Not All Memories Are Good

It was to be a fun day. Keeneland was a place filled with excitement, hope, and strange-looking people. There were places in Keeneland that smelled bad, and there were places where only adults were permitted. I remember thinking, this place is really different.

When we arrived it was already time for the fourth race of the day. The race we wanted to see was still an hour away. Someone at his workplace gave my dad a tip, so we were checking it out. The pari-mutuel windows were manned, but an obviously inebriated man was being escorted from window number 6. He was shouting obscenities while claiming he had been in line to place a bet before the allotted time had expired.

My dad approached that window and was pushed aside by a Security Official as they wrestled the wiry drunk toward the exit.

“Watch it,” the officer snapped.

“Sorry,” my dad responded meekly.

“Sorry my ass,” the agitated guard said through clenched teeth.

“I said, I’m sorry.”

“I heard you, and I said, ‘watch out,’ asshole.”

My father fell to the ground following the guard’s push. Those guards holding the drunken loud-mouth released their prisoner and grabbed the agitated officer to prevent further aggression My father wore an expression of bewilderment as one of the Security Guards helped him to his feet.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. What’s his problem?”

“It’s his first day back at work; he’s been out quite a while. His kid was killed by a drunk driver and the trial was just held last week.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, but why me?”

“Your ‘I’m sorry’ triggered his emotions, I’d guess. That’s what the judge said when he dismissed the case due to a technicality. He probably thought you were apologizing to the drunk.”

Although this was the beginning of a traumatic day the worst was yet to come. My dad finally placed his bet, got the printed ticket for the sixth race and led me to the stands. We found two seats just as the fifth race was about to start. The hoses had already been paraded past the stands. Shouts from groups of observers cheered for brightly garbed jockeys as they eased their mounts into the starting gates.

This was to be a short race, from start to finish it would last less than two minutes, but those two minutes would become a lifetime of bad memories for me. As the horses passed the last curve and headed into the stretch in front of the stands, a loud and sharp scream erupted.

A collective gasp was followed by an eerie silence from the stunned crowd. A horrifying scene developed on the track. A dark brown horse was screaming in pain as it attempted to walk on a foreleg whose bottom portion flopped as it was moved making the horse put full weight on a portion of the leg far above the hoof. The leg was obviously broken.

Several persons rushed onto the track trying to calm the frightened horse. The horrified crowd stared in disbelief. Most had never experienced such terror and helplessness. My father grasped my wrist and pulled me away from the scene.

I never finished what was to be a lifetime thrill; my first trip to the race track. I never knew if my father’s bet paid off. I never knew what happened to the dark brown horse. I never went back to the racetrack, and I never forgot.

By Robert L. Scarry

From: United States

Twitter: usnavy1990bob

Facebook URL: https://wwwfacebook.com/Robert.Scarry.3