Dave Barry for a Day…NOT

// January 21st, 2005 // Tales

A few weeks ago my aunt told me about a contest Boston Globe Magazine was running, where you could write a 600-word-or-less story to take the place of Dave Barry’s now defunct column. The winning story was posted this past Sunday and I thought it stunk, but I am biased since I tried for the contest as well. Anyway, here’s my story below. You may have already read the lengthier version here.

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“Luck O’ The Irish”

My friend Dave and I took turns scanning through the newspaper’s Horse Racing section, hoping we’d see our favorite steed listed among the day’s races at Rockingham Park.

Amongst all of the park names, horse names and jockey names, there’s information that makes reading the Stocks section of the paper feel like a bit of light reading. Stable and breeder name, owner name, full horse name (yes, they have a last name), horse age, color, clothing color, sibling names, last race stats, lifetime race stats, last medication administered, feed type, last training date, and injury history. Then of course you have the jockey’s stats and horse’s starting odds.

I’ve learned from early years at Rockingham Park that there’s one statistic the paper won’t reveal, one important fact about each horse that can ultimately determine its result in the next race. A factor that’s near impossible to report in any media, as the timing of such an event needs measuring in mere milliseconds. That event, of course, is when the horse last pooped.

It was the first time I had gone to the park with Dave and my dad. I had been several times before as a younger child, which at the time meant all I really understood was pretty horsies. In later years we’d run around looking at discarded bet tickets, hoping some dummy tossed a winner. My uncle owned a horse that raced several times as a trotter, which partly influenced why we went to the park so often. Or it could’ve been that it was a place the moms hated to go.

As I was getting old enough to understand more about the intricacies of horse racing science and lore, my dad slammed down in front of me his heavily written-on cut-out from the Boston Globe racing section and his copy of the racing program. As the next race was about to post, he showed us the stats for each horse and how to interpret them.

As we yawned our way through my dad’s explanations of this obscure art form, he suddenly let us pick a horse to bet on, one which he’d place for us. We were as giddy as, well, a couple of kids betting on horses. We thought carefully through all of the information presented to us on the racing form, in the Globe and through my father’s wisdom. We quickly hashed through a multitude of calculations in our own racing form.

As Dave and I stared at the final result of our hard work, we nodded in agreement, deciding to base our pick on one long-standing and reliable fact: the horse’s name. She was “Luck O’ The Irish”.

My father ran off to place the bets as Dave and I hopped over to the stable. There she was, number eight, Luck O’ The Irish. Going at 7-1 odds, and the chuckle my dad gave as we revealed our pick, didn’t seem to bother us.

As we watched Luck’s first leg touch the soil of the track, there she blew. To this day I don’t think I’ve seen a larger keester cake taken by man nor beast. She just stopped in her tracks and let it all go, continuing on with perhaps a little more pep in her step.

A few people laughed at the sight, but they didn’t seem to realize they just witnessed the one thing that would determine the race. “Luck O’ The Irish” did indeed win that day, and Dave and I walked away rich men ($35.73).

We visited the park a few more times when ol’ Luck was running, and on the nights she felt regular we profited, and on constipated nights we left with lighter wallets. There was no doubt that we had been witnessing a higher power at work.

“Ah hah!” Dave shouted as he jammed his finger into the newspaper. “She’s a-runnin’!”

Sure enough, our girl was running again that night. We circled the race time and each silently said a little prayer to the laxitive God.

I snatched the paper from the table, folded it up under my arm, and marched with a smile to the bathroom. This was in her honor tonight.

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