A quarter century ago, a friend, now 80, owned a few cheap horses at the Caliente racetrack, in Tijuana. That track, while it operated, was the continental home of the cheapies. (Tho in the 1930s if was host track for the final race of the legendary Phar Lap.)
I'll call him Sam. One day Sam met this guy, who was working at the Del Mar track. Del Mar, which has a 7 week meet in the summer, is one of the highest handle and most successful tracks in the country.
Sam met this guy in a South Bay bar, one frequented by horseplayers. Sam thinks someone introduced him, but his memory is not that great anymore.
In any case, the guy who had a connection to Del Mar (Sam thinks he may have been a part owner of a horse) asked Sam if he could get him a joint, since Sam had horses at Caliente, where thieves prowled openly.
A joint is a buzzer, an electrical prod that sparks a horse, and usually will make him run faster than a mere whip. These little devices, which fit snugly in a jockey's hand, are also called machines.
Sam drove him down to Tijuana, to the backside of Caliente. There, in the tack room, the guy bought his joint. He was pleased, and said he'd call Sam and give him the name of the horse on which it would be used, a few days before the race.
He was as good as his word. A week later Sam got a call from the guy. So and So in the _____ race tomorrow, at Del Mar. (Sam's memory is not that great now, and he can't recall which race it was.)
So on J-Day (joint day) Sam drives the 30 miles north to Del Mar and puts a nice piece of change on the horse, who was to be shocked into running faster than any of the studious handicappers slaving away over their Forms ever suspected it could.
The hyper beast wins laughing, paying something like $34.00.
Sam walks away with thousands.
A few weeks later the guy calls Sam and says he may have another horse, and how much would Sam be willing to bet for him?
Sam (a notorious, world-class cheapskate) answers: "Fifty dollars."
So the guy never calls back, naturally.
But what the story does illustrate is what all who know their way around the backside of any track in the land know as gospel: it's an insider's game.
The Racing Form isn't "the horseplayer's bible;" It's a way to get fools to pay for their own financial ruin.
When the Form tells me what horses running today are going to have a shocking experience, which ones have been treated to a "milkshake," which ones have enjoyed an injection of some new designer drug --- then and only then will I regularly shell out five bucks for it.
It's not just "in the bushes" that the war against the paying public takes place. It happens at all tracks, major plants as well as minor.
Each week at the the top SoCal plants it's certaian that around a dozen horses a week are being given the juice during a race. (A close friend, a long-time pony girl there, supplied me this information.)
Joints are certainly all over the place during morning works. Some horses, like some humans, are not "morning people," or "morning horses."
These sleepyheads won't train without stimulation, much as a human sleep lover can't function without morning caffeine.
The joint is a stiff cup of latte for the horse. They are known at the track as "machine horses."
A mug's game. To indulge occasionally for some cheap thrills, esp on big racing days --- hey, why not? But to put up big bucks, or spend hours converting lengths back to hundreths of a second, stuff like that. No, not worth it.
Ego being what it is, you'll find people at the track who will stoutly claim they make a good living out of betting the beetles. To question them on that point is akin to questioning their manhood.
So my answer is always, "Great, keep up the good work."
As I quickly walk away.
I'll call him Sam. One day Sam met this guy, who was working at the Del Mar track. Del Mar, which has a 7 week meet in the summer, is one of the highest handle and most successful tracks in the country.
Sam met this guy in a South Bay bar, one frequented by horseplayers. Sam thinks someone introduced him, but his memory is not that great anymore.
In any case, the guy who had a connection to Del Mar (Sam thinks he may have been a part owner of a horse) asked Sam if he could get him a joint, since Sam had horses at Caliente, where thieves prowled openly.
A joint is a buzzer, an electrical prod that sparks a horse, and usually will make him run faster than a mere whip. These little devices, which fit snugly in a jockey's hand, are also called machines.
Sam drove him down to Tijuana, to the backside of Caliente. There, in the tack room, the guy bought his joint. He was pleased, and said he'd call Sam and give him the name of the horse on which it would be used, a few days before the race.
He was as good as his word. A week later Sam got a call from the guy. So and So in the _____ race tomorrow, at Del Mar. (Sam's memory is not that great now, and he can't recall which race it was.)
So on J-Day (joint day) Sam drives the 30 miles north to Del Mar and puts a nice piece of change on the horse, who was to be shocked into running faster than any of the studious handicappers slaving away over their Forms ever suspected it could.
The hyper beast wins laughing, paying something like $34.00.
Sam walks away with thousands.
A few weeks later the guy calls Sam and says he may have another horse, and how much would Sam be willing to bet for him?
Sam (a notorious, world-class cheapskate) answers: "Fifty dollars."
So the guy never calls back, naturally.
But what the story does illustrate is what all who know their way around the backside of any track in the land know as gospel: it's an insider's game.
The Racing Form isn't "the horseplayer's bible;" It's a way to get fools to pay for their own financial ruin.
When the Form tells me what horses running today are going to have a shocking experience, which ones have been treated to a "milkshake," which ones have enjoyed an injection of some new designer drug --- then and only then will I regularly shell out five bucks for it.
It's not just "in the bushes" that the war against the paying public takes place. It happens at all tracks, major plants as well as minor.
Each week at the the top SoCal plants it's certaian that around a dozen horses a week are being given the juice during a race. (A close friend, a long-time pony girl there, supplied me this information.)
Joints are certainly all over the place during morning works. Some horses, like some humans, are not "morning people," or "morning horses."
These sleepyheads won't train without stimulation, much as a human sleep lover can't function without morning caffeine.
The joint is a stiff cup of latte for the horse. They are known at the track as "machine horses."
A mug's game. To indulge occasionally for some cheap thrills, esp on big racing days --- hey, why not? But to put up big bucks, or spend hours converting lengths back to hundreths of a second, stuff like that. No, not worth it.
Ego being what it is, you'll find people at the track who will stoutly claim they make a good living out of betting the beetles. To question them on that point is akin to questioning their manhood.
So my answer is always, "Great, keep up the good work."
As I quickly walk away.