The Derby as seen from Beulah Park
By ITCH
It’s Derby Day and here we are at Beulah Park in Grove City, Ohio, a place that is both dingy and beautiful.
They just ran the ninth, and I got shut out, which is nice. Because I would have bet the 1, and he got beat by the 4/5 chalk.
The 7 he was, rolling home clear to a decent roar, nothing like the roar that will be heard in Louisville in about 45 minutes.
A lady behind me here in this ancient grandstand says, “I got it, I got it to show.”
Some feller yells out a whoop and grabs his girl by the ass. “Told you, honey,” he says, Budweiser in the other hand.
It is confusion and cheap beer that rule the day here in Ohio. Cheap beer for $4 a pop, that is.
The guy in the Elvis sunglasses and flipflops holds no program. Neither does his buddy holding the hot dog. Wonder who they like in the Derby?
Here come the Beulah twins, gussied up in black. This is one day they have some competition for hottest hottie at Beulah. Truth is, the years here picking the winners of Ohio-bred $3,500 claimers are taking their toll on the twins. One of them walks arm in arm with a guy wearing a T-shirt that says: “Goph — ur self.”
Half an hour to the Derby now. I’ve already got Sweetnorthernsaint and Brother Derek in the future book. For my on-track action, I’m taking a swing at the trifecta with the two deep closers: Steppenwolfer and Jazil. I make five trifecta boxes at a cost of $30: 127,128, 12-11, 12-17 and 12-18.
One or two more lukewarm Budweisers, and they’re off!
A great roar goes up. People start screaming for their horse. “Come on 9!” “Come on 5!”
Nobody knows where their horse is. Nobody knows who the winner was.
“Who was it?” says some bleary-eyed college kid next to me.
“Barbaro,” I say.
“Bargaro?” he asks.
“No, Barbaro.”
He’s still confused.
An elderly gentlemen taps me on the shoulder.
“My wife bought a 1-8 exacta box. Does she win?”
“No, the 1 did not run second,” I say.
“But, she had the 1,” he says.
“Well, right, so did I, and I know he didn’t run second. I’m sorry to be the bearer of sad news, but no, she doesn’t win.”
“What if she had the quiniela?”
Ugh.
Time to head back to Gallipolis.