when not to send in the British…
Last Wednesday, I asked the relatively new imperialist, aka Steve History, what he would be doing over the weekend. He answered that he would be going to the track.
Wait a second. “The race on Saturday?” I asked. His response: “I have no idea. It might be.” For those who are countrymen of the relatively new imperialist or have been living under a rock, Mr. History was to see the Belmont Stakes, the third in the Triple Crown, the “run for the carnations.”
Me being me, I asked Mr. History to put down a few bets. He kindly agreed. To make life easier for the lad, I sent him an email:
Hey Mr. History,
Can you place a few bets for me? They are contingent on these post positions being final:
4 C P West
5 Slew’s Tizzy
6 Hard Spun
7 Rags to Riches
If the post positions don’t change, you can just show this to the guy at the betting window:
Race 11: Belmont Stakes
$5 exacta box 7, 2, 3
$5 exacta key 2, with 3, 7
$5 Superfecta 7, 3, 2, 6
Simple enough. I figured that Rags to Riches would win, but there would be an outside chance that Tiago would rock it. Hedge the bets, right?
The race results: 7, 3, 2, 6.
Okay, not that the outcome was a huge surprise, and it wasn’t like there was a huge field, and it wasn’t like I know too much about the horses. Turns out, I know enough to hit the superfecta. In this particular race, it wasn’t brain surgery, but it still felt nice!
At least it did for a little while. Dreams of new 500 thread count sheets evaporated like the steam off a pile of horse manure. It seems that Mr. History didn’t go to the track that afternoon, but attended a barbecue instead.
June 10th resolution: Never send in the British when cash is on the line.
P.S. He’s a British, single, “footballer,” that photographs horribly, and evidently doesn’t gamble. Any takers ladies?