The rail used to be the place where the regulars met, where a person went to catch up on gossip, to borrow some information or some money, to see which jockey looked like Lee Marvin in "Cat Ballou," a film in which he and his horse were both loaded and spent time leaning up against buildings for support.
The rail was where imperfect strangers quickly became like close friends, where a person might spill his guts out to somebody he had never met, explaining who he liked in the next race, why he liked it, and why he needed the money so desperately. The rail was where superstitions were set into motion. If you won a big bet standing 35 paces up the track with half a cup of beer, that's exactly where you went the next time you needed some money. It's where the art of the horse race track was found, black and white photographs of somebody bent over and looking through discarded tickets, or railing at the Objection sign, or rechecking tickets one last time, hoping a number or two had mysteriously changed.
Railbirds have become an endangered species.
It is possible to become a serious horse handicapper without seeing a live race in person. About the only place a horse player gets a perk is at home with wagering services offering free money to be bet online. The hook at the live races is scenery at a spa-type environment where it's often like the red carpet walk out at the rail.
It is possible to become a serious horse handicapper without seeing a live race in person. About the only place a horse player gets a perk is at home with wagering services offering free money to be bet online.
The last time I was at the rail, a woman asked if I would gently rock her baby in a stroller while she changed the diaper of another one on a picnic table. She wasn't at the rail to handicap the horses. She and her family were there because the price was right with free admission. Their oldest son wanted a horse for his birthday and they were there to check out the species.
The time before last when I was at a rail, I almost ran over a man on crutches. The rail used to be a place where freedom of expression could be practiced without fear, where if your horse was on top or making a serious move coming off the turn you could run with him toward the finish line. The next to last time by the rail, a man with a cast on a foot poked at me with a crutch and two people asked me if I would watch my language. Who knows what they were at the rail for, certainly not fun. I apologized for the language slip, saying that too much home wagering had caused it.
Tracks without perks like scenery or weather are like the cheap football bowls where camera crews are hard-pressed to show punts and passes without exposing all the empty seats behind the ball. They use the creative blur. There doesn't have to be anybody in the stands for money to be made. Advertisers and good TV ratings make up for the absence of bowl fans; and you don't have to be there to gamble on horse races.
Many former railbirds are practicing what they learned in rehab. They're playing the horses in a sterile environment at home online and have nobody to blame but themselves. They're playing the slots and drinking cheap drinks and cussing Pete Carroll.
Who are the railbirds now? They're family. Or they're dating. They're drinking soft drinks. They handicap off the program. They're picking up the cups and putting them in the garbage cans. They're betting two bucks here and there.
To get an authentic feel of a horse race track, you have to go inside and watch the next race on a screen by the beer stand.