allowance horses.

I returned to the porch, but I didn't talk with Bobby again, not right away. At some point you just got to shut up and think.

As the eighth neared, the odds on Golden Knight, the crowd's second choice on the tote board, stayed at 5 to 2, a marginal overlay at best, I figured. Maybe Golden Knight would not get the easy lead I expected. If he did, he might fade like all the other front runners that night.

I turned my attention again to the ninth. Perhaps I should play the late daily double, singling Golden Knight. Maybe there was some value there. Of the eight horses remaining in the ninth after scratches, most had never won in any manner except wire to wire. Of those that had come from slightly off the pace in some race or another, all but a couple had won most recently in wire-to-wire style. The pace battle up front figured to be intense. Bobby didn't seem wildly enthusiastic about his new filly. I searched for a horse, any horse, that might stay out of the speed fight, and pass the tiring front runners at the finish. It was a difficult search. I found one "maybe".

She was Sauce Boat, a five year old mare trained by Jim Wellington. Jim Wellington is a force to be reckoned with. He'll claim a dull looking horse from a top trainer, jump it in class and win next time out.

There are those who raise their eyebrows or put on a face of worldly cynicism when that fact is mentioned, but there are others who say it's because his wife hand-feeds the horses, takes them for gallops in the country, and generally makes them feel like celebrities, or at least pets.

Another theory is that the rider change from the ample-figured Mrs. Wellington to a tiny jockey is like a baseball hitter removing the lead donut from the bat. Of course I would not be rude enough to suggest that. Whatever the reason, I watch out when Jim Wellington class-jumps a horse. Sauce Boat was coming off two efforts that didn't look all that great, but Wellington was jumping from $6250 to $8000 in claiming price, and I wanted to play that angle. Besides, Sauce Boat's most recent win, three back, had come from off the pace, and she had even beaten some she was running against that Friday night.

After Sauce Boat, it was hard to make a second pick. Raindrop had a lot of heart, but the wrong running style. While she had won from off the pace back in August, she was coming off of a wire-to-wire win in which she was ridden by Hermanos Nunez. Now, I have learned a thing or two. To a gambler, knowledge is like money in the bank. I've learned never to trust jockeys to adapt to conditions, or to take instructions like they should. They never take instructions like they should. Nunez had won with the horse last time out by going to the front. He was riding her again in that slop, and he would almost certainly take her to the front again. Still, if any front runner did hang on, it just might be Raindrop. Sauce Boat had beaten her in that one three races back, but Sauce Boat might really be off form. The claiming game is like poker, and there's no law that says Jim Wellington can only class jump horses that have hidden form. He might be playing cagey, really hoping someone would claim her. He's a force to be reckoned with.

I bought a small double, hooking Golden Knight in the eighth to Sauce Boat and Raindrop in the ninth.

With the tickets in my wallet, safe and dry, I once again thought about Bobby's filly, Beyond Reproach. She had officially been four years old for thirteen days. Yeah, it was Friday the thirteenth of January, but I'm not superstitious. She was entered in a race open to older mares. That's not generally good. Off the form alone I might not have given her a second glance. She was shipping in from the So Cal circuit, where her form had darkened real bad. Three months back in October she had defeated three year old $20,000 claimers. After two decent but declining races at that level, she dropped in class, and they risked her to be claimed for $12,500. She lost by 15 lengths in that race, badly outrun from gate to wire. Nobody claimed her, even at that deflated price. She only had nineteen days rest since her last race, one she lost by 13 lengths at a $16,000 claiming tag. Nineteen days off probably meant there was something wrong, but that's not long enough to recover from a nagging aliment like a bowed tendon or bucked shins. Maybe it was something not too bad.

I remembered the TV simulcast of that last race down south all too well. I had bet on the filly that finished first, My New Slew, but she was disqualified by the stewards, who thought she had caused a bad mishap. In fact My New Slew had been running well wide of the pack throughout. Some other horse had caused it. The owners of My New Slew won an appeal that drug on for months, and they got awarded the first place prize money. The bettors like me, who backed her, were just out of luck.

I hadn't paid any attention to Beyond Reproach in that race. Almost no one else did either. She had gone to post at odds of 83 to 1.

