Betting on the Ponies

I’ve only ever been to a race track twice before in my life and that was eons ago. I grew up within spitting distance of Golden Gate Fields but somehow managed to not become a horse racing enthusiast. Sure, I try to watch the Kentucky Derby every year when I am in the US, but never thought much about the track just down the road. One reason is that this tracks location can often be a rather chilly place.
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But then, just when I think that the non-summer we’ve had will turn into a freezing cold fall, we get hit with record temperatures. And for some reason I became aware of an ad announcing Dollar Sundays at the track; $1 parking, $1 entrance, $1 beer, and $1 hotdogs. Where else was I to go on such a beautiful day but down to the edge of the San Francisco Bay where I knew it would be perfect weather and a new experience.
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Getting my bearings was the first order of the afternoon upon entering the grounds. Even though there seemed to be a fair amount of people milling about, the place is so huge it felt deserted. I strolled around exploring the venue and the patrons. I had a preconceived notion that it would be filled with scruffy, die-hard gamblers, sipping beer and checking their racing forms. The only part of that that I got right was the racing forms.

I was surprised to see groups of college kids and families with strollers and just a regular crowd one would find anywhere. In fact I only saw a few people who could fill in as Hollywood extra racing-bums.

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A spectacular, manicured, green oasis covers the area inside the track; little lakes with fountains and ornamental flower beds. At one point I asked one of the women in the gift shop if the area was ever used. Apparently, it isn’t. A friend told me she thinks it is a bird sanctuary which would make sense considering that on the other side is a massive, dirty freeway.
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Finished with getting the lay of the land, I decided it was time to get down to the task of placing a few bets. Down in the paddock, (one of the many new racing vocabulary terms I picked up that day), horses were being led around while studious folks glanced back and forth between their racing forms and the horses. I wasn’t exactly sure the way this whole thing worked so I asked a man next to me. He also knew nothing about it. That was something I would find throughout the day; lots of newcomers like me who didn’t have a clue.
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At least I did know that I should pick a horse and place a bet. The last time I went to a track I was with a friend who would look at the parade of critters, point to one, place a bet, and win. And win almost every time. I studied the horses and decided that number two looked awfully cute so I scurried off to place a bet.

A whole line of self-service betting booths were available but I needed to talk to someone. I stood in line and was helped by a lovely gentleman who explained that the cheapest bet was $2. I was very proud that by the end of the day I could walk up to a window and, like a real pro, say $2 to win on number 7.
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The fist horse I bet on came in dead last, and in two other races I also didn’t fare very well. I soon realized that I should quite picking the pretty ponies and look for something a bit more significant, if only I could figure out what that was supposed to be.
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I paid close attention to whoever was leading the horses around the paddock and how they related to their animal. I loved the guy who whispered sweetly to his charge and the other guy who was massaging his horses tongue. I figured a good connection in the paddock just had to result in a winner. I was very impressed by the women who lead around her hose, simply because she was the only gal down there. I saw that the trainer for this horse was also a woman and then found out the jockey was a woman.
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Kayla, from what the ladies next to me said, is Australian and had been racing in the US for a few years. Obviously, the sisterhood thing meant I had to bet on her. She didn’t win, but did come in third.
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Realizing that I had already lost $10, I decided it was time to go up into the grandstands and check out the high dollar betting and dining areas further up. You have to pay $2 to get up there but the door person said she would refund the money since I was just going up for a quick look.
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The dining area is glassed in and each table has its own little TV so you don’t even have to look at the track. I wandered into another area and this is where the place really started to get bizarre. There are several rooms of varying sizes, filled with large and small screens and a bar. Inside each, where there is no view of the track, people placed their bets and sipped on martinis. I didn’t get it; it was such a glorious day and they wanted to stay inside and look at a TV?

One of the rooms had a view that was not of the track but yet quite sensational. You could see almost from one end of the bay to the other, the Golden Gate Bridge smack dab in the middle. (Which is why they call it Golden Gate Fields, I presume.) Having been out of the sunshine for too long I headed back down stairs, down an escalator, collected my $2, and went back to the track.
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I did like standing right at the edge next to the track even if it did scare the hootie-patooties out of me. I like horses from a distance and cannot imagine why anyone would want to ride one, let alone be aboard a ton of solid muscle running hell-bent, shoulder to shoulder, around a track. Being that close just confirmed my belief.
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It was also quite sobering to see that in every race, the riders are followed around the track by a speeding ambulance and pick-up truck. I learned that this is a race track law. Unfortunately, just a few weeks ago those emergency vehicles were needed. A young jockey, Michael Martinez was seriously injured in a spill. I was glad to see that donations were being collected at the track and that the whole racing community is supporting him.
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I kept discovering other parts to explore. It turned out you could walk right up to where the jockeys sit before their race begins, although there is a security guard to keep people out. I asked the guard if I could ask the jockeys if I could take their picture.
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One of the jockeys waved me over. He pointed to another rider and said, “Take his picture. He’s the famous one. He’s a model”. I said something about all of them looking good. He replied, “You should see me with my clothes off”. A magnificent day and a flirting jockey; what more could a gal ask for?

