My mom took Niall and me to Santa Anita Racetrack last weekend. I hadn’t been there in years (like fifteen) and certainly not since it was redone for Seabiscuit. It’s really a lovely place. Like The Bellagio, it is some truly gorgeous gilding over an addiction-based economy. It is magnificently appointed, but very few people there seem to be asking how the owners can afford the upkeep. They still figure the odds are in their favor in wagering — probably because they have “a system” or “inside information”.
My mom chose that day to go because there was free admission. We went in and walked towards the General Admission seats. I told my mom that I wanted to go look around, that I thought we could do better. I ended up getting free box seats — a box to ourselves. I felt rather like my dad.
So, we are in the box as the gates are pulled out for the first race. Niall is thrilled, watching the horses get ready. The horses leap out of the gates and start heading around the course, and Niall’s eyes are as big as saucers. He pulls his gaze away from the race for a moment to look at me, and asks:
“What do the horses get if they win?”
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HA!
Good question, Niall!
It sounds like you had a nice trip.
“What do the horses get if they win?”
The antidote.
Just because it is so, so precious, and because I did such a poor job transcribing, the emphasis should be “What do the horses get if they win?”, not “What do the horses get if they win.”