First Bet, Not the Last
Once I got my first taste of a win,
it all made sense. The thrill of a risk
being rewarded sparked a thirst for more.
The pavilion rumbled with activity
the first call of the bugler, people in large hats
and jewelry took their seats in the shaded grandstands,
the rest of us, in our running shoes or work boots
stayed down in the free area, closer to the action.
We inhaled the atmosphere of the freshly pressed dirt
on the track, could almost smell the adrenaline
dripping off the jockeys and horses as they gathered
into the starting gate stalls.
And then they were off.
A flash of the announcer’s narration over the speakers,
exchanges of blue, white, black, then red taking the lead,
my winning formation, then someone else’s,
and someone else’s, then mine again.
Tracking numbers and colors and names.
Lady Chrome, Flying Fury, Moral Dilemma.
They ran side-by-side, neck-and-neck.
With a photo finish, the winners were confirmed
and the numbers on my ticket—my first bet—
matched the order of the orange-dot lights
on the tote board. A $3 trifecta bet won me $72.
That cash handed to me with a smile
from the old man at the teller window
was all it took. I was hooked.
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