Fraters Libertas

So Many Ponies

As my colleagues in the Northern Alliance were engaged in an entertaining debate on the merits of “Afternoon Delight” and “Billy, Don’t Be A Hero” on AM1280 The Patriot yesterday, I was busy riding the moral roller coaster from the dizzying heights of childish innocence down to the darkest depths of human depravity.

The day began at a local indoor park and play area where the lovely Atomizerette and I joined my niece in celebrating her seventh birthday. The event consisted of watching dozens of children (and several adults) scamper through a gigantic padded jungle gym for nearly two hours with only a couple of brief rest periods; one to feast upon a rock-hard ice cream cake decorated with the likeness of resurrected Japanese uber-feline Hello Kitty and the other for the requisite gift opening session in which several My Little Pony themed trinkets were freed from their brightly colored wrappings and plastic cages to start them upon their magical journey from objects of wonderment and glee to ruthlessly discarded playthings strewn about the floor impeding the Warrior Monk’s midnight trip to the bathroom.

There was laughter and there were tears. There was the joy of innocent children celebrating another milepost in a young child’s march towards teen status...and dating, and driving dad’s car and staying out until all hours of the night without even thinking of calling home and telling the parents when they can expect to hear the reassuring sound of the front door deadbolt slowly pulling back into the jamb (good luck with...all that, Monk and Eloise).

After taking my leave from this celebration, I found my way to the local den of iniquity known as Canterbury Park. Saturday was Kentucky Derby Day, you see, and I had received a tip on a sure-thing from my favorite amateur oddsmaker...known here only as Earl. He had clued me in on a horse named Smarty Jones nearly a month previous.

As a precaution (Earl’s judgement has a tendency to be somewhat suspect, at times), I had done some cursory research on the three year old Pennsylvania colt. It turns out that he is a mudder. I don’t know if his father was a mudder (or even if mother was a mudder) but what I did discover was that Smarty Jones loves the slop and the track at Churchill Downs was expected to have slop in spades, if I was to believe the morning weather reports. I had no choice but to act on this information since if this horse were to emerge victorious without the burden of my wager on his back, I would have been beside myself...and I know from countless comments of those closest to me that this is not always a pleasant thing.

So, just a few hours removed from my niece beginning her eighth year surrounded by a team of little purple ponies and her giggling and innocently rambunctious playmates, I found myself in line at the betting window staring down at my wallet debating with myself on how much of its contents I was willing to wager on one of eighteen thoroughbreds that were about to race seven furlongs towards either ignoble defeat and almost certain anonymity or a triumphal blanket of roses.

Around me were thousands of other bettors chomping on cigars and cigarettes, swilling beer and stuffing hot dogs down their gullets. Piles of worthless betting slips and Daily Racing Forms littered the floors and tabletops and while there was an air of hope amidst the crowd, the stench of desperation and defeat hung close behind. The contrast was striking.

There was laughter and there were tears. There is now an extra $160 in my wallet. All I can say is...you gotta love those ponies.