It wasn’t until I read Gary West’s column in Friday’s Fort Worth Star-Telegram (motto: We proudly display a picture of the new Cowboys’ Stadium in every section every day!) that my interest was somewhat piqued. The Professor wrote of a horse with star potential: Blame.
Blame … had improved steadily so that now he could be on the cusp of becoming one of the best horses of his generation.
That’s a pretty keen observation and a strong opinion. And, admittedly, I had never heard of Blame. It had me reaching for a racing form. Regal Ransom - Blame. Blame - Regal Ransom. Simple.
A quick trip to the racetrack with whatever spare change I could scrounge out of the bottom of my purse was in order. LaD-11. 4,5 Exacta Box. Watch race. Collect winnings, if applicable. Go home and make spaghetti for dinner.
Betting made simple. That is until I ran into my friend Cece and her father’s cousin’s neighbor’s older brother, Jimmy. Or Ronnie. I can never remember his name – it’s one or the other and I interchange them frequently.
Anyway, Cece is a good handicapper, but she can get rather chatty. Prior to the Super Derby I began to listen to her opinions and strategies and race dissections until it all jumbled together into a stream of mind-numbing soundbites: “Soul Warrior is looking good … nice odds on Asmussen horses … Regal Ransom hasn’t even run since the Derby ... I don’t trust those dudes from Dubai … opportunities to beat the favorite … make money … more odds … another bourbon and coke … ”
My simple bet morphed into a bawdy burlesque show of exactas, none of which even included Regal Ransom on the top spot.
Needless to say, after the Super Derby, I looked at my little pile of losing wagers.
I broke one of my sacred rules. I made a mistake. I allowed myself to be swayed. I changed my bet. Instead of winning, I lost. I blame myself. Simple.
There's a moral to this story. And the next time I see Cece and Jimmy/Ronnie at the track, I'm sure they'll tell me what it is.