Track meet

The Belmont Stakes is this weekend. As fate would have it, I was there last weekend.

Belmont is on the verge of liquidation and looked it, which conversely made it an emminently desirable locale for a lazy Sunday afternoon. Our private picnic area was right on the fence, and the 30 minutes between each race provided numerous opportunities for exploration.

The track was built for large crowds that no longer come. Today whole sections of the grandstand are closed off. Hundreds of betting windows formerly staffed by human beings are now occupied by ATM-like betting machines. The sparse crowd clusters toward the middle of the grandstand above the finish line. I wandered up to the second deck and situated myself within earshot of a group of older New Yawkers drinking Bud and talking New Yawk talk: "I tol' my boss f--- your overtime, I'm going to da track. Lookadat! That f---in' horse is a f---in' nag!"

A barbershop still operates on ground level under the grandstand. Amazingly, a patron was getting his hair cut as I passed. You have to think someone who gets their hair cut at the track is either at the track a lot, or has been getting their hair cut there since 1962, or both.

Wikipedia says Belmont is "considered one of the elite racetracks in the sport." If that's true the sport is in very sad shape indeed. For my part, I lost everything (i.e., $10) by betting in each race on the horse whose name most sounded like a cocktail. But I did come away with this conversation, overheard on the bus out through Queens:

Son: “Where’s Mike’s sister?”

Father: “She went home early. Her partner just had a baby.”

[Pause.]

Son: “Howzzat possible?”

Father: “They bought sperm.”

[Long, considered pause.]

Son: “Huh.”

Father: “I’d like to get into THAT business.”

A funny comment, I thought, on the way to a racetrack.

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Please let me know if you will or will not be playing hoops at St. John tomorrow. Post time is at 8:00 a.m.