... are three of the sweetest words in the English language.
Not long ago, my boss, a coworker and I attended the horse races at Del Mar Racetrack as the guests of one of our vendors. Every year this company reserves one of the swanky "skybox" suites at the top of the grandstands, six stories above the track, and provides lunch and (bonus!) a hosted bar for the afternoon. The suite has its own betting counter. At the end is a large outdoor balcony overlooking the westernmost end of the final stretch of track just as the horses are coming out of the last turn and making their bids for the finish; you can stand at the end and watch the afternoon sun shimmer across the incoming seatide only about a half-mile away as it rolls up onto a beach framed by grass-topped sandstone cliffs. Free drinks, easy betting, and an unobstructed view of the track from a beautiful overhead vantage point; it's about the most perfect setting a horse-racing fan can imagine.
Albeit the appeal, however, my decision to go was not made easily. I generally don't accept the "freebie" opportunities that sales reps regularly offer - I can't even remember the last time I let one of them take me to lunch. Also, I felt guilt in that I was the only buyer of our group to go (and, honestly, I don't usually handle the commodity this supplier sells). I have the suspicion, all attempts at discretion to the contrary, that the other buyers knew and resented the bit of preferential treatment my manager showed me in letting me take the afternoon off and attend with him. The night before, I had nightmares about getting in trouble at the track, and of betrayal scenarios that, while not directly involving my coworkers, had obvious roots in my conflicted feelings about accepting the invitation. As a result, I was tempted to bail.
In the end, though, I couldn't let the opportunity pass. I see it as a fringe benefit to working for company I do not like. The fact is, my manager thinks it's fun to have me there, because I'm enthusiastic, somewhat knowledgable about betting, I like to have a few cocktails, and I have a similar sense of humor and attitude - we play off each other well in social settings. So in that sense it is favoritism, but I roll with it despite my misgivings and my conflicted feelings about socializing with a boss who, while I like him well enough as a person, has a micro-managing, sarcastic managerial style that really bugs me... because I have such a damned good time when I go.
Going to the races has been one of my favorite things to do since I was a grade-schooler. I used to go to the track in KFalls with my dad every summer. I would save allowance money for months in advance, because Dad was willing to place my bets on my behalf. The fact that I used my own money and won or lost on my own merits, instead of just asking him to make a bet with his own money per my suggestions, was what made it so fun for me. I learned to read a racing form and establish my own little handicapping methodology; as with all good handicapping, it's partly based on stats, partly on superstition - preference given to dark horses, lively but controllable horses, horses who drop manure in the paddock (who isn't raring to go after a good dump?); demerits to horses with frothy inner thighs, bored demeanors, blinkers. Of course, I'm also swayed by auspicious names - my biggest win of this most recent excursion came from the quinella combo of Jeds Knight and Ms. Twining, on whom I bet due to the "Star Wars" connotation and the brand of tea, respectively.
Before I moved to San Diego, Dad had never actually visited a major racing venue - he'd only bet them off-track. So you can understand when I say that one of the great joys of living in San Diego has been the chance to take my dad to Del Mar. I was reminded of when my folks took me to Disneyland; I think Dad must have felt much the same walking up to the grandstands as I did walking down Main St. of the Happiest Place on Earth. He gazed intently at the elegant renovated Spanish architecture of the grounds and the expensive landscaping, and took pictures in the paddock of jockeys he'd seen on TV riding in the Triple Crown, bemoaning not having brought his video camera. As usual, before each race he walked off solo along the wide grandstand aisleways strewn with the confetti of losing tickets, so that he could mull over his picks in private, and place last-minute hunch bets, about which he was cagey when asked lest he jinx them. Last year, the icing on the cake was that we were able to go on the day they ran the $1,000,000 Pacific Classic, Del Mar's hottest race of the season. There are not too many pastimes in the world that would be more fun for my dad than a day at Del Mar, and not too many things more fun for me than to share with him the chance to hear that Call to the Post trumpet and see top jockeys and horses kicking up dirt right in front of our eyes.
So you see, there's a little anteroom in my heart where a love of horseracing will always live. Given half a chance, when someone invites me to come play the ponies, I will go. You can bet on it.