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May 2003
Channeling the Hound
There's the story of a guy named Louie. A guy that regulars at the track
called The Hound. Some said he earned that name because of his bulbous,
WC Fields' sized nose and baggy, saddlebag cheeks. Others said it was
because he had earned the reputation of smelling a loser from a mile
away.
The Hound was a legend at the racetrack. A guy who told stories of
great defeats (validated) and huge payoffs (never validated). In a race
with a few live long shots, bettors would seek out The Hound not for
his sage advice or handicapping prowess, but to eliminate his choice.
It was not an uncommon site, seconds after the horses hit the finish
line, to see The Hound ripping up his betting slips into the tiniest
of fragments and hurling them up high over his head, the tiny pieces
of paper lodging into his wicker hat and cascading like ticker tape
around his rainbow patterned plaid pants and penny loafers. But then
he would smile, congratulate the winners and go about solving the next
equine puzzle.
On a late spring afternoon at Belmont Park years ago, despite losing
the first four races of that day's card, The Hound was in great spirits.
Earlier that morning, he had purchased a ticket to Louisville. In a
few weeks he was going to live out a life long dream, attending his
very first Kentucky Derby.
After best wishes and handshakes were handed out, we congregated by
the rail to watch the next race. The Hound, as per usual, took his position
about 25 feet away from the rest of the crowd. As the horses hit the
top of the stretch, a woman screamed, but with the outcome still to
be decided, not many people took notice. It wasn't until after the winner
was determined and losers began muttering to themselves that someone
gasped, "The Hound!" And there he was, lying on the ground,
hand at his heart, still clutching his tickets, white and lifeless.
You know what happened then. The anger, the rationalization. The conversation
turned to how cruel life can be. How this guy, who lived to be a rail-bird
could be taken weeks before his first trip to the high church of thoroughbred
racing. Then again, he did die in his "home." This is the
way he would have wanted to go, someone consoled.
Right then, a man who was an acquaintance of The Hound leaned over
the body and gazed silently. He looked at his face, which seemed locked
in a grin, and then down to his hand over his heart. His eyes stayed
focused on that spot for what seemed like a long minute and then he
started shaking his head.
He stood back up, turned to the crowd and said, "It's so tragic."
We all stared at our shoes, nodding.
"No," he continued, "you don't understand. He had the winner
in the 5th."
It was then that I made a pact with my buddy. First, If he ever saw
me in plaid pants, he had the right to shoot me between the eyes and
second, that we would go to the Derby as soon as possible and place
a couple of sawbucks on a long-shot in honor of The Hound.
In the years that have passed I have attended many Derbies. And I now
know why it was a destination of desire for The Hound. It's a simple
thing. A throwback to simpler times. Whether it's the men dressed to
the nines in their best Sunday wear, the women in their swankiest dresses
and bonnets, the singing of the ancient and moving My Old Kentucky Home,
this is America without the modern day complexities. A microcosm of
what the world should be like. It's people together, with nary a care.
It's beautiful athletes who never ask to be traded, never look for a
raise and never commit a crime. It's no wonder The Hound couldn't wait
to get there. It was his Oz.
Recently, while visiting Belmont Park again, I was introduced to a
middle aged man who looked very familiar. It was The Hound's son. He
told me that upon gathering his father's possessions, he found a stack
of hundred dollar bills hidden beneath the mattress in his bedroom.
Nearly ten grand bound by a rubber band, wrapped by a piece of paper
that read "KD #5". Using the Hound's airline ticket, the son
traveled to the Derby and put the whole wad on the number 5 horse, which
won at 11-1 odds. Do the math.
"My father," he told me, "died with a winning ticket
in his hand and an airline ticket to his paradise in his pocket. Can
you see how perfect that is? You know anyone who lived and died that
happy?"
Enjoy the Issue,
Richard Botto,
Editor in Chief / CEO of RAZOR Magazine - The Definitive Men's Lifestyle Magazine
www.razormagazine.com
