By Jane Hill
The calendar rolls around. It’s June. A couple of texts are exchanged. “See you soon,” and anticipation builds. The older I get, the faster Saratoga comes around again.
As married couples go, we are frequently together, and we have rules and rituals that minimize conflict. Heading to Saratoga to play the races is no exception.
We’ve refined our methodology over the last 25 years. There is a list of crucial gear to pack.
The PPs are printed at home, but ONLY if the post position numbers are available. Laser printer in the car? Check. That heavy duty stapler and staples? Yup. You’ve got to be able to staple those thick Saturday cards as one unit.
Staying in Albany means saving money and bankroll, but it also means travel time.
The alarm is set for 8 a.m. to allow time for a hearty breakfast in Latham before heading north. That breakfast needs to last all day.
With luck, we park on East Avenue. Hit Gate A about a minute or two after it opens, give a hearty hello to the lovely lady in the booth whose son is going to graduate this year and scan the pass.
Striding to our “neighborhood,” we stake our claim in the usual spot. It’s hardly prime real estate, but it’s not without its admirers. Under the grandstand, down by the steps up to the security office, behind that tent that used to struggle to find an identity – it’s the Saratoga boonies. It couldn’t look bleaker. Grimy, worn red seats – cast off from Aqueduct years ago – and second-string TVs. It’s our slum, and it’s home. Cherished turf that has borne witness to the birth of a track “family,” a fellowship of the hopeful, that grows by accretion year after year.
We saw each other for years in the 00s, nodding and smiling and eavesdropping in hopes of picking up a name, or the name of a pick.
One year it was suddenly the right time to share who we were, where we were from. The “who do you like?” chatter evolved to include sharing of frustration at field size, rides and prices. Years rolled by. Handicapping hits and blunders are bandied about as we roam to the apron and back again to study. Over time, the spot fires of hot-blooded frustration and bursts of sincere celebration forged real ties between us.
Did you have it?
Nice.
You?
Too bad.
Get ‘em next time.
Turn the page.
Oh geez.
Another maiden race.
Let’s go watch ’em walk in.
Rituals are noted and respected, as are favorite locations. All it takes is a quick glance to know Dave needs some space. Jim hasn’t finished going through the sheets yet. And don’t look for Andy at his chair until closer to post; he’s by the horse path with his PPs, cooling off and greeting the next field coming over from the backstretch, looking for a turf hoof. Dapples galore on the nine. That crew is dressed up today. Interesting.
About 20 years ago I started to make a calendar from the pictures I took from the stretch and around the track. One year I made extras and mailed them to a few stalwarts. Today my list keeps lengthening, but I welcome that. It’s a labor of love. It keeps us in touch. New Jersey, Connecticut, Syracuse, Canajoharie, Springfield, Troy, Fort Edward, Clifton Park, Voorheesville, Saratoga Springs. As we relive the special horses of last year, we turn our thoughts to next July.
Last year there was talk of our gritty area being renovated into a restaurant for the posh day-trippers. When we arrived this year and saw the same dirty red chairs, Jim’s rocks-turned-paperweights still there at the foot of the grandstand riser, and a generally spectacular lack of progress in improving our neighborhood, we breathed a collective sigh of relief. It’s OK as is. It suits us fine.
Time to relax and enjoy another year of fellowship and get to know each other even better.
The friends I’ve made by talking through picks, commiserating over trips and battling head-to-head in the Low Roller are as varied as this year’s flavors at Stewart’s. It’s always reassuring to come around the corner from the apron and see everyone’s heads down over the next race. If they have hope, why shouldn’t I?
Sometimes I need a freshening and stay home for a weekend. The thing is, though – there aren’t any Breeders’ Cup or Triple Crown runners to be found in my backyard.
Hey, did you remember to put the camera in the car?
Jane Hill, a guest handicapper in The Saratoga Special way back when, has been a Saratoga regular since 2001. Sadly, Jane reported after she submitted this column that one of the members of her crew passed away June 30.
“His name was Walter (aka Wally.) He sported a cigar, a distinctive gait and a propensity for playing the 4. He will be toasted in perpetuity, and his numbers boxed with some regularity, in tribute.”
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