THE DREAMER

            One of the unrecognized aspects of being a turf writer is that you have to save things.

            Now that might not sound too complicated to you as you toss out a newspaper that contains only a passing comment on a horse.  But a diligent writer has to cut it out and, worst of all, then try and figure out where to file it.  After all, we ace reporters never know when we might have to check our files and find out which day Foolish Pleasure coughed or how much Leroy Jolley weighed the day he made all those beer commercials.  It’s what you might call a journalistic responsibility.

            Of course, this can be a problem, because it’s always tough to figure out where to file such a clipping in the first place.  Does an item about Conquistador Cielo go into that horses file?  Or should it be in the Woody Stephens file.  The 1982 Belmont folder might be a nice place, except several years later you can’t find anything in the De Kwiatkowski file and wonder if you mislaid it or, worse, misspelled the mans name.

            More often than not I find material for an article in several folders of this nature, to the extent that my filing system not only confuses me but I get so involved in reading the material that I lose interest in writing the article.  Plus there’s always the nagging doubt that you may have missed something in the ‘To Be Filed’ folders, which in my case occupy several drawers.

            But one of the things I’ve always saved in a specific place are system ads about betting.

            Until about a year ago, when I moved, I received at least one or two system betting ads in the mail every day.  Since that transition I haven’t received too many, leading me to believe that the people who mail out system ads don’t update their mailing lists very often.

            Oddly, I began to miss the system ads.  You know the type of material I’m referring to.  “You Can Win 95% Of The Races”, “Would You Like To Make $1,000 A Day?”, “I’ll Pay For Your Losses If My System Fails”, and “Destroy This Letter After You Read It!”.

            Fascinating material, every envelope practically guaranteeing that you can retire for life.  Yet, being something of a packrat, I can’t bring myself to throw this stuff away.  Not that I’d purchase any of them, you understand, I prefer  to make my own mistakes at the track, which I do quite often.  It’s just that every ad promised me untold riches and, whether you buy it or not, who’s going to throw away an ad that promises untold riches?

            Not me.

            I did try a system once, but only because a friend of mine purchased it and let me study it, a definite no-no as far as the system sellers are concerned.  If the seller knew that my friend had actually “divulged” this secretive information, the instructions inferred that the man would have been drawn and quartered on the spot.  As it was I got a 40-to-1 winner out of the deal, but it didn’t convince me to rush to my mailbox and stuff it full of orders for systems.  As a matter of fact I once calculated that to order every system I had received an ad for would cost me several thousand dollars, meaning I wouldn’t have any money left to bet the horses.  What’s the sense in that?

            Oh, I briefly toyed from time to time with ordering a couple of the systems, but the problem was which ones to order?  Which claims do you trust the most?  So I simply kept filing them away.

            But I think I found the solution to my problem, and confusion, when I ran across a recent ad in a racing magazine.

            “Do you dream?” the ad asked me.

            I reflected on that for a few moments recognizing that, yes, I do dream, and some of them are pretty weird.

            “Do you remember your dreams?” the ad went on.

            Well, I was a little stumped on that one.  I once read that we only remember 15% of our dreams.  And if there were any dreams I had already forgotten, how could I remember that I couldn’t remember them?”

            Still, the ad fascinated me.

            “No handicapping system that I know,” the ad continued, “will tell you that a horse will stumble at the break, jump the fence or go lame during the race.”

            Now I certainly couldn’t refute that kind of logic, the Daily Racing Form had proven a little weak in that area.  I couldn’t recall the last time that a Sweeps analysis had warned me that a horse named Follow The Yellow Brick Road would do just that.  Or that Fawdowngoboom would live up to his name.

            “Here’s a book that can add a third dimension to your handicapping.”  All, as I read on, I had to do was send in $24.95, plus a buck for first class postage, to learn how to use my dreams “for fun and profit”.

