Well, it's Father's Day again and, as likely the case with you as well, memories come back to the forefront one more time. If your dad is around, hug him a bit tighter.
As for me, the holiday is always a little more poignant because my father's birthday was June 20. Often times, the two days were connected or close enough to warrant an even bigger celebration. Of course, for many years when I was a kid, the true present would be dictated by my mother.
"Don't bother your father today."
Yes, ma'am.
Indeed, there were years later on where my dad got cheated a little bit. As an adult, I would take him out to dinner on Father's Day and that would cover the birthday festivities as well. Back in that day, he loved to go any place that had a salad bar. This was routine to me. For him who rarely went out any more, the many options of cole slaw, pickled beets, cucumbers, and radishes were a novelty.
But now I must confess something to dear old Dad. I goofed this year and neglected to watch the Belmont Stakes. It still bothers me. You see, that has always been my little unspoken legacy and hat tip to my dad. Wherever I am and whatever I am doing, I watch the three legs of that horse racing event. My father had instilled in me early on the importance of watching these races.
As long as I can remember, Dad was a horse racing fan. I remember him going to Yonkers Raceway all the time. That was a big double date night out. Frequently, my mom would go along and they would be joined by another couple. It was a big deal.
When we vacationed in Atlantic City or Asbury Park, there was always one day set aside to visit the local track. As a six-year-old, I was bored to tears. But this stuff seemed to animate my rather stoic dad more than anything else.
I have images of him seated at the kitchen table with the racing results spread out in front of him. He studied and studied. He seemed to know his stuff when it came to the ponies.
Now, was there gambling going on? I am sure of it. I always remember hearing my parents talk about "hitting the number" whatever that was. And, in those long ago days prior to Offtrack Betting, your wagers on today's card at Aqueduct or Monmouth were handled by some guy parked near the train station at 241st Street and White Plains Road in the Bronx.
And there's a little family secret that I only know about peripherally. And likely will never know more.
The whispering in my house was a little more intense. There was covert activity that was never really addressed. If I asked a question, I was likely dismissed.
Several years later, while retrieving a phone number for my mother from her desk drawer, I saw a "Police Beat" item from the local newspaper. My dad and a friend from work had gotten in trouble with the law for consorting with one said bookie.
Oh.
Seeing your dad's name printed as an alleged criminal is a little...no...a lot unsettling. I quickly put the clipping away. Do I ask about it?
Nah. I wouldn't get a straight answer anyway. All I know is that I never remember my dad being away from home, so I supposed it was all dismissed with a warning. Another mystery of childhood that will never be explained.
Moving on from that supposed ugliness, Dad still followed horse racing and yes, he sat me down for three Saturdays every spring to watch the Triple Crown. And then I started to ask him more questions about what the heck I was watching.
It was another attempt to connect with my father. Oh, sure, we had baseball and he certainly conformed to my interests and likes there. I mean, he was a longtime Yankee fan who switched to the Mets for me. This was my way of giving it back.
Dad started to explain to me how he studied the racing form. Following particular jockeys. The strengths and weaknesses of various horses. The conditions of the tracks and how that affected the rides. He was more than happy to comply.
So, it was natural for this eleven-year-old to finally broach the question.
Can I go with you the next time?
"You were always bored when we went to Atlantic City."
I won't be now. Please.
At that juncture, I became the regular companion for my father's trip to Yonkers Raceway, which was not the flats but harness racing. No difference. Dad knew all about that world, too. And we went one Saturday night a month for a couple of years.
The routine would be very simple. My father would give me ten dollars and allow me to pick every other race. He, of course, had to be the one to go to the window. But I tried to employ all the tricks he had taught me. Of course, he had final say.
"You don't want that horse. The rider has never won."
"Don't pick it for place. Go across the board."
"It's a little muddy out. Don't pick that horse."
Sometimes, I came home with winnings after I gave back the ten dollar seed money. But, even if I didn't, there was a treasure of gold in memories that I could never replace.
I had found another way to connect to my father. I thought about that a few years ago as American Pharoah came down the Belmont stretch. The last time there was a Triple Crown winner, I was watching that race with my father.
In a way, I still was.
Dinner last night: Pizza at Eataly.
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