Saturday, July 31, 2010

Stupid, NYRA, Stupid

It’s a long standing tradition for the track to sponsor a Give-A-Way when some nearly worthless promotional item draws people to come to the races. The idea is that once they are there, they will place a few bets adding to the take. In past years, stein mugs, collector plates, blankets, coolers, chairs and umbrellas sporting the Saratoga Track logo have been featured. Nice items indeed. But as the economy soured, and the New York Racing Association moved closer to bankruptcy the items have been come less frequent and cheesier if not suspect of being made by child labor in some third world country like Honduras or Pakistan.

Recently – like Thursday – the track gave away a thin white t-shirt with a single color logo that wasn’t even Saratoga red. Okay it was a St Patrick’s Day celebration in July. And the people came, as usual, even on the unusual Thursday Give-A-Away. (It’s normally Sunday.)

I always said that if I ran the Zoo, this is how I would do it, but, yesterday was a clear illustration that I’m not in charge. Nevertheless, as it was I stood before the not so happy public as a public relations disaster unfolded.

As a Peace Officer without a permanent post, I get assigned to fill unmanned spots or special situations. Give-A-Ways are special situations. My first duty was to assist in directing the flow of humanity that seeped toward the tables where boxes of t-shirts were stacked. Here patrons redeemed their vouchers received free at the gate with paid admission. Managing the crowd was like fighting an oil spill with a dishrag. People disregarded instructions to exit left insisting on going out the entrance or by ducking under the yellow rope, as useless as a containment boom in a hurricane. They grumbled about the long wait, seeming unaware of the fact that no one required them to stand in line and get the t-shirt. Very optional. A free choice. Admission is just Three Dollars! There is no requirement that forced them to get one give-a-way, let along an arm load of them. Grumble, grumble, nevertheless.

Upon receiving the shirt many will unfold and inspect the item to consider the hell they just went through measured against the value of value of the shirt. Trust me it doesn't hold.

But this was the unfolding PR nightmare. On any Give-A-Way Day the track can expect forty to fifty thousand. The long standing tradition is those enterprising if not totally greedy individuals who “spin”, that is those who repeatedly go through the turnstiles gathering vouchers for the give-a-way. It mobs the gates. So a few years ago the track set up a multiple ticket booth inside where the admitted public could buy five-at-a-time vouchers. Of course people “spin” at the booth and collect upwards to fifty or more vouchers. You’ll see people leaving the track with arm loads give-a-way items. Once the vouchers are gone not even those who come in with paid admission can get a voucher. In Thursday's case they had only 18,000 vouchers. The spinners gobbled them up by 12:05 pm.

I watched the t-shirt supply dwindle by 1:30 pm. Yet, a lot of people with multiple vouchers were still coming for t-shirts. Not wanting to catch their wrath when they discovered no more t-shirts, I began to back away, but the sergeant corraled five of us to be stationed behind the tables where the irate and stressed customer service people were handing out shirts one at a time. The mob of now anxious and desperate shoved vouchers at the customer service personnel. A few managed to get on the other side of the tables. Images of Haitian refugees waiting for food floated through my head. Sad, but this crowd was mad, not starving. Lots of pushing and shoving. Shouting and complaining. A few actually did a snatch and run, grabbing a shirt offered to another. Too much paperwork for the sergeants to engage in a pursuit.

Once the last shirt was gone the customer service people disappeared and five guards were left standing to answer questions about a situation we had nothing to do with.
“I bought all these vouchers, where do I get my money back?” It’s like betting on a horse...
“I didn’t get a vouchers, how do I get a shirt?” You don’t.
“How come you gave out more vouchers than t-shirts?” If I’m wearing this uniform you think I had anything to do with that?
“What do you mean there are no more t-shirts? I got a bus load of people who need t-shirts.” Are they naked?
“My dad has been getting t-shirts for fifty years. You people should know better.” You’d think your dad would have enough t-shirts by now.

Okay, that was what I was thinking.

Security guards get lots of questions, mostly about the location of the nearest bathroom. It got worse when the hottest tip of the day leaked that there were shirts in the Guest Services office. A mini-give-a-way ensued. I spent the rest of the afternoon among the irate individuals outside the door of Guest Services listening to them explain something that had no good explanation other than We Screwed Up.

The afternoon waned as customer complaint forms morphed faster than losing tickets on the grandstand floor. Bold Victory crossed the finish line, last horse in the last race that day. Hardly a victory for NYRA either. Yes, if I ran the Zoo, I would have done this differently. If I indeed ran the Zoo, I’d take every one of those complaints, call the person and invite them back to the track on one special day for a private party hosted At The Rail and take my lumps. Wasting an opportunity to make amends is worse than making a disaster in the first place.

By the way, if you didn’t get that t-shirt, it is now on sale for $12.50 on Ebay. Here’s the link.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Where's Joe?

By the end of the fifth race I started to believe I stood in the place of a legend. I was at the historic Saratoga Race Track, the place of racing greats like Man O War, Sea Hero, Gallant Fox and well, somehow, Joe fit into the tradition.

Not Injun Charlie. Joe. Just plain old Joe. Everyone – and as a writer I know never to use the extremes like never and every, but I’m not exaggerating – everyone asked me where Joe was. They assumed I knew. Few know that there are over 200 security personnel at the track. Everyone (oops) assumes we know each other. It’s kind of like assuming everyone (oops, again) who comes to the track knows who Sea Biscuit was. Anyway, I began to pretend I knew Joe too, rather than I look like a fool. Turned out it was easier to pretend than to explain I didn’t know.

