pet connection

Harness racing has been going on at Cal Expo, the California state fair grounds, for decades. My first job there, at 15, was as a junior apprentice pizza maker, and I still remember exactly how many pepperoni slices I was to count onto every pie — 16.

In those days, the harness racers used to draw pretty decent crowds and even had races that counted, setting world records for the pacing mile. The Cal Expo facility was still relatively new, and although designed to look like a government bunker and built on what was likely a low-bid state contract, there seemed to be some effort put into making the place inviting.

No more.

With government budgets the way they are, the racetrack isn’t holding up too well. The whole place looks sad and run down, and the “feature” race was for $4,500 claimers. To judge by the scene around the winner’s circle, most of the people in attendance — a couple hundred, tops, not counting those in the simulcast center, betting on races elsewhere — were either horse owners or the relatives of the drivers and trainers. The rest of the crowd was mostly a smattering of people in their late teens and early twenties, lured by the cheap evening — and they weren’t even paying attention to the races.

Pretty clear that if it weren’t for simulcast wagering, there wouldn’t be races at Cal Expo at all.

Still, my brother and I had a good time. For us it was like having our own personal race track — a picnic table next to the winner’s circle and our own parimutuel clerk, no lines. The nasty track food wasn’t worth the risk to try, but the outrider remembered me from the night at the river, and we chatted between races. Really, we should go more often. My house is so close to the fairgrounds that I can see the glow from the night-racing lights from my back deck.

But, I’m burying the lede, as we used to say in the journalism business (or what’s left of it, anyway).

My brother Joe is an amazing handicapper, and I have never been to the track when he hasn’t walked out ahead. He reads the chart and has his own system, and tends to prefer class-droppers and closers. (I have no facility and not much interest in gambling, so I generally don’t play. I’m there to watch horses. I read the charts and handicap the races, but I rarely put money down.)

He was hot last night, cashed tickets after every race except one and walked out with enough money that our budget-crunched and canceled trip to Del Mar, originally scheduled for next weekend, is back on again. (We were planning to just eat the tickets we bought, for the races and for a Padres game. Now we’ll be using them after all.)

We’ll be driving a tester I’ve long looked forward to seeing, the Mini Cooper Clubman, and we’ll be hooking up with some of our owner and trainer friends.

I suppose I should be somewhat alarmed that my brother’s such a good horse-player, but surprisingly, I am not. (I guess it’s only a problem if you’re a BAD horse-player!)

We’re off to Del Mar.