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Overview
Mike Helm's entertaining behind-the-scenes study A Breed Apart takes the dedicated horse-player right to tracks.
Readers will Jack Kaenel, who booted Aloma's Ruler to victory in the Preakness, and Chuck Jenda, who trained Brown Bess to an Eclipse Award. These and many other professionals are by your side as races are analyzed, bets placed, and questions answered about everything from claiming races, turf versus dirt, drugs, fixed races, and more. This informed look at the sport of kings offers information unavailable from any other source.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781627797078 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Holt, Henry & Company, Inc. |
| Publication date: | 06/23/2015 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 326 |
| File size: | 417 KB |
About the Author
Mike Helm is the author of Bred to Run. His other books include Exploring Pedigree Handicapping's Newest Frontier and A Breed Apart: The Horses and the Players.
Read an Excerpt
A Breed Apart
The Horses and the Players
By Mike Helm
Henry Holt and Company
Copyright © 1991 Michael HelmAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-62779-707-8
CHAPTER 1
IN THE GRANDSTAND
It was a glorious spring morning, and Panama and I were soaking up the sun at Golden Gate Fields an hour or so before post time. Behind us San Francisco Bay glistened like a million-carat jewel and the Golden Gate Bridge seemed close enough to touch. Our spirits were bolstered because the track had been playing fast and there were a couple of horses we liked. With us was Panama's sidekick Ed, a blues critic and first-time horseplayer from west Texas.
Though it was early, we weren't alone. Scattered about the grandstand were several dozen other early birds. Some were loners, while others like us made up small clusters of friends. We were all diligently studying our Daily Racing Forms and trying — like rabbinical students reading their Bibles — to divine the future. Only in our case, prophecy involved the modest hope that we pick a few winners and break even; more ambitiously, that we catch a long-shot exacta or daily double and put a dent in our credit cards; or — the ultimate horseplayer-goes-to-heaven fantasy — that we hit the Pick Six and pay off the mortgage.
* * *
Besides the seductive challenge of winning some money, the racetrack has other allures for the confirmed horseplayer. Near the top is the fact that it's a great escape. However fleeting and illusory, you are momentarily free. Though horseplayers compete against each other for a cut of the pari-mutuel pool, that doesn't prevent them from enjoying each other's company. There is an irreverent camaraderie at the track that is largely missing in outside life. In fact, it's not unusual for one handicapper who's just met another to say, "You like the one horse? I like the two horse. Hey, why don't we split a one-two exacta box?" And they do.
There is also a scholarly side to handicapping that attracts a diversity of talents. Fans with a mathematical bent play horses by the numbers and spend hours composing elaborate speed figures and track variants. Genetically inclined students of the game trace and assert the importance of pedigrees and breeding nicks. Video freaks watch the reruns in hope of spotting a troubled horse whose ability is better than would otherwise appear in the Racing Form. Amateur kinesiologists study the body language of each horse, while would-be criminologists study the workout and past performances to ferret out a trainer's cagey intent. The simple truth about the appeal of horse racing is that it is the most complex and interesting form of gambling.
For our part, Panama and I have been pondering the Racing Form and playing horses for a number of years. We've read the handicapping books, dabbled in speed figures, watched the reruns for troubled trips, and studied trainer patterns as clues to picking winners. Still, we stopped short of becoming professional handicappers because we realized that path runs the considerable risk of turning a pleasure into a full-time, low-paying job.
These days we're generally content to bring around fifty bucks to the track and have a good time. This, of course, doesn't mean we've abandoned our interest in coming home winners and improving our handicapping skills. It just means that even when we lose we consider playing the horses a lot more fun than blowing a comparable amount in some other more socially acceptable pursuit. More than once I've heard Panama disarm a critic of horse racing by saying, "You think the horses are a waste of money and time? Compared to what? Listen, by the time you buy a ticket to a 49er or Warriors game, pay for parking and food, you're going to spend at least fifty bucks. And after the game, what do you have left? Horse racing's got some tradition, it goes back hundreds of years, probably to the dawn of civilization. At its best, you get to see one of nature's fastest and most majestic animals run and compete. You get the thrill of watching an Affirmed and Alydar, Alysheba and Ferdinand, Sunday Silence and Easy Goer duel down the stretch with a ten-spot on their nose. And the jockeys who ride them are unmatched as athletes. It takes intelligence to play the horses. It's not just a passive spectator sport. Every race tests your powers of observation and analysis, as well as your intuition. And the bottom line is, if you exercise a little restraint, you have a decent chance of coming home with more money than you left with."
* * *
Panama's friend Ed had heard a version of this spiel, too, and it was one of the reasons he had decided to tag along. While he listened in, Panama and I focused our attention on the upcoming daily double. We had already gone over our Racing Forms the night before and made our tentative picks for the first and second races, but we enjoyed the leisurely pace of arriving early and comparing notes.
