Groundhog Daze

I had driven up from Los Angeles on Friday for another weekend of madness with my runyonesque friend.  It was now early Sunday morning, I was sitting at Munson's desk with some coffee and the Chronicle.  In five hours, Munson would be up to begin the series of rituals that make up each of his days.  It will start with a trip to the bathroom, physical complaints, a sinus-cleansing cacophony, coffee, cigarette, and turning on TVG to catch the first race.  

Early influences include a twelve-year-old Munson home with mom listening to the stretch call on the radio, when The Donut King (a tip from mom's boss), came in to give them their first winner.  Growing up in a home where the family competed at cards and board games like gladiators, and living a stone's throw from Santa Anita, were also factors.  

I was looking at a diagram showing the living room and den where I was seated.  It was hand-drawn on yellow legal paper and had been placed under the clear glass that served as the desk top.  It looked like a checkerboard with a note in each square.  We've known each other for fifty-two years, I've visited many times, but had never seen this before.  Each square represented a place – a drawer, a shelf, a basket, a table top, etc.  The notes gave a brief summary of the stuff that went in each place.  I conducted a physical inventory of the area, checking each note on the diagram against the actual items in drawers and shelves.  The Smithsonian would be impressed.  This made me curious about the kitchen.  I've been to the kitchen many a morning, but never looked past the coffee maker since we always ate out.  I didn't see a diagram for the kitchen anywhere but opening drawers, cabinets and the refrigerator, revealed countless pockets of tidy arrangements.  Most striking were the items on shelves that were aligned left-to-right by height, tall-to-short.

Soon, Munson was focusing on the racing form, the daily activity that immediately follows turning on TVG, when he shouted, "Swift Socks is running at Santa Rosa today!"

Swift Socks was a gelding that we used to bet on, but neither of us had seen the name in years.  He used to run at the major tracks, mostly Santa Anita and Hollywood Park.  Santa Rosa was part of the fair circuit that ran in the summer only.  The vast majority of thoroughbreds are a losing proposition for their owners.  Dropping a horse from major track competition to racing at county fairs was a move by trainers and owners to recover at least some of their annual expenses for stable, feed and vet bills. 

Munson went on, "Christ what is he now, gotta be ten years old if he's a day."

I said, "Says eight in the form."

Munson, now encouraged, "Is that all?  It won't matter if he's eighteen, he'll murder those pigs at Santa Rosa.  They're dropping him down to pick up some easy cash.  It's only about an hour away, what do you think?"

I said, "It's a long way for a short price."

There's no stopping him, "Where's your sense of adventure?  I'll get ready and we'll get an early start."

I said, "It's one in the afternoon."

Munson's manic phase has begun, "Always with the negativity.  There are thirteen races, we've got plenty of time."

I check the form for the day's entries at Santa Rosa while Munson goes through the daily search for his "lucky outfit".  Munson has a thorough knowledge of the traditional fundamentals of handicapping, but over the years, circumstances have led him to favor less conventional techniques.  In 1993 we were driving to Santa Anita to watch and wager on the Kentucky Derby when we stopped to buy the day's racing form at a liquor store on Huntington Drive.  Although Munson had a horse that he had been predicting for nine months would win the derby; the form was needed to handicap the other races.  Munson discovered that the form he bought, for some unknown reason, had a short length of a clear-filament fishing line stuck inside between pages.  Munson was positive this was an omen but despite studying each of the prep races, he was unable to spot a connection.  It was finally time for the running of the derby and he dashed off to the betting windows.  He returned, having made the biggest wager of his life, stood with me at the finish line, and watched his horse come in sixth behind the winner, Sea Hero, who paid thirteen-to-one.

The fishing line incident was ten months prior to the San Felipe Stakes when Munson  interpreted the signs correctly.  Before the race went off, a strong earthquake hit Southern California at 1:20 pm, sending race fans running for the exits.  The closed circuit TV monitors at the track, which air horse racing only, broke with tradition, and switched to a local news report, stating that the quake registered 5.3 on the Richter scale.  Munson went to the window and wagered most of what he had left on a five-three one-way exacta that came in and paid nicely.  Three months later was the next time I saw the track TV monitors switch to a news report, as I watched Al Cowlings chauffeur OJ up the 405 freeway.

Horse racing is a way to burn money for both owners and fans.  The next time you are out to eat where photos from the winner's circle hang on the wall, don't ask.  If you're at the Argentine restaurant across from Caliente, the owner will tell you they serve to remind her of the demented, degenerate pendejo she divorced, and who now lives on the streets of Tijuana. The waitress at the Hawaiian Grill, down the street from Bay Meadows Race Track, will tell you the photos are a memorial to the former owner, who one Thursday lunch blew his brains out in the men's room.  The race track, any race track, is not for the faint of heart.  Every track has an area, usually in front of the grandstand, where walking through it late in the day, requires stepping over bodies that are sleeping it off with a few pages from the racing form between them and the bare pavement.

