Opinion

We loosely called ourselves the “OTB Club.”

At various times of the week, when all our classes for the day at Castleton State College were finished, we’d pile in the car and make the 20-minute drive across the state line to catch the races at the Whitehall OTB. Located up on a hill on Route 18 across from a cemetery, the OTB parlor shared space with a restaurant and bar.

The trips have simply gotten harder to make. Miles, Annie, farm, expectations, life… 

My first Breeders’ Cup lit up my world, 1997. I figured I could break even if I bought a plane ticket, slept on a couch and wrote a feature about jockeys for The Blood-Horse. Skip Away won the Classic with Mike Smith. I spent the afternoon in the jocks’ room and wound up with a honorable mention for the Eclipse Award – and better yet –  I broke even on the trip 

Saturday. Far Hills Steeplechase. Finally writing about a big day for Riverdee and SWC Bloodstock. I should have banged it out from the top of the hill, the car ride home or at least Sunday morning when it was fresh and immediate. Ah well, as the great Rich Rosenbush told me many years ago, “Stop apologizing for writing – or not writing – and write.” 

I don’t see enough horses. I don’t write enough. Two problems I need to correct. I simply make more money selling horses than I do writing about horses. Not that I like the former more than I like the latter, but it’s the simple truth of life at 45. Maybe it’ll change some day. But, for now, it’s reality.

Sorry, it’s been a while. Took a break after Saratoga. A big, long, welcoming break.

You know it’s fall when you wind up in a field on a Saturday, watching horses run and jump. Shawan Downs put on a stellar show Saturday, hosting seven races over ground listed as “good.” The description might have been a stretch, but there was a cut in the ground and it made a big difference to the racing. Horses made divots. Yes, divots. One faller all day, and he jumped up and ran off. Fun day at the races.

Every year, without fail, there is some spectacular material that never makes it to the pages of The Saratoga Special.

I can take down the seven pieces of paper taped to my office wall. They list, in various forms: Times Union PDF file specifications, a slew of contact numbers at the printer, the complete advertising schedules of iStable (until it changed) and Maestro’s, less-detailed advertising schedules for Brisnet, Fasig-Tipton, Keeneland, West Point Thoroughbreds and WinStar Farm, Times Union file-name specifications and very detailed instructions (which I forgot) on how to upload our digital editions. 

“If we had a boss…” Tom Law began.

And I cut him off, which I’m prone to do. Looking back on it, I have no idea what he was going to say, but I knew what I was going to say.

“If we had a boss . . . they wouldn’t let us do this. They wouldn’t let us do any of this,” I said, as we drove our golf cart through the harness track looking for Desmond Farrell, Lars Becdelamotte, Bill Hickey, Eddie Miller, Joe Parker and any other little guy for the Little Guy Stable Tour (see page 7). “They’d have us maximizing revenue, filing reports for HR and holding editorial planning meetings. They definitely wouldn’t have let us run a 5K this morning, with one more paper still to go.”

We’d sleep in the living room, at least, try to sleep. Somehow, we thought it was better to sleep downstairs, on couches and two chairs pushed together, better to slip out in the middle of the night. Pillows, blankets, duffel bags ready to go. Dad woke us up at midnight. He always shipped at night, better for the horses.

Richard Farquhar, dressed in tweeds with a pint of Guinness in his hand, said he was going to “walk the courses” for charity.

I looked at him, a pint of Guinness in my hand, and thought ‘that’s cool, you’re going to walk once around each racecourse in England for charity.’ Like tossing a dollar in the bucket on the way out of the races, a token gesture, a conscience clearer, an effort but not an exploit. Then he explained further, that it was going to take 13 months, covering 3,000 miles.

I dropped my Guinness.