Belmont Again

Every year I swear I am not going. It is a long day that starts in the wee hours of the morning. With little to no sleep,  the Peace Officers and Security Guards from Saratoga Race Track board the chartered buses for the downstate track  We arrive to stand in ragged formation—some times in the rain—to be allocated out to our downstate supervisors with about as much emotion as the distribution of bowling shoes. Once assigned, the supervisors never introduce themselves, say welcome or thank you for coming. They escort us to our posts and give us parting remarks like “someone will relieve you” and “don’t leave your post” and then disappear for the rest of the day.  We are lucky if someone does relieve us. Most of the time we are on our own. After being on our feet since 7am and the last race done thirteen hours later, we are reassembled in the “Yard” to sweep the drunks and the diehards who won’t go home off the property. Then we board the buses to arrive back in Saratoga twenty four hours later. 

For this we are compensated with deli sandwiches made with bread the Jews lived on while wandering in the desert. There are no condiments for this deli treat made with a wilted lettuce, rubbery cheese slices and cold cut meats. It arrives from Patterson, New Jersey without any chips, or plates or napkins and warm soda.  They even pack up the leftovers to feed us when we stop the bus for a pee break on the return trip. The sandwiches are dragged out from under the bus like a dead body for the vultures to feed upon. For the privilege to go to Belmont to see history in horse racing we get $225.

I wasn’t going this year, but with the prospect of a Triple Crown there was no way I would miss it. Then I’ll Have Another scratched, but I was committed.  I was assigned to relief so I worked my ass off making sure I covered my four assigned Peace Officers. No freaking way was I going to give these guys just a one hour assigned break as instructed by the sergeant.   I finally took a break at 5 pm wandering off to find a semi-quiet spot behind the racing office. By then, I had been up 24 hours and knew I had a good eight hours to go before I hit my bed.

So why go? I always said there is nothing like experiencing the excitement of the crowd as the thoroughbreds take the turn at the top of the stretch and bring lean muscle and speed thundering across the finish line. Even the casual observer can't ignore the crowd's new personality built on high hopes and wild dreams of being witness to horse racing history.  In Saratoga, I experience this apart from the crowd. At Belmont, I stood in the crowd packed in on the ground floor of the grandstand.  The average Joes mingle here with beer, cigar and a two dollar bet dressed in everything from a Hollister t-shirt and flip-flops to a cheesy seersucker sport jacket and green tie. All day I slowly wove through the crowd looking for idiots.

In accordance with New York State law there is no smoking in the building. I watched a guy light his cigar steps away from the betting window. It went up like a blow torch. 

“Hey, what are you doing?” I barked.

“Oh, is there no smoking?” Twenty feet away suspended from the ceiling a huge sign hung. I looked up at it.

“Com’on” drawing the phrase out in typical New York fashion. "It’s NY State. You know better. Besides, I thought you had some out of control barbeque thing going on there. For crying out loud.”

He sheepishly crushed the lit end of the cigar on the sole of his shoe. I walked away.

At Saratoga they play the Star Spangled Banner about and hour and fifteen minutes before post time. My job requires that I stand at attention and salute; I would do nothing less. In the four years I have been going to Belmont, I don’t recall hearing the National Anthem, but some time about the fifth race I picked it out of the din in the grandstand. I had been sitting outside the Canadian Press Box. I stood. I didn’t salute because I couldn’t see the infield or flag from my post. I removed my headgear. I watched the crowd. Not a single person paused, hesitated or even flinched. No one stopped a conversation. No one stopped walking. The reaction could not have been more oblivious if it had been elevator music. And yet before the Belmont Stakes post parade the speakers blared New York, New York.  People erupted in cheer. They danced and sang with Frank Sinatra. I stood in the sea of humanity dumbfounded.

It was 3 am when I got home.  I ate breakfast: cereal, yogurt and strawberries and then crawled under the covers. I swear, I don’t want to do that again, but we will see what happens after next year’s Kentucky Derby and Preakness.