page 46
daily nebraskan
Wednesday, august 18, 1982
Sports
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Clockwise, starting at top
left: Two horses battle neck-and-neck
as they head down
the stretch in a recent race
at the State Fairgrounds
Track; Race track crew
members tend to a horse
waiting in paddock; Jockeys
at the State Fairgrounds
Track wait their turn to
participate in the day's
races; a day at the races isn't
all fun as this fan demon
strates after watching his
horse lose; racing fans get a
close-up view of the final re
sults by standing near the
finish line.
Photos by Dave Bentz
Story by Pat Higgins
Old Handicapper spends day
winning, losing at racetrack
"Do you win?"
"I always win," the Old Handicapper
muttered with a nod of assurance. I expect
to retire to Spain soon to write a novel
with my winnings."
The Old Handicapper is a well-known
media figure, originally based in Omaha,
who subsequently has been exiled to
Lincoln. He looks every bit the part of a
racetrack tout behind his shades - no
doubt hiding bloodshot eyes - and the ever
fashionable several days' growth of beard.
"The racetrack crowd are my people be
cause the track is a great equalizer," he
explained. "It won't be pretty, though."
Representatives of every socio-economic
group appeared to be in attendance at the
track, ranging from beefy ranchers waving
thick wads of bills to black guys wearing
see-through shower caps (attention fashion
watchers). There were also lots of young
longhairs. The dress code includes shades
for all, a hat or cap of some sort and a
mien of utter confidence while studying
the racing form. Their sober intensity may
be rivaled only by the new all-quiet-on-the-dorm-front
rules for studiousness.
"Most people really do know what the
they are doing out here. I could study a
form the night before and pick out who
the crowds will choose as the favorites
which should by all logic win," the Old
Handicapper said. "But it doesn't always
work out that way - that's what makes it a
horse race. However, the people who really
win big don't know what they're doing.
They pick their age or something and wind
up with some outlandish payoffs."
"It pays to watch and see if any of the
horses have their hair braided. This means
that they could be looking forward to
having their pictures taken in the winners
circle afterward," the Old Handicapper
said. This observation proved to be correct
several times early in the day.
By the fifth race the Old Handicapper
was well ahead because of some crafty
horse playing. The fifth "full of dogs" in
the Old Handicapper's eyes, but he decided
to go heavily on a 23-1 long shot.
"I had a vision," he explained. The
vision must have been a mass hallucination
among the crowd as the long shot dropped
to a still healthy 8-1 payoff.
"What time does the plane leave for
Barcelona?" the Old Handicapper wonder
ed cockily.
From that bit of overwhelming confi
dence bordering on arrogance, the Old
Handicapper suffered a number of business
reversals. After several defeats he was re
duced to holding his head in his hand
mumbling "I'm a hack" inconsolably.
The emotional effect of gambling at the
track has an electric quality about it as the
tension builds to post time. The drone of
conversation builds to a crescendo of
squeals and roars. A half hour of boredom
for a two-minute buzz. Some winners,
more losers. The Old Handicapper won -some.
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