The drop to $8000 claiming did not look like the magic potion to wake up Beyond Reproach. Shippers from So Cal are usually over-bet anyway. The tote board had Beyond Reproach at current odds of seventeen to one. That might change, but probably not by much. I might have put her at, oh I don't know, forty to one. The Daily Racing Form comment contained few words of encouragement, "... has been dull lately and meets a field of older horses that can run a bit; Wouldn't say she's hopeless, but not as probable as it might appear." I wonder just how probable he thought that was.

I said, "Bobby, you know, no front-running horse has hung on all night. It's been a while, but yours has won down south from off the pace. It's none of my business, but have you given the jockey any instructions?"

Bobby said, "No. I'm just going to let him try to win the race."

I was so focused on what I was thinking that the concession of inside information in that statement flew right over my head. I know better than to try to pump him, but that was freely offered: The horse was well-intended. But then I figured that anyway. I just didn't know if she had a prayer in hell.

The jockey was listed as "D. Rudman". I had never heard of him, and he had not had a single mount at Bay Meadows throughout the whole season, now a hundred race days old, and very near the end. I asked who he was and Bobby said he bought his contract from some basketball team. Ha ha. Good one, Bobby. He said the name of the team, but I forget it.

I said, "You know Bobby, the winners have all been running up the outside, but that's just because that's where they've been running. The inside is actually real good. If you tell that jockey to lay off the pace and save ground on the rail, those cheap horses will absolutely lug out on the turn and let you through, I can tell you that. All the tired horses have been lugging out all night. You can shoot through with a bar room passage and pick them up in the lane."

I made a motion with my hand, illustrating the winning method.

"Just shoot up the rail, huh?" He echoed the hand motion.

"Yep," I said. "They'll lug out in this slop. They'll be tired. I guarantee it."

The horses were loading for the eighth. We paused to watch.

The gates sprang open, and Golden Knight shot to the lead. He was not challenged early, and opened up by seven lengths, just strolling. He held that lead to the three-sixteenths pole. Almost home. But at the one eighth pole, you could see that he was getting real tired. He had defeated the ones that tried to stay even remotely in contact with him, but some horse from far off the pace was passing all those at an alarming rate. It was the six, the favorite.

With the two favorites battling it out, there was a lot of screaming going on.

"Come on with that six horse!"

"Hold on three. Hold on three. Hold on threeeeeee. Hold on baby!"

"Let'im go. Let'im GO! HIT THAT DAMNED SIX HORSE!"

Then there were the slappers. They just take their rolled up programs and slap their thighs, harder and harder. Pow! Pow! Pow! I never figured out why they do that, but every track has slappers.

At the sixteenth pole the six horse had closed to within two lengths.

"Come on with that six horse! Come on with that six horse!"

"Hold on threeeeeee! Hold on threeeeeeee!"

I saw the man in the tan suit. He wasn't screaming. He just stood and watched, like the real handicappers do. Like a handicapper, he hadn't made his bet for a thrill.

Golden Knight staggered on, yard by yard. The jockey pushed on the horse's neck in rhythm with the ever-shortening strides. As they got to the wire, the jockey pushed down hard on his neck, trying to get it stretched out, like a human sprinter leaning into the wire. Good jockeys do that. He could sense it was going to be close. The six horse caught up at the wire and blew past Golden Knight, whoosh! It was too close to call which one hit the wire first. We would have to wait for the photo to find out.

Bobby said, "Well, I got to go saddle my filly. Good luck."

I said, "Good luck to you too, Bobby."

Waiting for a photo is time in limbo. It seems to drag out forever. You watch the two numbers flash on the tote board. You stare at the letters flashing "PHOTO", "PHOTO", "PHOTO".

It took a long time.

A guy on my left said, "It must be a dead heat." Someone always says that when the photo takes a long time.

As it turned out, Golden Knight was judged the winner, although the resolution of the TV screen was not good enough to see it in the photo. It sure looked like a dead heat. He must have won by about a quarter of an inch. For me to win any photo is a major miracle. I once went oh-for-seventeen in photos. But by golly, I won this one. I hadn't won any actual money yet, but I was live to two horses in the double. I had Sauce Boat and Raindrop.