            Well, $24.95 seemed like a pretty stiff price to learn how to dream, particularly since I’d been doing it all my life anyway, so I decided to try this new handicapping approach on my own.

            So when I went to bed that night I simply instructed my subconscious to spare me the usual polka dot orangutans kidnapping Angie Dickinson, ignore the crumbling tote boards on a beach constructed with sand while green hamsters ran around refusing to bring me a Bloody Mary, and forget all about Tarzan driving the Batmobile in a match race with Eclipse while Superman was making out with Lois Lane in the stewards stand.  Give me, I instructed my mind, the dope on tomorrow’s winners.

            And the mind is a fascinating thing.  I dozed peacefully and watched the number five horse win every race on the next day’s card.

            Now this bothered me in a way, the five horse has always been something of a psychological nemesis for me in real life wagering.  One of those damned if you do and damned if you don’t situations.

            But when I woke up the next morning I felt I had resolved this trepidation.  My dreams had solved the problem, this was to be the day.

            And, since I couldn’t get to the track that day, I immediately phoned my local bookie.

            “Sam,” I began enthusiastically, “I want five across on all the five horses today.”

            There was a momentary silence on the other end of the phone, and then a yawn.

            “At five o’clock in the morning?” he asked with a trace of irritation.

            “Look,” I went on, “I know it sounds weird, but I’ve just added a third dimension to my handicapping.  And if you’re smart you’ll lay this action off and get down on it yourself.”

            Sam yawned again.  “What about the $50 you still owe me from last week on that horse that liked cabbage leaves?”

            “Don’t worry about it, Sam,” I assured him.  “After today we’ll both be millionaires.  Am I covered?”

            “Yeah,” he mumbled, “you’re covered.  Can I go back to sleep now?”

            “Sure,” I said happily.  “I’ll stop by and collect tomorrow afternoon.”

            Unfortunately I found myself unable to stop by Sam’s the next afternoon.  For one thing, I didn’t have the $135 I suddenly owed him on top of the $50 for the horse who liked cabbage leaves.

            Still, I remained undaunted.  After all, I rationalized, the number five horse was simply a personal hang-up.  All I needed to do was redirect my dreams into new territories.  Unplugging the telephone I drifted off to sleep, trying to clear my mind of any prejudices.  “I can dream with the best of them,” I thought, “and save $24.95 in the process.”

            And what a glorious dream it was, not to mention the fact that I even remembered it the next morning.

            There I was at the track, parlaying fistfuls of money on longshots who were winning by daylight.  The other people around me were huddled next to garbage cans studying such things as “The Omnipotent Key To Riches” while pari-mutuel supervisors were running back and forth behind the windows like a bucket brigade to keep me supplied with money as I kept dumping winning tickets on the counter.  An IRS agent handed me a couple of suitcases, noting that their accountants couldn’t count the winnings fast enough, and would I please call them at my convenience?

            I knew which horses would stumble, which ones would bolt, and when I wasn’t busy stuffing money into suitcases I was at the bar giving bartenders $24.95 tips.  I even dreamed that I threw all my accumulated system ad files into the fireplace.

            And, best of all, I remembered the number of all the winning horses.

            I awoke the next morning with a sense of awe and power.  To hell, I mused to myself, with the systems.  Don’t waste money buying a Form.

            I had The Secret.

            About the time I was contemplating buying the state of California and turning it into a giant amusement park, the phone rang.

            It was Sam.

            “Look,” I said, “I know you want your $185, but this is really the day.  Rent a fleet of trucks and meet me at the Turf Club entrance at noon.  When we’re through the track will want to borrow money from us, and we’ll charge them $24.95 a day in interest for every hundred they want.  After all,” I added thoughtfully, “if I’m going to buy a state, I might as well charge the going rate.”

            Sam was quiet for a moment.

            “Ron,” he finally said evenly, “you’re dreaming.”

            “Now how did you know that?” I laughed appreciatively.