Fun at the races

Lorenzo Garo

I see Kirk once a year at the races in Saratoga.

I have friends with different political and religious views from myself. Our sensitivities, traditions, foibles and past experiences may be different, but we are at least playing on the same field. Kirk plays the game on an altogether different field.

For example, golf. The first time I played with him, I wanted to mark his score after the first hole. A golfer without a score is like an election without a count. I mean, one simply wants to find out what they can shoot. So, with scorecard and pencil in hand, I asked Kirk his score. He looked hurt. I thought, if he says 10, I’ll give him an 8. Then he said, acting surprised, “You mean you keep score?”

When I ripped the scorecard in half, I felt a surprising sense of relief. It had never occurred to me that one could play a round of golf without keeping score, without competing with par, without winning or losing. But when I suggested to the guys in my weekly foursome that instead of gambling our hard-earned money on a golf game, we could play for fun, they looked at me as if I had suddenly lost my mind. I didn’t know then what I was up against. I was overturning the narrative we learn as little boys: competition proves worth. The tragedy is that the measuring never ends. The comedy is grown men chasing a little white ball as if their salvation depended upon it.

Kirk has offered me many useful perspectives on life. You should see him with Nancy, his long-term partner. They’ve been together for nearly 50 years and never married. They still gaze at each other like smitten teenagers. It’s almost sickening. What’s their secret? Isn’t it obvious? They never got married.

Back to the races. I spend hours studying the racing form, devising speed and pace figures. Kirk is at the opposite end of the extreme. He doesn’t use a form or even buy a program. His method for picking winners is simple: unbiased observation. He prefers to watch the horses in the paddock, post parade and warm-up without any knowledge of their past performances, bloodlines or odds. And he doesn’t just watch the horses. He also studies the body language and demeanor of the jockeys and trainers. A trainer who usually wears a windbreaker but suddenly shows up wearing a sport jacket and tie may be expecting a winner’s photo. Or a jockey who is normally friendly but ignores the crowd and keeps adjusting his reins may be signaling determination, showing extra intent.

I lost a good portion of my modest bankroll betting on a favorite that seemed like a sure thing. During the warm-up, Kirk noticed the jockey struggling to pull my horse up. I saw that as a good sign — a horse full of run — but Kirk saw a horse dissipating its energy. An outrider was needed to help the jockey keep the eager horse from running off. I ran to the betting window, cash in both hands.

My horse tired in the stretch and finished a distant fourth. Next year, I’m throwing the past out the window. I’m going to be Kirk. Do I dare? Kirk doesn’t bet on horses. He bets on his observations. And that’s the way he lives his life. He values observation and intuition as much as knowledge. How does the horse feel today? And, whether it’s observing horses or people, he doesn’t miss much.

One bite of Nancy’s peach cobbler and the day’s losses were forgotten. Two bites and all my troubles disappeared. I tried, playfully, to drum up some conflict between Nancy and Kirk, reporting that Kirk had his eye on more than just the equine fillies that day. (Saratoga is known for its fancy ladies.) My comment only seemed to draw them closer.

Kirk is almost 76 and had some serious medical issues over the past year. And I’m no spring chicken, either. Now I know more deeply what the Bard meant when he said, “parting is such sweet sorrow.” Sweet sorrow is my province and, I think, most everyone else’s. But Kirk plays the game in a field devoid of sorrow. Even though he knows we won’t see each other for another year, and that with each passing one it becomes less and less a given, he cheerfully grasps my hand, draws me close and says the same thing he said when we were young and hip, or thought we were, “Dig you later!”

I am not exactly sure what he means by “later.” But I hope it’s next year at the races.