Sunday Short: A Grand Don't Come For Free

"It was supposed to be so easy..."

Joe stood at the rail facing into the Woodbine walking ring. The willows were swaying under a push from a cold November wind. Instinctively, Joe zipped up his jacket to the neck cursing under his breath for having worn a spring jacket to the track on such a cold day. Still, the sun was shining and in the right spot when the wind died down, you could close your eyes and pretend it was spring. The jockeys were making their way towards the stalls now to get some advice from the trainer and shake a few hands. Joe eyed the seven horse, Skinner's A Sinner, who stood tall, ears perked and decidedly calm. At 18-1, this lanky lad was singled on the second leg of a Pick 3. Joe had used three horses in the previous race and screamed himself hoarse when Sweet Inspiration came home at 23-1. It's the end of the month, there's bills to be paid and Joe needs this a little more than he'd like to admit. Joe took one last look at his ticket and said a silent prayer.

The track pony led the combatants out of the walking ring. Punters clamored along the rail and offered advice to the approaching jockeys. "Not too fast now David...", said a man in a 1997 Breeders' Cup jacket. "Rammmmmmmmmmmmsammmy...", growled a dread locked man to the delight of his friends. Skinner's A Sinner approached with Patrick Husbands in the saddle, the jockey sat tall, eyes forward, focused on the task at hand. Joe thought he caught a glimpse of a smile when the same dread locked man called out, "King Patrick, best jockey at Woodbine!" But the moment had passed as quick as it had come. Joe made his way around to the grandstand side of the track and watched as his horse warmed up. Six furlongs on the Woodbine poly is seventy seconds worth of positioning punctuated with a well-timed swoop, and Joe was comfortable his jockey had the knowledge - the rest was up the horse. "And they're off...", bellowed the track announcer. Husbands was away quickly and tucked in at the rail behind two front runners. The quarters burned in 22 and 45 and Joe said quietly to himself, "I could well be in." The horses turned into the stretch and Skinner's A Sinner angled off the rail and began to stride past the tiring front runners. Joe's stomach tightened and he scanned the back of the pack but there was no catching his runner. Husbands hit the wire and the announcer called, "Eighteen to one, this Skinner's A Winner!"

Alive to five runners in the ninth and final race, Joe knew he had to catch the bus now if he was to make it home in time for dinner. Sheila didn't mind Joe's passion for the track, but she hated when it affected their personal life. The missed dinners and foul moods caused by favourites that under-performed. Joe knew what a poor betting day did to him but was assured he could stop wagering at any time. He wasn't a track goer for the money, he was here for the horses, the sheer sport of it all. "I'm not addicted", Joe said to no one in particular taking one last look at the probable payouts before racing to a waiting TTC bus. As the bus weaved through the streets of Rexdale, Joe played out the final race in his head. If the favourite won, he'd collect nearly $400 and could pay off his overdue cell phone bill and still have some left over to take Sheila to a nice dinner. The other four horses on his ticket would pay anywhere from $900 to $1700. Maybe enough for a vacation or part way to a ring he knew Sheila deserved. Joe closed his eyes and dreamed Seabiscuit style movie scenes of the $10K claimer that would decide his ticket. Each scene ended with the favourite being nipped at the wire by a hard-knocking horse on a mission to make his day.

Joe woke up with a start as the bus stopped abruptly at a traffic light. Nearly home, he shook himself awake and pulled the cord for his stop. As he made his way up the stairs of the simple block building to their second story apartment, he could smell the Sunday roast and his stomach growled in anticipation. Key to lock and into the apartment he bounded with a smile. Sheila walked in from the kitchen to greet him and immediately his heart swelled. She was beautiful. Sometimes in the stress of the daily grind of bills and work and city buses Joe could forget that. But here, as she stood before him raven-haired and radiant, he was simply blinded by the light. "Dinner's almost ready dear", she said with a kiss. "How was your day?" That was a good question and Joe excused himself to wash the Racing Form ink from his hands and check to see if the computer was turned on. Barely able to contain himself as water gushed from the taps, Joe walked the hand towel from the bathroom to the bedroom and hit the space bar on the computer. Browsing to the results page, Joe found the Woodbine section and clicked on the link. As the hourglass spun, Joe closed his eyes and waited for the page to load. And then, opening his eyes, Joe's heart nearly burst. The favourite had finished second, one of his five horses had come in at 6-1 and the Pick 3 paid $1150. Joe ran to the kitchen and kissed Sheila.

Their Sunday evening was blissful. A warm and hearty dinner, a glass of wine for her, a beer for him. Cuddled under cover of blanket they watched a movie and headed to bed. "Are you happy here with me" purred Sheila. "I wouldn't have it any other way" said Joe.

Things went pear-shaped the very next day. The alarm didn't go off on time. Sheila took too long in the bathroom and Joe missed his bus by seconds. The paper work was piling up on his desk at work and the glorious Sunday washed away to the mundane Monday of an office job. In search of comfort, Joe sat in front of his work computer and thumbed through his wallet discarding losing tickets. Somewhere in the Costanza of this ratty leather fold was $1150 printed with cheap ink on cheaper paper. But where? Panic set in. Joe conspicuously took the discarded tickets back out of the wastebasket and checked again. Nothing. The phone rang and it was Sheila, "I just got another call from the cable company Joe. Did you pay the bill? They say we're two months overdue." Disgruntled and distracted, Joe replied, "I thought I paid it." He knew it was a lie. Truth was, he couldn't be sure where his money went. Too many meals out. Too many after-work drinks. Joe begged off the call. "Where's the bloody ticket", he moaned to himself. Upon arriving home, Sheila was well worked up. She had called everyone they owed money to. Phone company, cable company, electric, even the landlord. Joe ignored her shrieking and tears and fumbled through the laundry trying to find the jeans he'd worn to the track. He found them, but there was no ticket. Nothing. "Get out of my house", she said with the quiet conviction of a woman who was not going to be over ruled. A week later Joe had packed his things and was gone.

