A/N: The story of the exacta strategy in 2002 is true. Unfortunately, it wasn't me. :) Thanks for the reviews, and enjoy this chapter.
(H/C)
The cholesterol burger was worthy of the title, juicy and dripping, and House was surprised to find himself truly hungry. They had hit the concessions line on the way into their seats, which were suspiciously well located. They did have to take the elevator up one level, but once up, they were on the first row of seats from the entry tunnel with only one step required to get there, and the concessions, betting, and restroom were all immediately behind them. They also had a nice view of the track. House eyed Thomas suspiciously as he took another bite. What were the odds of this happening by pure luck of the seat draw? Pretty low. At least the old man hadn't said anything directly.
Thomas shoved down a french fry and crunched with appreciation. "There is nothing like good old junk food once in a while," he stated.
House relaxed a little. "Don't tell Lisa that."
"I'd already gotten that impression. I won't tell on us if you don't."
House took another bite of his burger. This was good. He was almost due for meds, which was another sticky point, and he definitely didn't need to get off schedule today. His leg would hate him enough by tonight even without that. He debated pulling the bottles out in front of his father and decided to wait a few minutes instead and see if he was sticking around. He might conveniently wander off, even if briefly.
Thomas pulled out his program. He had bought them each one. "So," he said with genuine curiosity in his voice, as if he were looking forward to the answer. "Who do you like in the first?"
The reply came through a mouth full of fries. "It's a maiden race, so no past winners. Three are first-time starters. Looking at the workouts on those and the previous form on the ones who have raced. . ." House paused to take another bite of the burger. "I'll take #4. Raced twice, second and third. Bumped last time at the start. Stretching out another few furlongs, and he's been coming on at the end, so today's a good chance to actually get there."
The old man's expression surprised him. The smile had genuine appreciation and pride in it. "You've done your homework."
"Of course. I don't put my money down where I haven't done my homework," he insisted.
"Do you play the horses a lot, Greg?"
The fries were just about gone. He finished off the last one before answering. "I hit the OTB now and then."
A flicker of expression there. "But not live."
"OTB works just as well without the drive and the crowd." And the massive grandstands. "Let me guess, you're about to spout off some sentimental bullshit about the beauty of the game and how it's more than just cold numbers. Tell that to your wallet at the end of the day. Personally, I think a nice Ben Franklin is a thing of beauty itself."
Thomas smiled. "So you're a total logical selector. Past performances, jockey and trainer record, statistics."
House snorted. "Of course it's based on statistics. I do all right, too. What's your warm and fuzzy and not so impersonal system? Color? Name? Want to compare results?"
"No, name was Emily's system." Thomas laughed, and just for a second, his face softened into memory. House had no doubt that he could see her and hear her again in his mind at that moment. "She always liked looking at horses but didn't get into the hands-on part like Tim and I did. When we would go to the track, she'd decide purely on names that she liked. And you know, Greg, it's amazing how well she did. Not as much as I won, but she was hardly tearing up all of her tickets. She had two races in particular over the years that were big hits, even though she never bet more than $10. Want to guess her profits from her best race?"
House tried plugging in $10 plus a ridiculous selection system. Still, dumb luck struck once in a while. He had seen that often with patients. "$1000," he guessed, assigning dumb luck a generous quota in his mind.
Thomas shook his head. "Higher."
"Picking by name? And only betting $10 tops?"
"The first day was the Kentucky Derby in 2002. We went in person that time, because I wanted to do it live at least once. Every other year, I've either watched it on TV or simulcast from another track, but that was our big year to do the full trip. In the Derby, she put down $10 on an exacta of War Emblem and Proud Citizen. Can you guess why?" He paused, leaving the challenge dangling.
House couldn't resist the bait. "2002, you said. That would have been the first one after the 9/11 terrorist attacks. She thought they were nice patriotic names?" Thomas nodded. "What a bunch of crap."
"Frankly, I thought she didn't have a chance. They were 21-1 and 24-1." Thomas ate his last fry. "The War Emblem-Proud Citizen exacta in 2002 paid over $1300 for a $2 bet. She won well over $6000 on that one race. Based on patriotic names."
"What did you bet on?" House asked, curious.
"Saarland. Finished 10th." Thomas didn't sound at all upset, perfectly willing to credit that day to patriotic names instead of a more rational system. "She bought dinner that night. We had a rule that whoever won more during the day when we went to the races would buy dinner that night. It was me more often, but she sprang for her share."
"So what is your system, old man?"
"I'm about a 70/30 mix. 70% statistics and form, like you use, and the other 30% is based on seeing the horses. I'll watch them getting saddled in the paddock, watch the post parade, and just get a reading on how they feel that day. Who looks in the zone, who looks too tense. I'll have my top picks in mind before that, but seeing them is the final decider."
"In other words, you can't make up your mind to stick with one system."