I’m already planning my next trip to the track. October 2nd is Secretariat Day with a free cap giveaway. Providing the weather holds, I’ll be there.

Kate

Ghana x USA, San Leandro, CA

When I saw Robert Reid’s article listing Ricky’s Bar in San Leandro, CA as one of the Top Ten places to watch the World Cup my first reaction was huh? Ricky’s Bar is still around? But since I had yet to find much of anywhere to watch the Cup, and seeing as the US was playing in the second round, I decided to give it a go.
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When searching for places to get your groove on in the San Francisco Bay Area, the city of San Leandro is not at the top of anyone’s list. Possibly not even on any list at all. True, Ricky’s is not that far from where the Oakland Raiders play ball, and it did have a rep for the place players hung out, but I thought that was all in the past. The last time I had been in there was to apply for a bartending job at a time when very few bars, no matter the extent of your skills, were hiring women to mix cocktails and pull beer. I vaguely remember being laughed at and swearing I would never set foot in there again. I broke that vow today and stepped back in time.
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Ricky’s is your basic ‘70’s sports bar; dark wood paneling, dark lighting, framed/signed players shirts and pictures, neon signs, and not a window to be found. Since cigs have been outlawed in California bars, it did not have that familiar, homey, stench of tobacco mixed with beer, but otherwise you’d think it was 1975. That is were it not for the TV screens of which there were probably about one hundred, lining the walls, running along the sides of the three big screens, and sitting on the bar. Not to mention the 3D TV area.
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With thirty minutes before game time, the place was nearly filled to capacity. I found a little niche to sit in where I got a good view of one of the big screens and at least thirty TV’s. I wasn’t quite sure where to look.
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This was a different crowd than the last time I’d watched the US play and I wasn’t sure what the reaction would be to anything. For a minute there I was scared that they might all stand up when they played the Star Spangled Banner. They didn’t, but they did applaud at the end.
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With the game under way I began to notice that although everyone seemed to be watching, they didn’t seem to be involved. They kind of acted like people watching a tennis match. When Ghana scored at 5 minutes I was just about to jump out of my seat when I noticed that no one else in the entire place was moving and quickly reigned in my enthusiasm.
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Yes, I am American and yes, I was rooting for Ghana. I like it when these countries that have precious little prevail in sporting events, especially when their entire country is backing their team.
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The first half was enough for me at Ricky’s and I was off to another place just down the road, this one an English Pub. It was sheer heaven to get out into the hot, sunny mid-day weather. One does not take sunshine for granted in this part of the world. Just two days before it had been 50F/10C and the sun never did break through the fog.
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I was just pulling into the parking lot of The Englander Sports Pub when I heard an eruption of screams from patrons sitting in the outdoor areas. Team USA must have scored. When I got inside I saw that the score was still 1x0 Ghana, but that the fans here were hooting and hollering at every touch, pass, kick, and foul.
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People lined up five deep in front of the bar watching the line of TV screens above all those taps of beers and booze. Two rooms branched off either side with more rows of TV’s. It looked as if one room led into yet another, but about all I could see were bodies. There was no chance of finding a seat but I didn’t care; it was simply so wonderful to be amongst the football enlightened. The place virtually shook when the US scored.
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Being kind of short and starting to get a bit mashed by bodies, I went back to the entrance and peered into the two outer viewing areas. I turned my head when I thought I heard people chanting for Ghana and quickly made a beeline in the direction of the small group standing outside and at the back of another room with a big screen. I had found the Kenyan contingent who were rooting for the last African team still alive in the Cup. I was home.
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It has been said, called out one of the self-appointed leaders,
.It has been said, replied the group of about twenty,
It has been said,
.It has been said,
That David beat Goliath,
.That David beat Goliath
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As soon as one chant finished, another would start; There is a story…..
Or more simply a call and reply of Eh, eh, Ah, ah,……
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Someone arrived with a vuvuleza and immediately a chant started with
Vuvuleza, ah, Vuvuleza, oh….
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All this was accompanied by dance steps, shoulder shrugs, and laughter. Everyone was super friendly and was pleased I had joined their small band. When I told one woman I was from the area she asked “but from what country originally?” Said I was American but always pulled for the small countries. Three young women from Venezuela cheered and chanted like they were born in Ghana.
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Every now and then a USA,USA,USA chant would go up in friendly defiance of all the Ghana noise, and would always end with smiles. I was pleased to see that even the most ardent US fans were truly enjoying the rhythms and singing of the Ghanaian supporters.
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All of this continued throughout the entire second half, overtime, and after the match had finished. I didn’t really want to leave all the fun of my adopted friends, and told them I’d be back for the next match. They thanked me for supporting Ghana; I thanked them for letting me join in. We shook hands, hugged and the lady I had spoken to at the beginning said, “Thank you for supporting the small countries”.
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This is definitely the way the World Cup should be watched.
Kate