The good news was that we were going out, which meant a lot of compulsive behavior would be avoided.  This includes the choreographed action that accompanies every race:  (1) at his desk analyzing the form, posting notes with the "lucky pen" for the day; (2) placing the wager via TVG; (3) opening the kitchen window for the first cigarette; (4) opening a bottle of beer: (5) returning to the desk to revise and/or make an additional bet via TVG; (6) returning to the kitchen window for the next cigarette; (7) taking up his position at the "lucky spot" for the day; (8) viewing the race from his the lucky spot; (9) screaming, swearing, yelling, threatening, tearing of paper: and (9), posting detailed notes on pieces of scratch paper regarding the results of the race.

This sequence is repeated, to the letter, for every race.  A typical week day means eight races or sixteen cigarettes and eight beers.  Variations do take place.  Such as when the lucky pen is hurled out the kitchen window; the lucky outfit has never lasted an entire day without at least one change, including underwear; and the lucky spot is constantly in transition.  Once in a great while, the full day of racing is preceded by an elaborate smudge stick ceremony.  

The bad news was also that we were going out, which meant a lot of compulsive behavior would have to be endured.  Munson has selected his lucky pen, his lucky outfit, we are in the car headed for the freeway when Munson asks, "Did you see the garage door close?"

This is always hard for me, I said, "Just once, could we skip this part?"

Munson apologized, "I'm sorry, I have to check the garage or it'll bug me all day."

I pleaded with him, "Would it do any good if I said I saw it close?"

Munson, "No, because then it'll bug me all day that you may have been lying."

My turn, "Then don't ask me."

We drive back to the house to see that the garage door is firmly shut.  We are headed back to the freeway.  We pass the gym where Munson has been a member for over three years.  When he joined, he went in to fill out the paper work and pay the initial fee; he's never been back.  When I yell at him for continuing to pay his monthly dues, he accuses me of not being supportive.  "After all", he'll say, "The important thing is that I've taken the first step."

Remembering this angers me.  I need to get even.  I ask him, "Did you turn off the coffee maker cause I know I didn't?"

We go another block, then he makes a u-turn and we're headed back to the house.  After he verifies that the coffee maker has been shut off he gets in the car.  Before we pull away from the house for the third time, I say, "I definitely saw you lock the front door on your way out."

It was a quiet ride to the Santa Rosa County Fair Grounds.  When we arrive, following his normal script, Munson prowls the parking lot waiting for inspiration to guide him to a lucky parking stall.  Once we're parked, Munson writes down the numbers of the parking spot we are in, the license of the car closest to us, and the time on the car's digital read out just as it is turned off.  This is all information that may bear significance.

Don't let the obsession with occult handicapping lead you to think this is a lack of intelligence, he just likes it this way.  When he was teaching at Lincoln High School during the Viet Nam conflict, he was summoned to appear for an induction physical.  Teachers were exempt from the draft at the time, so Munson showed up with documentation showing he taught for the LAUSD.  They insisted that he go through the induction process while they took their sweet time reviewing his information.  He got pissed and since he knew they couldn't take him, he proceeded to intentionally answer incorrectly every question on the standard test given to every potential inductee.  After they had scored the results they informed him that although many had tried over the years, he had been the first ever to answer 100% of the questions wrong.  They were highly impressed.  They were also highly pissed and sent him to Fort Benning Georgia that afternoon.  It wasn't until the ninth week of boot camp that legal maneuvers earned him a discharge.

If we go out, or stay in, the day of racing is always a glorious emotional upswing at the beginning followed by an inevitable decline into despair.  If he loses it's, "I shoulda bet the seven horse."  If he wins it's, "I shoulda bet more."  It makes for a long day.

This day is no different.  We win some early races then it all goes south and we are down to the end of our funds.  The worst thing to do at this point, is to try to make it all back in one race with a long shot.  Munson of course has found the long shot using the old axiom: in a long race bet the gray horse.  The horses break from the starting gate and the gray looks terrific, bursting into the lead as they move down the back stretch, and then suddenly is pulled up lame and out of the race.

We are making our way back out to the parking lot when Munson asks an old timer walking along next to us, "I got so mad about the gray breaking down, I stopped watching.  Did you see who won?"

The man had to first look at his program, then said, "The nine, Swift Socks."