The Darker Side of Horse Racing
Not ashamed to say it, cause its true, my wife and I are serious gamblers. We got involved in the action 36 years ago through a guy named “uncle Milty”. No, not that one. Our avenue of disgrace is the ponies. All the ponies all the time. We dropped a load on The Derby and came up smelling sweeter than all the roses around that stallion’s neck. We dropped, as my wife likes to say, “ a big brown bag” on the Preakness and didn’t retire on the earnings but stayed above water. We got something hot going in the Belmont, but that will cost you 10 Lincolns to find out.
Now we are watching the races on the television, yelling and screaming as any rail birds would be, when a thought hits me…how do these guys who announce the races remember all the horses name’s since there are usually 10-12 races daily and many times 12 horses in every race. And furthermore how does a somber citizen get into this horse racer announcing business…I want to know because I want in.
Marty Dinnerstein was a guy I knew when we both worked at Yonkers Raceway. I went my way and he went his, both making the right choice. Dinnerstein calls races at the small tracks in the Southwest. Mostly quarter horses. He was set to do the calls at Turf Paradise in Phoenix for this meet coming up.
I called him with an offer of dinner. He likes hot dogs, usually eats 6- 8 as long as they are Kosher. I added the beer and he was in. We met at Smokey’s right off the main street and took a table by the big front window to watch the world go by and to catch up with new lies and old war stories.
Dinnerstein got into the game the same day he turned 16. He ran bets for the boys at the track, then took the cash to the bank Joe Robbe had over in Queens.
In between he was singing three nights a week at the Nightingale over in Flatbush, and drawing a nice weekly pay check. But the ‘ponies’ was in his blood. He called Freddy Fine who owned everything he wants to own, and set up a meeting in the Duckworth Building, where it just so happens is the headquarters of Fine Enterprises. Freddy was cold as ice and dark as Davey Jones’ Locker. He said he could help but wanted a nice ROI. To start he wanted Marty’s Soul.
Soul being the name of the Mudi pup Marty loves like a baby brother. (The Mudi is a Hungarian breed, usually weighing about 13 kilos, bred to work on small farms. There are less than 1000 in existence)
Done. Painful, yes, but done.
This bought Marty a chance to go to Racing school, where his skills were fine but his weight wasn’t… so he was bred as a race caller. Starting at the smallest racks they could find, Marty worked his way up, or down, depending on your view. He called all the races, the real and the not so real. His job when a fix was in was to sound as amazed as a soccer mom when her first bet hits. MD graduated from the quarter horse-carnival circuit up to sizable tracks with nice handles and bigger fixes. Eventually the boys tipped him to the fixes. He got into them and made a short stack. He bought three horse with his ill gotten gains, hired a trainer, paid stable fees and bought his way into the “Game”.
Last August the boys upstairs decided, after 14 years of good work, one of Marty’s nags was about to win the seventh on Saturday. That means you collect twice. First the winner’s fee and then the 12 hundred you laid down on bets.
Saturday shined bright. The horses were stabled out of the sun and the money was flowing through the till. Saturday is always a big day at the track. Marty’s horse SoulMate, was 9 to one. That’s a twenty dollar horse for the standard two dollar bet. He had 1200 down, you do the math!
All went as planned. Marty bet, Marty collected, and then everything went off the silver dollar rails. Marty Dinnerstein developed a conscience. For some reason he soured on making illegal money after all these years. Why?.
That’s the question I asked. He shook his head, folded his brow into his hands and just sat still. He tried to get out. It was way too late for that.
Marty Dinnerstein still calls races, still hears about the fixes, but now he wonders how long that’s gonna last. He’s got a new shadow that keeps him on the trim and narrow. He sees guys he shouldn’t almost anywhere he goes.
“Keep your head down and your mouth shout”, was stapled to his barn door last year. These boys play for keeps. So Marty Dinnerstein still calls races, scared as hell not too.
My wife and I still bet on the TV races, and I forgot about calling them. And I won’t remember any time soon.
Still got something on at Belmont, and a whale at the Breeders Cup, but that’s gonna cost ya’…