"It's not all statistics, Greg. They are living beings. They can have especially good or bad days, just like any of us."
House was getting toward the end of his burger. He really needed to take his meds; they were supposed to go with food. He looked at the big board in the infield. 25 minutes to post time. He wasn't sure of the timing on the behind-the-scenes details, but he figured the horses would probably be saddled soon. Wherever the paddock was, it was not part of the conveniently located amenities clustered behind these seats. "Don't think I'll go to the paddock for the first," he said. "You can head on and get your feelings for them yourself."
"The post parade will work fine," Thomas replied smoothly. "I'd rather stay with you, Greg."
Damn it. House shifted slightly. He could feel the bottles in his pocket. He'd have to try to distract him. "So who do you like in the first?"
Thomas looked back to his program, and House tried to fish the bottles out without moving too much. They rattled like marbles on a concrete floor. He was amazed that people three sections over didn't turn to look. "I like. . ." In that moment, Thomas, starting to point to something on his program, knocked his empty cardboard container off his lap. At least the fries and burger weren't still occupying it. "Damn it." He bent to pick it up, reached over for House's empty, and then stood smoothly, taking the one step into the aisle, and ambled toward the nearest trash can, which was about 10 feet away. House quickly got out his pills, the movements oiled by long practice, and had just finished gulping them down as Thomas turned. He quickly shoved the bottles back in his pocket.
Thomas sat down again and bent to pick up his drink beside his feet. He took a long slurp, then returned to perusal of the program. "Tentatively, without seeing them yet, I'm interested in #5 and #8."
"#5 has finished 7th and 10th," House pointed out.
"But he's sired by an excellent miler. As you said a minute ago, this race is stretching out from where a lot of these have been running. He's been way too short at 5 furlongs. Actually, I'd like him even better at a mile and an 8th, but he should appreciate the extra ground today." He pulled out his wallet and carefully counted off five bills. "Here, Greg, since you like the look of Ben Franklins so much. What about a little head-to-head competition today? We each start with $500 to play with, and whoever is on top at the end wins."
House took the money. "Long as you know what you're getting into."
Thomas gave him one of those multilayered smiles that totally confused him trying to analyze all the strata. "I have no doubt what I'm getting into, Greg. Let the fun begin." He quickly looked back down at his program, not prolonging the eye contact, to House's relief. "I'm also going to go with $5 across the board on #10 just for old time's sake."
House looked up #10. "Emily K. Slow workouts, finished last in her only race to date. Old time's sake doesn't pay bills."
Thomas shrugged. "But it can be fun, even losing."
"Losing is not fun," House countered. "That doesn't make sense. People who think that just haven't had enough winning to compare to it." Thomas was pleasantly unruffled. "What was Emily's other big profit day?" House wondered. "You said she had two. The patriotic exacta is one."
"Oh, you'll appreciate this one more, I think. That was also the Kentucky Derby, 2005. We didn't go in person, never went back to Churchill on Derby day after the first year. It's a great experience but just too crowded. In 2005, we went to Arlington in Chicago and watched the simulcast. The winner was Giacomo at 50-1. She bet $10 to win." He waited.
House ran the name Giacomo through every possible reason he could imagine. "She knew someone by that name?"
"No. Try again."
He sighed. "She liked the letter G? She saw it somehow at random in a news story that day or heard it in conversation and had a hunch?"
"Nope. Giacomo was owned by Jerry Moss."
That name House knew. "A and M Records."
"Exactly. He's recorded all sorts of stars. He owns racehorses for fun, and he likes to name his horses with musical connections. One of his artists and a good friend besides is Sting, and he named Giacomo after Sting's son. Tim absolutely loved Sting. So Emily bet $10 for old time's sake on the horse with the Sting connection, and she won."
House rolled his eyes. "Neat story, but how often did she lose?"
"Like I said, Greg, it wasn't as bad as you think. Horses have a delightfully illogical edge to them. They are never entirely predictable, so the pure statistics system will never call everything. That's the fun of it."
At that moment, the bugle sounded, clear and piercing, calling the field to the post. Thomas scooted forward to the edge of his seat. "The post parade should be starting now, and then we'll place our bets."
Here they came, the Thoroughbreds prancing out onto the track. Thomas studied them intently, and House studied Thomas. The old man looked almost like his father the pianist in his focus at the moment. He did know horses, after all. Maybe there was something to be said for eyeballing them. "Well?" House challenged.