My assignment was on the fourth floor of the Clubhouse, the upscale seating a horseshoe toss from the finish line. Table linens, waiters dressed in black and white, over priced shrimp cocktails, and stray pigeons in the rafters. But a great view of the green turf courses, the infield lake speckled with geese and a heart stopping vantage to see your horse miss by a nose. Perched at this elevation are the race stewards, the press and Tom Durkin calling each race. My duties: keep out the riff-raff, the impostors and anyone violating the long standing rule – no short. It’s hardly enforced accept when you’re going to eat and I’m on the job.

It began as soon as they stepped off the elevator. “Where’s Joe, the guy who was here last year?” I politely shrugged a reply as I opened the gate for a couple fire marshals with the tough tour of hanging around the air conditioned hallway leading to the announcer’s booth.

The wait staff, his pants rippled over the top of his shoes like the neck of a Shar-Pei and his shirt hung like a sail without wind offered an explanation, “He said he wasn’t coming back. Said it was his last year last year.”

“Gee, imagine that,” responded one of the fire marshals. “Joe finally got sick of the place.”

“Good for him.” His companion said, like Joe just robbed the mutuel bay, made off to Florida, sticking it to The Man.

I settled into my post to find out more about Joe. "Been here for three years." "Been here since 2001." "Been here ever since I was here. 15 years." Throughout the afternoon, I wove pieces of information together and later bounced my theories around when asked.

“What happened to Joe?”

Deciding to offer some good news about Joe I said, “Retired to Florida.”

The man dressed in a yellow plaid jacket grabbed his heart. He staggered, but looked relieved, Fred Sanford style. “Whew, I thought maybe he died. Joe has been here for 28 years.” That number increased as the afternoon's card dwindled. I finally pegged the number of years Joe sat outside the elevator door at thirty-two. I would be lucky to be back there the next day. When asked if I would be Joe’s replacement I said, “For today.”

I bet Joe knew the details of each person who worked there. Kid’s names. Spouse. Where they had gone to school. Where they lived in the off season. Medical ailments and other aches and pains. Whether they voted for Nixon. Yankee or Red Sox fan. Joe had been on a personal detail gathering mission of 32 years. Yet, only the kid with the shirt tail knew Joe wasn’t coming back. Only he paid attention to what Joe had said.

After all the inquiries about Joe, I felt a little like the last race’s losing ticket crumpled, tossed and trampled beneath humanity's driving urge to continual move ahead. They accepted Joe’s absence too easily. A few shook my hand, introduced themselves with an expectation that I was to remember them. After all, they will be back tomorrow.

I walked through the grandstand after the races. No more crowds, stewards, or wait staff. Tom Durkin had jumped on his yellow scooter and headed off for a cold one. Spanish conversations accompanied the swishing sounds of brooms. Dust rose in the air. Tree tops captured the long afternoon rays. I thought about Joe. Thirty-two years sitting outside the elevator. I wasn’t going to come back this year. Two had been enough for me. But here I was. Could that be me three decades from now? Well, I like to be alive, but not be a security guard.

I hope you got a new dream now Joe. Good luck, where ever you are.

Sunday, July 25, 2010

Communist Among Us

Okay, okay, I’ve heard just about everyone complain how tired they are looking at Greece. It's been so long I almost forgot my UserName. So here’s the first blog about the next forty days. (You’re crazy to think I’ll write a daily blog about the going-ons at the Saratoga Race Track. I’ll leave that to the insiders like Injun Joe.)

Leaving Greece and coming back to America. I got to ask. How can you walk into a crowd of twenty thousand people who suddenly stop dead in their tracks, drop conversations and turn attention to the nearest flag as “Oh say can you see” ripples through the oaks and maples surrounding America’s premier racetrack? Only the limp flutter of Old Glory itself high above the Travers’ canoe and the pages of the New York Post reserving the benches under the mutual bay stir in the stilted summer air. The pause is as noticeable as a cough in a concert hall. Yet some will continue to meander through the hush, oblivious. It’s not surprising when a kid acts the fool, but it is curious to witness a senior clutching his absorbed thoughts as the National Anthem asks if the Flag is sill there.

Do major league ballplayers notice the Star Spangled Banner before every game or is it such a part of the 160-plus-game season that routine numbs its representation? At ten minutes before noon the Francis Scott Keys composition signals that another day of thoroughbred racing is about to begin. Post time is 1 PM, so the Anthem, played an hour before the first race catches most people off guard. At a ball game the Anthem is played just before the beginning of the game and the crowd has their attention turned toward the field in anticipation. Those at the track generally are not in the grandstand an hour before the first race. Instead, they mill about the yard searching for a picnic table, thumbing through the program handicapping the first race or fishing deep inside a cooler looking for a Bud Light. They are getting ready for the day, but not ready for their attention to be drawn elsewhere.

Nor is there any announcement. “Ladies and gentleman, please rise for the playing of the National Anthem.” Indeed, some must be told. Even I can miss the first drawn notes if I’m standing away from the PA systems. Nevertheless, there are those who refuse to take notice and act respectful. There is a loss of appreciation to pay tribute and respect to the National Anthem. The question is not if the flag is still there, but we could ask if there are any free and brave left among us.

My noon shift begins with the National Anthem. I’ll stand and salute. I’ll do it everyday of the meet. Forty Days of racing. Forty days to reflect on my God, my Country and my Founding Fathers. There is something that stirs my heart when I heard the Anthem. In my head I’ll sing, for the tune is difficult to carry and I have difficulty with the simple stuff like Itsy Bitsy Spider. I could cry when I hear the National Anthem if I wasn’t watching commies walk past me.