They are the three sweetest words a horse player will ever hear: And they're off!
Once an announcer begins an excited soliloquy with those three little words, fans of thoroughbred racing know that they are in for an exciting two minutes. Unfortunately for loyalists of the venerable Fort Erie Race Track, the announcer may have uttered his last race call.
The track, founded in 1897 and the oldest in all of Canada, has been losing approximately $7 million annually over the past 3 years. As a result, track owners Nordic Gaming Corp. were faced with the prospect of closing the picturesque park for good.
Last week the Fort Erie Economic Development & Tourism Corporation (EDTC) made a stretch run effort to save the track from closing. The agency offered to buy the track and some 350 acres of surrounding real estate at a price of $35 million.
The EDTC furthermore offered to set up a not-for-profit organization to operate the park, which plays host each year to one third of the Canadian Triple Crown -- the Prince of Wales Stakes.
Nordic's ears pricked up like a bay colt making his first trip to the winner's circle. There was just one catch. The EDTC needed, by Monday, Jan. 26, a $3.2 million loan from the Province of Ontario to finalize the deal.
The Jan. 26 date is the deadline that the Ontario Racing Commission set to certify the track's 2009 schedule.
The deadline for this edition of the Reporter came before the decision was announced. At the time of this writing, it was uncertain if the province would, pun intended, pony up the funds to keep the Fort Erie track open.
Here's one man's vote to keep Fort Erie alive and well for the next generation of horse racing fans.
Thinking of the track made me think of my childhood. In particular, it brought back fond memories of my great-grandmother Helen "MeMe" Croisdale.
MeMe was born with the surname Clark. She was of Scottish origin and was, in the Mae West mold, a brassy broad.
MeMe had a lot of vices. She smoke, drank and could get feisty with the best of them. She also loved to gamble.
From as early as I can remember, she took me to bingo halls, where she would work a dauber like Denny Dent wielding a paintbrush. She seemed to win more than her fair share of jackpots, too.
Here's a story that illustrates what a tough dame MeMe was:
Sometime around our country's bicentennial, MeMe spent Saturday night playing bingo at St. Joseph's church on Pine Avenue. She hit the jackpot for $350.
In keeping with her Scots heritage, she decided to save the $3 cab fare and walk back home to her house in the 1800 block of Weston Avenue.
As she approached the intersection of 19th Street and Whitney Avenue, MeMe was knocked to the ground by two punks who had followed her home from the bingo hall.
After a mighty struggle, the pair of thugs were able to wrest away her purse. A couple patrons from a drinking establishment situated on the corner rushed out to her aid.
What they found was a 75-year-old woman lying on the ground laughing hysterically.
"Hey lady, are you OK?" one of the good Samaritans asked her.
"I'm fine, been beat up worse than those two by my dearly departed Mum."
"Why are you laughing?" asked the second Samaritan.
"Because those punks think they just stole my jackpot money, but the only thing in that purse is my rain bonnet and some bingo chips."
Like any smart cookie, MeMe had made a trip into the ladies room at the bingo hall before leaving and tucked her winnings into her bra.
But I digress. Besides bingo, MeMe loved to play the horses. We took many trips across the border to watch the races at Fort Erie.
MeMe, her son Gerald and I would sit up in the stands and take in a spectacle full of sight, smells and sound.
It was there that I learned to read a racing form. My grandfather showed me how to highlight a horse stepping down in class or weight. He taught me the nuances of picking speed horses on a clear day and mudders when the skies were cold and gray. I learned how to track the jockey's record or the success of the breeding stable.
While my grandfather was teaching me an elaborate system of handicapping, MeMe was schooling me in a far simpler system. For her, there were just two factors in choosing what horse would cross the finish line first. She picked her bets based on the horse's number and the color of the jockey's silks. That's it.
The funny thing is that for all his science, my grandfather rarely outdid his mother at the track. Just like at bingo, MeMe won more than she lost at the track.
I did OK because I bet what she did. She would give me $2 per race to wager. It wasn't uncommon for me to have $50 or more in my pocket at the end of the last race.
For me, the day wasn't so much about wagering as it was about experiencing all the nuances of the track.
First of all, my ritual called for buying a hot dog. My grandfather used to joke that the hot dogs were last week's losers, but I swear I've never had a better frankfurter.
With my appetite sated, I could get down to the business of horse racing. I loved to watch the horses enter the track. I was always interested to see if a horse was jittery or calm.
Once the race was under way, I would run down to a spot at the fence right by the wire. As the announcer called the race, I would listen intently for my horse to get a call. I would beat myself with a rolled-up program, using it like a jockey's whip in hopes of willing my horse to victory.
To this day, I can hear the crowd as the horses neared the finish line. The second the race ended, there were opposing reactions at opposite ends of the emotional spectrum.
For the majority, the losers, there was immediate despair, usually displayed with audible swearing and calls to send their losing nag straight to the glue factory.
For the winning minority, there were whoops of glee, followed by a quick sprint to the wagering window to cash the winning ticket.
The funny thing is that I've only been to the track a handful of times as an adult.
Take that for what it's worth, as I'm sure most psychologists would say I was predisposed to be a hardcore gambler based on my upbringing.
Maybe I'm part of the problem the track is facing. After all, if someone practically raised there doesn't visit, what hope is there for Fort Erie's survival?
The reality is that I'm just not much of a gambler. I'd rather put my money in the bank and "win" some interest the old-fashioned way.
That said, if Fort Erie Race Track lives to see another season, I'm going to make a point of going and taking my 7-year-old son along.
I'll teach him how to read a race form, but tell him to bet his favorite number and color. I'll keep the seat next to us open. I'm pretty sure that a certain tough old broad will be there with us -- if only in spirit.
| Niagara Falls Reporter | www.niagarafallsreporter.com | January 27 2009 |