It's always a pleasure to glance at Panama's Racing Form and see the artistic way he has marked it up with his set of color-coded pens. Like many handicappers he has invented his own arcane geometry. Circles mean one thing, boxes another, squiggly lines, stars, and so forth yet another. Out of sloth or perhaps a sparer spirit, I stick to a single pen in recording my own hieroglyphics.
Panama and I take turns sharing insights into each race, because there is so much information buried in the Racing Form that often one of us gleans a significant nugget that the other has missed. When there are several contending horses in the double we sometimes pool our bets to cut down on the initial overhead. If our opinions are too far apart, we just go our own ways.
One thing is for sure though: hard experience has taught us to go easy on the double. Too much enthusiasm early on and you can wind up tapped out later in the card when there is a race you particularly like and want to play. Also, it is prudent to check for any changes in the running surface before wagering much of your bank, because track conditions vary notoriously from day to day. Different horses, as the saying goes, truly like different courses.
After considering our options for the double, Panama and I decided to pool our bets and play a modest eight-dollar combination. We chose two horses, No Illusions and Pleasantly Naughty, in the first race and hooked each of them up to two other horses, Winged Idol and The Irish Look, in the second. There was a lot of early speed in the first race, and we figured it would set up for a couple of horses who could close from behind. In the second race, we picked two front-runners, figuring that one of them might forget to quit. Our payback, according to the pari-mutuel prices listed on the tote board, would range anywhere from twenty-five to seventy-five dollars. The final payoff would depend upon how many dollars the public had bet on the winning combination in the pari-mutuel pool.
It is a delightful peculiarity of horse racing and the pari-mutuel betting system that the odds on a horse in any specific race are determined not by the house but by the wagering of the fans, and that big money works against itself by lowering the odds. Each handicapper in the grandstand is literally betting his or her judgment against that of everyone else. The fewer dollars bet out of the total pool on a particular horse or combination, like the daily double, the longer the odds and the higher the payoff. A horse becomes a favorite and gets the lowest odds on the board simply because more money has been wagered on it than any other horse in the race. Since favorites win only a third of the time, the perceptive or lucky gambler can go against the collective sentiments of the crowd and often be rewarded handsomely for doing so. Of course, there are all kinds of long shots. There are nonfavorites that "figure," and horses that haven't won a race since they last outran the cows.
Ed, who had been listening dubiously to our speculation about early speed, quitters, and closers in the daily double, finally summoned up a judgment. "No Illusions, indeed," he drawled in reference to the first of our selections. "I think I'll just skip the first two races, watch them blackbirds peck through the manure out there on the track, and see what happens to your money."
Panama nudged me in the ribs and said, "Pay no attention to Ed here. He's like all those Cajun blues singers, full of suspicion and complaint."
But before Ed could reply, the bugler signaled the beginning of the first race, and the horses began to file out of the paddock. Our attention immediately swung out to the track. Post parade time! That most seductive moment for a horseplayer, when the horses snort and prance in front of the grandstand and the jockeys bob in their saddles. The moment when the anticipation and adrenaline sweetly build, the cheeks flush, the breath shortens, the fingers itch, the heart skips a beat, and a horseplayer's in love again. Regardless of how badly he may have fared on his last visit, the first race offers the possibility of redemption and renewal. It signifies a new day and confirms the horseplayer's ultimate mantra, "There's always fresh."
In the post parade our two choices, Pleasantly Naughty and No Illusions — a couple of six-year-old mares — seemed alert and ready to run. No Illusions did, however, have bandages wrapped around her front legs, and that concerned us. We wondered whether she had some tendon problems, or if the trainer had wrapped her up to pump up the odds and scare away any other trainer from "claiming" her out of the race. But, since her recent races had been pretty good, we decided to stay with her.
When I returned from placing our bets, Frisco had joined us just in time to play the double. He was breathing hard because he had sprinted in from the parking lot. "Man, I just got down," he croaked. "This sure beats the daily grind! I just had to get out. I couldn't deal with one more five-year growth plan. I needed the company of some fellow degenerates!"
A transplanted street artist/grant hustler from the Bronx, Frisco delights in puncturing the pretensions of San Franciscans by referring to their fair city as Frisco — hence the moniker we have given him. Like a lot of artist types, Frisco has a love-hate relationship with the philistines he has to raise cash from and exorcises the money demon by throwing a few dollars at the horses. And, like many people, Frisco also loves to be right, which means he tends to play "the chalk," or favorites.
There was a delay at the starting gate for the first leg of the double, so I took the opportunity to explain the conditions of the first race to Ed. It was a bottom-of-the-barrel $6,250 "claiming" race for female horses, and only fillies and mares four years old and up were eligible to run in it. The fact it was a claiming race meant that any horse entered into the race could be purchased for the stated value of the race.
"What?" Ed asked incredulously. "You mean, if she's my horse and she's in a claiming race, I have to sell her to anyone who wants her?"
"That's right," I explained. "Owners who enter their horses in claiming races enter them for a 'tag' with the full knowledge they may lose them. All that is required to claim a horse is a valid owner's license, the conviction the horse is worth the claiming price, and a strongbox full of cash deposited twenty minutes before the race — no checks are accepted. If an owner doesn't want to risk losing his horse, he shouldn't enter it in a claiming race."