World Cup 2010, Berkeley, CA USA

Here’s the deal; if you are American and have never experienced the World Cup outside of the US, you just have no idea what you’re missing. Conversely, if you have watched the World Cup in any other place in the known universe, you simply cannot imagine how low-key it is here.
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I can’t say that I watch much football at all during a year, or even during three years. But every four years I turn into a football maniac and watch as many of the World Cup games as work schedule and time zone permits.
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I’ve reveled in World Cup fervor in South America, South East Asia, and in the Middle East. But this year, unfortunately, I’m in California and know darn well that I’m missing out on all the camaraderie and universal joy that is going on in every other corner of the world. So as not to get overly depressed I have made it my mission to seek out like-minded fans and take part in whatever bit of World Cup insanity that I can find.
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Growing up in the US at a time when the term soccer mom had yet to be invented, I knew very little about the game. It was all baseball and football and girls weren’t even allowed to play. But then I spent two years in Brazil as a Peace Corps Volunteer and I was turned. Never again was I much of an American football fan with its slow pace and constant stop of action.

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It was tough when I first returned to the US back in the day before cable, not that football/soccer had much of a following here. One could only watch the World Cup on the Spanish station, with its grainy picture and poor reception, and that was only if you lived in someplace like California. It has been a long hard road, but we have now arrived at the point where ESPN not only has full coverage and analysis but tons of promos for the 2010 Cup.

My viewing preference in the US, however, remains with Univision, the Spanish language network of choice. Their announcers call the play at a million words a minute, as compared to ESPN/US broadcasters who talk about the weather and their fishing trips rather than give play by play commentary. Even if you don’t understand Spanish, just hearing the excitement and enthusiasm of the announcer adds so much to the game. There are those who watch the game in English and then switch to Spanish when a goal is scored. No one can outdo a Latin American yelling Gooooooooooooool!!!!!!!!

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Now that the US has sorted the coverage problem, the next obstacle is to find those fans. Sure, I can watch in the comfort of my own home on a nice, big, HD TV, but it just doesn’t satisfy the soul. I watched the first hour of game one before I had to head off for work where I found that no one was even aware that the World Cup had begun. I felt so alone and disconnected.

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Today, I headed out to Brennan’s restaurant/bar to catch the 7am match between Argentina and Nigeria. This in itself, places opening early to show the games, would have been unheard of not that long ago. And after seeing the measly crowd of about six people who’d shown up, I’m wondering if they will continue this for the entire month. I knew the 11:30am game would be crowded as it was USA vs. England, but was off to another part of town to see what was on offer.

I’d found out about several restaurant/bars near the University that were going to be World Cup headquarters. The first one I walked into had no seats available, although it was not that crowded. I walked down the street to choice number two that lacked any type of fun atmosphere. I ended up in a place called Raleigh’s on Telegraph Ave., just a few blocks from UC Berkeley.

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The place was jumping; tons of mostly university students, two big screens, and lots of TV’s. It took a bit of doing, but I was able to snag a chair and park myself in good viewing distance of one of the TV’s.

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I was sitting with people who had grown up playing soccer, understood and loved the game. I had never before been with a group of Americans watching the World Cup and was thrilled at their screams and yells and boos. When team USA scored the place exploded; people jumped up sloping beer and high-fiving each other. An impromptu chant of USA!, USA!, USA!, ensued. It warmed my heart. I would never have believed it possible that a group of Americans could love the beautiful game as much as the rest of the world.

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California may not be my dream destination for watching the World Cup 2010, but it just may not be as dismal as I had expected.

Kate