By Alan Carasso
Strangely enough, the beginnings of my horse racing journey are tied to a racing-related contest put on by one of the local grocery chains in suburban Chicago in the 1970s where you'd watch a short clip at 6:57 p.m. and try to match your ticket for a can of Spam or something of the like.
A few years later, a neighbor three doors down (kryptonite?) campaigned a mare called Diablo Morn with trainer Jerry McGrath, no great shakes (she finished her career 2-32, I just looked), but it gave me access to a horse owner, and another neighbor was an avid (problem?) gambler who'd place show parlays for his stepson and me in our early teens. Really, it was an electric experience.
When the ground came up easy for the 1983 Arlington Million (I lived a few furlongs from the track), I had to have a couple (literally) of bucks on Tolomeo. I wasn't wise enough to cash the exacta over John Henry.
I kind of got away from the game during my college years–did make the occasional trip to the Champaign OTB right by the Schnucks grocery store–but it wasn't until the mid-90s, after some personal turmoil that I really found racing. I hooked up with a group of guys, three at least 20 years my senior and one closer to my age, and we would congregate on the Arlington apron every Saturday morning to watch the horses run around in circles.
I think Meafara was still in training then, all the good Irish Acres horses for Noel Hickey, etc. The coffee was really bad, but the company wasn't. Watched Mariah's Storm beat Serena's Song at Turfway Park. Then there was July 11, 1996. Cigar. Packed grandstand. Magical moment.
That summer, the dean of Chicago turf writers Dave Feldman recommended a bet–a big one–on Wekiva Springs in the Suburban, I think. Paid four bucks. Remember watching Serena getting run down by Mahogany Hall in the '96 Whitney after looking home free.
My dad passed away in early 1998 and I was set to make a move to this part of the country minus a job when out of the blue the phone rang from the strange area code 908. May as well have been Timbuktu, but it was Coastal Jersey and some woman called Sue Finley was asking if they could fly me out for an interview. Um, what's happening here? Watched Coronado's Quest win that year's Haskell with Shug in the TDN box. German major notwithstanding (I'm not kidding), she and Barry Weisbord hired me four weeks later, God only knows why. Twenty-six years later I'm still getting paid to do this. Whoda thunk it?
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