We had been waiting impatiently for the horses to break from the gate when the track loudspeakers blared out, "Ladies and gentlemen, by recommendation of the track veterinarian and order of the stewards, the number three horse, No Illusions, has been declared a nonstarter. There will be a slight delay, and cash refunds are now available at the windows."
"Damn," Frisco muttered, "I had that horse singled to three horses in the second race in the double. Still, I guess I was lucky. If they'd let the three horse run, I would have had all my money on a cripple."
Since Panama and I also had the horse, we too were relieved it had been scratched from the race. We considered switching our bets to another horse. But the lines were long, and it seemed likely we'd get shut out before placing our bets. Besides, last-minute picks, in races comprised of cheap stock, hardly ever pay off. We decided the gambling gods were sending us a message and sat on our refunds.
And a good thing, too. Two long-shot horses dropping in class from more expensive races, Chief Belle and Roxie's Ahs Lahn, won the double. The combination paid a hefty $226. But shrewder or luckier handicappers than us were the only ones who got it. Pleasantly Naughty, our lone entry in the first race, made a brief move then hung in the stretch.
* * *
Panama and I failed miserably in the third race, but Frisco caught King Skipper, the two-to-one favorite. "You guys will never learn," he crowed. "Always playing those long shots." Clamping on to our wallets, we turned our Racing Forms to the fourth race. It was a $20,000 maiden-claiming affair for three-year-old colts and geldings bred in California going six furlongs, or three-quarters of a mile. The "maiden" designation meant that none of the horses in the race had ever won a race before, at least on any recognized track. When either a male or female horse wins its first race, it "breaks its maiden," according to racetrack parlance. After that, the horse faces its sternest class jump, because it has to enter a race populated by horses all of which have won at least one race before. It takes a horse with unusual ability to go from breaking its maiden to winning its next race.
Nevertheless, Panama and I are partial to maiden races for three-year-olds in the spring, because you never know when a mystery horse will pop out of one of those races at a big price and climb the class ladder to stardom. One of the joys of being a racing fan is to catch a young horse on the way up and follow its career. Despite the best efforts of high-priced breeders, nobody knows when some ill-bred, lightly raced maiden will become a real runner. Every now and then a trainer with modest connections and an overlooked horse catches lightning in a bottle and wins the Kentucky Derby.
Panama and I felt that there were several first-time starters in the race that maybe could run. They had to beat a horse called Gray Whale, who had run a close second three times in his first six races. As we deliberated, the tractor harrows went over the track surface, smoothing it out, trying to maintain a graded consistency that wouldn't favor an inside or outside post position.
Frisco consulted his Racing Form and came up with the eight-to-five favorite, Gray Whale. "I'm playing the chalk," he asserted. "You've got to take what you can get. The horse bobbled his start last time out and still got beat only a neck. He's dropping in class to $20,000 today and should be a lock in this field."
Frisco had a good argument for Gray Whale, but by experience I am suspicious of heavy favorites that finish a close second three times in a row. Often that's a signal the horse lacks the extra heart to win. I was partial to a first-time starter called Just Deeds and pointed him out. "Hey, he's sired by Beau's Eagle, who's been getting a lot of winners lately, and his mare is Shaky Footing, whose daddy was Shecky Greene, a real speedster. Lloyd Mason sometimes hits with first-time starters, and Tommy Chapman is riding him."
Meanwhile, Panama, who works as a chef in Marin County, had riveted his attention on another first-timer, King of the Bayou, a Cajun Prince horse out of the dam (mare) Speed Queen, who was sired by Tyrant. No doubt because of some culinary and ethnic affinity to Bayou culture, Panama is partial to Cajun Prince horses when it comes to breeding. Panama's interest in King of the Bayou was also heightened by the fact he had a "bullet" workout (the fastest of the day) three days prior to the race and was being ridden by Aaron Gryder, a hot young jockey from Santa Anita. But logical or not, Panama usually stretches the odds for Cajun Prince horses. For him, unless they got beat last time by twenty lengths, they are almost an automatic bet.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from A Breed Apart by Mike Helm. Copyright © 1991 Michael Helm. Excerpted by permission of Henry Holt and Company.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents
Contents
TITLE PAGE,COPYRIGHT NOTICE,
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS,
DEDICATION,
1. IN THE GRANDSTAND,
2. WELCOME TO THE BACKSIDE,
3. PEAKS AND VALLEYS: The Trainer,
4. HAPPINESS IS A LIVE MOUNT: The Jockey,
5. AT THE RAIL: An Insider's Analysis,
6. BEHIND THE HARROWS: The Trackmen,
7. HOW SORE IS YOUR HORSE? The Track Veterinarian,
8. INQUIRY: The Steward,
9. IN THE WINNER'S CIRCLE: The Owners,
10. MATCHMAKER: The Racing Secretary,
11. WINNING PLAYERS: Playing the Odds,
INDEX,
COPYRIGHT,