It is the winter of 1973. Spurning Mr. Edwards’ social studies class (that’s what they called history then), I fake an early dismissal slip (actually, my wisdom tooth was fine, thank you) from that bastion of higher learning known as Oak Glen. Braving harsh elements, I thumb a ride to Waterford Park.
Nearly frostbitten from covering the last leg on foot-rt 2 winds through the valley about six-furlongs (even then, I measured my world in horseracing increments) from the oval proper- I walk into a wonderland of high spirits and body heat.
Immediately, I’m immersed in that distinctive buzz that rises from big crowds of people who are exactly where they want to be. Folks EXPECTING something to happen. Housewives (whose babies, presumably, need new shoes), executives playing hooky from the office, handicappers straining to solve flesh and blood puzzles, and of course, the ever-present hustlers lured by the scent of money. And square peg sixteen year olds in pursuit of a purpose.
People for whom The Waltons, Sea World, meat loaf, marriage, or even illicit affairs don’t quite suffice. They seek more. What that is, they could never define. But this..this carnival of majestic creatures running as proxy for their desires in this place that feels just a bit forbidden…well, that comes close enough.
Well-served, they cluster around specialty concession stands. One counter spews strong beer into huge paper cups. Another spins thick milkshakes from real ice cream. Further down, some guy sporting a chef’s hat (and pulling it off) powders and flips fresh pizza dough while barking instructions for the prep of to-die-for sausage sandwiches.
Both crowded levels, grandstand and mezzanine, have endless rows of tellers deft at moving long lines. From their machines clamor thick tickets stamped with quick-fix hopes and dreams. Restless souls brandish them as proud, sturdy flags of opinion-and the pursuit, of more.
Fast forward to last Tuesday. I am trackside at Mountaineer’s hated competitor Mahoning Valley Racecourse (and casino..there’s ALWAYS a casino). One glum mutuel clerk scans “Better Homes and Gardens.” A single concession stand offers cheese crackers and small bottles of Coke Zero. I think payment hinged on the honor system. (there WAS a box…)
Somebody tell Iran not to waste a drone. Casualty counts would unlikely make the news. Apathy hangs almost thick enough to slow down the pretty horses cutting circular paths through indifferent air. I’ve seen more lively hospices. No hustler in the habit of eating would even waste time here. The vibe feels like a sequel to The Walking Dead; I half expect Norman Reedus to pop up.
Even the crabby old guys (pot, meet kettle) who used to sit around a big round table and shoot me dirty looks all day have made like party guests in a Vincent Price movie. Elvis has left the building.
Look, I am a hardcore horse bettor with laser focus. But I can’t take THIS mausoleum, this mockery of the treasured memories I came to relive.
Whoever said you can never go home again wasn’t wrong-at least if you’re looking for it on a drab weekday in Austintown Ohio. After just one race, I walk back to my car. It’s a short trek-maybe the length of a football field. How I wish it were six furlongs.
Interesting.Love it!Cool.