"#4 looks a little on edge but pretty good." He started with his son's selection first. "#5 is starting to get the system down. He's looking around, taking it in. His third race, and this is all getting familiar to him now. It's so different in the afternoons for them than the morning, and that can throw a horse off. But he's interested, not spooked at all the people or the hoopla. Starting to think he might enjoy the people. #8 doesn't like his jockey's hands." Thomas glanced back down at his program. "First time this jockey has ridden him. Not everything is a match made in heaven. I'm dropping #8. They'll probably jump straight out, the horse fighting for his head, and burn out before the end." Emily K, #10, was last in the post parade, and Thomas looked her over carefully. "Emily K is nervous. Compare her to #5. She probably was spooked by the crowd and the noise that first race where she finished last. She's still not sure of it. Look at her jockey touch her neck there. She's listening to him, too. They're on the same wavelength, unlike #8. He's trying to steady her a little and reassure her. The fillies especially can be a little more sensitive than the colts. Not all jockeys ride fillies well." The horses finished parading by. "I'll stick with #5, drop #8, and keep my across the board wager on #10." He smiled at his son, waiting.
House had to admit he was impressed. The cues Thomas was reading like a book weren't as obvious to him, but he could catch glimpses when directed. He covered the moment with a drink from his cup, then put it back down and hauled himself to his feet. "I still say #4 is the logical choice. Let's go bet."
The lines weren't too long at their local windows, and they made it back to their seats well before the horses had finished their warmups. As they arrived, Thomas tossed his bag from the gift shop, which contained the two sweatshirts and two T-shirts, into House's seat. House froze just for a moment, waiting, glaring. Nothing was said. Thomas wasn't even looking his direction now, instead eagerly peering across the track at the horses warming up on the far turn. After a moment, House sat down on the bag. The cushioning was a definite improvement over the hard plastic seat. He sat there silently, watching the old man, looking for any whisper of pity or judgment.
"The horses have reached the starting gate," the announcer stated. This being a 1-mile track and a 1-mile race, the start was almost directly in front of them with their seats near the finish line.
"Watch #8," Thomas said suddenly. House turned back to the track. #8, who had been having a disagreement with his jockey earlier, apparently didn't like him much better after warmup. He tossed his head, backing up a few steps as an assistant starter reached for his bridle and tried to urge him into the starting gate. "He's going to rear," Thomas predicted about 5 full seconds before he did so. The jockey clung on, suddenly looking even smaller. A few more assistants closed in as #8 came down, and two of them locked hands around the recalcitrant horse's rump and pushed him on into the gate. Thomas shook his head. "Bet the trainer would like to change riders now. You never know how a match-up will work until you try."
"Wouldn't he have ridden him in a workout before today?" House asked.
"Almost certainly not. The jockeys ride the afternoons. Once in a while, on a big horse or for a big race, they'll ride in the morning to get a feel, but on a maiden race in the first at Philadelphia? No. They ride 10 or so races a day, many of them, day in and day out. They can't give that much individual attention to each ride ahead of time. He would have looked up form hopefully and talked to the trainer in the paddock, but the jockey only met his mount 20 minutes ago." Emily K, the final horse, hesitated. Her jockey was touching her neck again, and House saw the ears flick back. The rider was apparently talking to her. The assistants closed in but waited a moment this time before pushing. The assistant at her bridle spoke to her himself and urged her forward, and she walked into the starting gate. Thomas came to attention, waiting.
The gate sprang open as the bell sounded. #8, as predicted, bolted out like his tail was on fire. He already led by two lengths as they hit the first turn, but even House could tell there was a tug-of-war going on. He tried to spot #4, his choice, but the field was shifting too quickly on the turn. With amazing speed, the horses rounded the turn and raced onto the backstretch. Somehow, the pure physical surge of the start didn't translate to a TV monitor at the OTB.
Thomas settled back, and they both watched the big screen as the horses raced along the backstretch. #4 was going well, House saw. Thomas' #5 was right alongside. Both started moving up as they came to the far turn. #8 spit out the bit and started a rapid retreat through the field, and the jockey, knowing the race was over, didn't push. Then the horses were in the homestretch. The crowd came to its feet, and Thomas did, too. House reluctantly heaved himself up. #4 and 5 hit the lead together in a head-to-head battle down the stretch, both of them digging in, neither giving way, showing amazing determination for inexperienced racers. Suddenly, it all did matter, his horse and his father's side by side, and House leaned forward a little on his cane. "Come on!" he urged softly, so softly that he couldn't have been overheard. #4 seemed to hear him, though, and found a little more. He was pulling forward now, edging away, although #5 stubbornly wasn't giving up. "Yes!" House hissed, a little louder that time. #4 had a neck's lead as they pounded toward the wire.
In the shadow of the finish line, Emily K, running in long, smooth strides, suddenly putting it all together as her jockey urged her on with his hands alone, the whip uncocked, caught the other two and surged by to win. #10 first by half a length, #4 second by a head, #5 third. House looked toward the board, unbelieving. Emily K had gone off at 27-1.
Thomas sat back down and gave his son a smile as House sank back into the bag of shirts, not worrying about the cushion being noticed this time. "I don't believe it," House objected. "That horse had no chance!"
No Yoda imitation this time, just a grin. "Good race, Greg."
