Welcome to Balmer, Hon!
There
is an old Chinese proverb (I suppose we can drop the "old" part of that as one rarely hears of any new proverbs,
Chinese or otherwise, being developed these days): "If you must play, decide upon three things at the start: the rules
of the game, the stakes, and the quitting time."
I include it here because it could
refer to either binge drinking or betting on horses, as also could the declaration "I'm heading to Baltimore for
the Preakness this weekend."
It's referred to as many things; "The Middle
Jewel", "The Run for the Black-Eyed Susans", and "The Annual Redneck Woodstock". All of the descriptions
are apt, but in order to get any kind of feel for the event, one must spend a day in the infield of the track on Preakness
day. You will then gain a genuine understanding of the event. My qualifications in providing that image involve having spent
ten such days over the course of my life. I'm neither proud nor ashamed of the fact. I mean, it's not like it's
on my resume, but I enjoyed the experience on the whole. It was more happenstance of geography than a love for the race that
I attended so many times: I went to school in Baltimore, spent a few years kicking around after graduation and then followed
through on the attendance of it for several years after I had moved.
I would like to
make it perfectly clear that I am nothing approaching a horseracing aficionado. I know my way around an OTB office, true,
and can read a racing form, but, in reality, I'm the track version of a "C & E" Catholic (those who attend
mass only on Christmas and Easter). I'll watch the Triple Crown races and make the occasional track visit, but I refuse
steadfastly to have anything to do with knowing what the hell I'm talking about. To me, this type of knowledge would thoroughly
cheapen the thrill of getting one right once in a while.
If the Kentucky Derby conjures
images of Mint Juleps and flowered hats then The Preakness (at least in my mind) is warm Bud cans and fistfights. In fairness,
I can only speak for what goes on in the jungle of the infield. It has honestly never occurred to me to pursue another viewing
vantage. One hundred thousand drunks crammed together on a urine-soaked piece of turf encircled by a dirt track: That's
the only Preakness I know. I was not in attendance in 1999 when "fan"
Lee Ferrell jumped the infield fence and took a swing at Artax (a horse BTW), but upon hearing about it, my shock centered not on the fact that it happened, but that
it was the first
time it had happened. Thinking back, I could have sworn that someone, at one point, had asked me to hold their beer
while they attempted to do the exact same thing.
For an experience so evocative of sheer
mayhem, one actually needs to do quite a bit of prep work to ensure that the day lives up to its considerable potential. You
need to stake your place on the infield grass by roughly 7:00am or risk being left with a spot behind the urinals. When I
say "you" here, I actually mean some sucker that you have convinced to show up at Pimlico as the sun rises with
a bag of string and tent stakes. This kind soul will estimate and then rope-off the area needed to hold you and all of your
friends, as well as their friends and anyone else that anyone ran into the night before in Fell's Point. Keep in mind
that these boundaries do not carry the weight of law, and that this isn't an Old-West style land-grab. The main purpose
of these demarcations, if I remember correctly, was to touch off the first few alcohol-fueled brawls of the day. Oh, and the
rope-off person has another important role - balloon guy. He needs to tie a distinctive helium balloon to one of the stakes
as a beacon for the rest of his party. Now, if the flying of balloons strikes you as a little effete considering my previous
description, just remember that, by 10:00am, the infield is going to have become a very scary and potentially dangerous place
to navigate, and that balloon, son, may very well save your life. The rope-off/balloon guy is one of the true heroes of Preakness,
but let's face it; you don't want to be him. To this effect, lavish an absurd amount of compliments on this
person, continuously laud his organizational savvy and, no matter what, do not let him retrieve or pay for a drink for the
rest of that day. Under those circumstances, it will not seem so outlandish when the next year rolls around to suggest that
it would be insane to have anyone else perform the tasks.
Transportation to the race
poses a much more complex issue. While it's inherently unwise to drive to an eleven hour drinking binge, your odds of
getting pulled over amidst the sea of even more inebriated drivers is slim to nil. But there are larger concerns afoot. First
problem: It's hard to find a parking spot - you may end up hoofing it for a mile or so even after driving there, the lone
bright spot being that there are countless resourceful neighborhood kids who will offer to carry your cooler in a nicked grocery
cart for a few dollars. Second problem: You may forget where you parked - actually, scratch that, you will forget
where you parked, leading to a protracted and potentially several hour-long post-race search during which everyone else in
your party will abandon you in favor of a passing pick-up truck or a city bus. (Another bright spot - the afore-mentioned
resourceful kids will actually push you in a cart for as long as you can; a.) pay them; and b.) keep them convinced that you
know where you're going.) Third problem: While dealing with problem number two, you will likely succumb to the abandonment
of the search and opt for alternate transportation, effectively trading the drunken Saturday evening search for a hung-over
Sunday morning hunt for an automobile which has been left overnight in a less than upscale neighborhood amongst
a drunken mob. The solution is so simple that it only took me eight years to think of it - rent a bus. There's absolutely
no downside. It's a bus, so you can split it at least thirty ways. There's a special bus lot right next to the track,
thereby eliminating (most of) the risk of getting lost. And best of all, while you're sitting in traffic after the race,
it doubles as the least crowded bar in the entire city at that point in the day.
There
are hundreds of other landmines to navigate while attending the race, so I'll give you the short list;
1. Bring sun screen (or a girl - they always seem to have it anyway) - this might seem a little
unmanly, but, again, trust me on this. One year it was 95 degrees and it's not like anyone's walking around the infield
selling parasols, so, you guessed it, no shade. I swear you could walk around Baltimore for weeks afterward and gauge a person's
level of drunkenness on Preakness Day by the severity of the blisters covering their faces. It was like "Fight Club"
for alcoholics;
2. Imodium - again, go with me here, and bringing a girl doesn't help with this
one because they'll just think you're gross;
3. Get all of your bets in, on every race, early
and at one time. You want to do this while you're relatively sober as well in order to prevent your massive surge in alcohol-induced
confidence from placing bets for you;
4. No matter how tempting or innocuous it may seem, DO NOT grab
a beer from a random cooler. Although this did lead to the greatest fight I've ever seen in person (and I attended Gatti-Gamache at MSG in 2000 - skip to 6:10 in the clip). A cooler misunderstanding between two mulleted and tattooed gentlemen was bubbling into a typical
late afternoon brawl when the girlfriend of one of the men came flying out of the crowd and tackled (what I presume was) the
other man's significant other. The two women proceeded to beat each other with full Busch cans until the melee was broken
up (several minutes later).
Ultimately, the three legs of the Triple Crown can be viewed much like three drunk
girls at a bar. If the Derby is the hot, unattainable one, that you admire from afar but wouldn't even bother approaching,
then The Preakness is the one who is, ummm, less aesthetically pleasing, and therefore, the "fun" one. She's
doing shots, playing Golden Tee, and generally just doing whatever it takes to make up for her considerable shortcomings.
Baltimore truly, continuing the metaphor, "puts-out" for this race. They call it Preakness WEEK there for Christ's
sake. (Have you ever heard the term "Derby Week"? Or "Belmont Week"?) There's a parade, fireworks,
an outdoor happy hour every night leading up to it, and it is the only thing you will hear, see or read about in
the local media. All of this for what is, in the final analysis, "The Annual Redneck Woodstock". As much as I enjoyed
it, I'll never go back to sit in the grandstand or a corporate tent, and I'm too old for the infield in the sense
that if I attempted now what I did fifteen years ago, I would die. No hyperbole involved - I would effing drop dead. Preakness,
to me will always mean: "Hey, did that guy say he was going to punch a horse?"