The next few months went by in a blur. Joe found a new place to live. He found a new girlfriend and then another and another but he couldn't get Sheila out of his head. The Woodbine meet was over for the winter and suddenly Joe felt very alone. He felt too old to be struggling with bills and as he stared at the twenty-one year old grooving by herself on the dance floor he definitely felt too old to be at this club. "She's fit..." said the college kid standing beside him at the bar. "But don't you know it, mate", Joe replied and walked out of the club into the night.

February is the worst month to be single. Especially if you're a racing fan. Woodbine is dark and the winter simulcast racing on television is such an empty tease. Joe couldn't bear to drag himself down to the off-track and instead sat on his bed staring at old racing programs wondering where it had all gone wrong. There are many different types of remorse. Not boxing an exactor. Missing the bullet work on a blurry Form. A sure winner boxed on the rail with nowhere to run. But Joe wasn't thinking about that, he was thinking about Sheila and how he had ignored so many of his responsibilities. Instead of working overtime and paying bills, Joe had been reading past performances and selfishly taking in the races thinking that Sheila would always be there waiting. Joe tossed the program at the television and yelled, "I'm such a twat!" The walls stared silently back at him refusing to challenge his words.

As April approached, the weather turned and Joe started to get out a little more. While wandering along College Street one Saturday morning he saw Sheila in a cafe window. She looked incredible. She wasn't alone. It hit him harder than he expected and he had to turn into a doorway and catch his breath. There was comfort in not knowing what your ex was up to, and Joe thought that maybe he was over her finally. Clearly, this wasn't the case. Anger filled Joe's eyes and his blood boiled. "Who is this guy, what is he thinking", mumbled Joe through tears and clenched fists. Deep down Joe knew that Sheila wouldn't stay single for long. She was too pretty and too smart to be ignored. Defeated, Joe slumped away.

Sometimes you have to hit rock bottom before you can pull yourself together. Joe channeled the anger of that Saturday morning walk and began to put his life in order. Bills got paid. Overtime was worked. His apartment was cleaned and organized. He even got himself a cat. Joe took stock of his life and realized that his office job was killing his spirit and decided that it was time to start living the life he'd dreamed of having. Somewhere along the way, Joe had given up his passion for photography. One day his camera went into a box and photography had become something he talked about rather than something he actually did. "Dry your eyes mate, just get on with it", said Joe to the cat who meowed back as if understanding. And get on with it, Joe did. Inspired, Joe found himself up at dawn watching morning workouts at Woodbine snapping dozens of photos. The lighting in the morning was incredible and his work was not only being framed, it was selling. While walking his latest composition down to a local cafe to be hung, Joe ran into Sheila. She looked incredible. Better still, she was alone. "How are you", she asked. "You look...buoyant." Joe could barely contain himself as words swirled through his head. "I'm great...I miss you...you look...beautiful." Just as he thought perhaps he'd said too much, he took it one step further. "Sheila, I'm sorry. I was an idiot. I know that now. Would you have coffee with me." he asked quietly. "What's in the bag", she asked pointing at the satchel slung over his shoulder. "Oh, it's just a photo I took at Woodbine. I'm taking photos again. Wanna see..", he asked. She nodded and Joe took the frame out of the bag to reveal a shadowy set of horses in the foreground of a glorious sunrise. "It's stunning, Joe. Really. You never should have stopped taking them", she replied and then walked away, but not before adding, "coffee tomorrow sounds good. call me." Joe's heart swelled. This time he'd get it right.

Everything with Joe and Sheila was back to how it used to be, except better. Internet banking had solved delinquent bill paying problems. The extra income from his photography bought comfort and fulfillment. Joe still went to the track, but sometimes Sheila came along. Today was one of those days. It was a sunny June afternoon. Warm but still cool enough that you had to wear a jacket. Joe read the Form while Sheila sat beside him with a magazine. Joe felt a twinge of pain as he turned the page to read the following:

Winning paramutuel tickets from all 2008 races at Woodbine, Fort Erie or any OJC track must be cashed by Tuesday. OJC parimutuel tickets cannot be cashed at any OTB.

Joe cringed as he though of his missing Pick 3 ticket and kicked at the empty cans under his seat. Sheila squeezed his arm and asked, "What's wrong Joe." Snapping out of it, Joe replied, "Nothing dear, just in a bit of a daze." Turning the page, Joe began to handicap the double. Instinctively he reached for the jacket's inside pocket for a pen when his fingers brushed paper, and that's where it was, in all its glory - his thousand quid. Fighting back tears from both the pain of their breakup and the joy of sorting it out, Joe turned to Sheila and said, "Is there something you would like to do today. I can come here anytime."

The end of the something i did not want to end,
Beginning of hard times to come.
But something that was not meant to be is done,
And this is the start of what was.