I turned to look at the man in the tan suit. He was looking at me and smiling. I signaled a thumbs up. He touched the brim of his hat and nodded his head once. I watched him walk through the glass doors to the cashier's cage. I haven't seen him since.

I bought some more tickets for the ninth, but there was no way I was going to bet on Bobby's horse. I wasn't going to become one of those woebegone backside touts with blue plaid pants and a wrinkled brown plaid jacket and bad teeth who are always tearing up tickets on some hopeless nag just because they know the connections, I can tell you that.

I went down to the saddling ring again. It's indoors, under the grandstand. There are pictures of jockeys who rode there decades ago, pictures of the silks worn by the riders of big money winners, echoes of more glorious days. The great Sea Biscuit raced and won at Bay Meadows more than fifty years ago.

There weren't many people on the concrete step-risers provided for onlookers. Most of the crowd, small to begin with, had left after the feature. The last race is always one of the cheapest on the card.

As we looked at the fillies and mares walk around the ring, a man on my left said, "What a bunch of nags, huh? Man, this is a sorry lot."

I don't know what got in to me. I'm not one to go popping my mouth off, I can tell you that. But I had to set this guy straight.

I explained, "You see these horses here? Every one of them has won a race. Most thoroughbreds, if they even get to the racetrack at all, never win a race. These horses all have pedigrees that trace back through 300 hundred years of selective breeding for speed, and endurance. And courage. These horses have courage. They are descendents of the Darley Arabian, the Godolphin Barb and the Byerly Turk. They can run three quarters of a mile only three or four seconds slower than the fastest horse that ever raced. These are magnificent animals."

He didn't say a word, but I kind of think he may have looked at them a little different. I thought I made a pretty good speech.

I watched the race from the porch, but I gave Bobby plenty of room. There's times you need to give a guy some room.

I got to admit, that new jockey, D. Rudman, rode like a consummate pro. He got that filly out of the gate clean. He kept his knees up and his butt down, and moved in perfect rhythm with his mount. He hugged the rail and laid four lengths off the pace around the turn. Half way around the turn it started to rain. I could see the jockey tearing off layers of clear plastic film from his goggles as they became caked with mud. As the horses fanned out into the stretch, he didn't try to swing wide. He hugged the rail and moved up into the pocket, sitting chilly. He was like ice. I knew it was all over. I had already seen this race run in my mind, before the eighth. Beyond Reproach was behind a line of four horses, side by side. Directly in front of her was the brave Raindrop, tired but battling gamely. As they negotiated the turn, the three outside horses all lugged out, and Beyond Reproach shot into the breech as they fell back. Raindrop took the turn well and battled on, but it was a lost cause. Beating the other speed horses on that tiring, sloppy track had cost her too much. Beyond Reproach pulled away in the two-path as Raindrop finally had to give way for the win, although she hung tough for the place. I never saw Sauce Boat. She was probably "still running", as the saying goes, when the backers of Beyond Reproach were stepping to the window with their tickets, purchased for two dollars and now redeemable for forty dollars and twenty cents.

I turned in Bobby's direction to say congratulations, but he was already headed downstairs to get his picture taken.

It was late and it was now raining pretty hard. The few winners were inside at the windows, cashing their tickets and telling jokes. Those who didn't win in the ninth, all except me, were in the parking lot.

The track announcer on the loudspeaker said, "Your attention please. There was a claim in the ninth race. Sauce Boat was claimed from trainer Jim Wellington by trainer Orville Smith for the new owner Herbert L. Templeton, for a claiming price of eight thousand dollars."

I walked to the rail surrounding the winner's circle. The owners of Beyond Reproach were nowhere to be seen. There were no well dressed ladies with fancy hats in the winner's circle, no swirling troops of young nieces and nephews. There was no one there but Bobby, the jockey D. Rudman, the photographer, and the filly Beyond Reproach. What a lonely vision of victory! Rain in the lights.

I called out to Bobby, "Please tell me you didn't talk to the jockey. Please!"

He almost broke his face grinning.

He yelled back, "Sure I did. You're the handicapper!"

He made the motion with his hand.

I had to grin too. I scattered my tickets into the wind and rain. A line from a poem I read long ago came to mind. "Roses, roses, cast riotously to the throng". They landed in a puddle on the asphalt. I turned my face up to the rain, opened my mouth, and laughed out loud.