Brave Hearts that get killed at the very beginning,
leave us so clueless to what they could of done-
Maybe been the next leader in a world of vampires,
and walk around with a wooden stake praising the sun-
Saving one individual every time they kill another,
puts a polite perspective on the ratio of good and evil-
If a Brave Heart of such caliber was actually around,
would you die with out splinters, or house wooden needles-
What some play and some pull on the people around them,
eats away at their pulse maker, but only they know-
What if one of these Brave hearts could riddle their blankets,
constructed of lies and displayed by sham shows-
Would we see people close to us begin to fall down,
their act gets discovered, and they fall like the rain-
The Brave Heart points out frauds with no dignity,
who's lies are consistent, simply just to maintain-
A factor like that could leave one confused,
upset at the loss, or upset at the uncovered-
Maybe our Brave Heart could shed one some light,
and one could walk away, on the hunt for the others-
If these Brave Hearts were breathing our lives would be different,
so most Brave Hearts like this will never have lived-
But don't hang your head, examine your heart,
and if you find it intrepid, maybe some do exist.
A horse track is not an ideal place to spend the day after Christmas, but for a young man in search of cheap beer and few hours’ diversion, it is a perfect fit. Having grown up just a few miles from Laurel Park, the local horse track, its presence had always been a part of my childhood shrouded in mystery. My family does not gamble, so it remained a forbidden place, lurking just over the hills, with its large entrance gate sometimes appearing for a moment outside the window on car trips. So when I grew up, as children do, I made it a top priority to finally investigate what lay within.
ReplyDeleteOn my first excursion, after passing through the gates, I observed the hodgepodge of cars in the parking lot, and deduced that their dilapidated nature probably gave a good indication of the crowd that waited inside. There was nothing newer than a 1995 model in the bunch, and the crumpled up track programs lining the dashboards of some reminded me that only the hardest of horse junkies goes to the races the day after Christmas. As I made my way through the rusty turnstiles, the attendant asked if I wanted a list of the days “exacta and trifecta” odds. This new vocabulary caught me off guard, and I barely managed to stutter out a “yes”. My slight pause made it blatantly obvious to all that I was not part of this tribe, just a young tourist who might put a few bucks on a random horse before finding a more culturally acceptable way of spending my day. As I walked in the smell of cigarettes and beer filled my nostrils, and I had trouble locating a single patron who was not holding at least one of each. Surprisingly, the Maryland health laws that seem to have banned cigarette smoking from every bar, restaurant and sidewalk had yet to infiltrate this bastion of vice, and I was pleased. If a church is a sanctuary the virtuous and god-fearing, the track is a last refuge for those who try to enjoy themselves in this life, and would rather place their faith in a four-legged creature on a 7/8 mile track.
As sacrilegious as it sounds, the horse track may in fact be my spiritual home. I’m not talking about the big-hat, sundress and pearls Kentucky Derby here. I’m referring to the weekday afternoon races at Laurel Park, and a whole host of horse tracks across the country that hold races without fanfare year-round. God probably frowns on horse racing, or at least the gambling aspect of it, and churches most certainly do. But if religion and faith is something people use to give them hope – hope of a better life after this one, then the horse track is just as good (in my opinion) as any church, temple, or mosque. If you want to see true acts of faith, spend an afternoon at the most run down horse track you can find.
Horses have a unique place in Maryland’s history. The horse racing industry of Maryland is world renowned, and some of the best racing horses are born and trained in stables throughout the state. Despite its relatively small size, Maryland has six different horse tracks operating nearly year round. Every year, The Preakness Stakes, part of the Triple Crown, is held at Pimlico Race Course in Baltimore. On this day, throngs of well-dressed Baltimore socialites descend upon Pimlico for their yearly jaunt as equine aficionados. These are not the true believers of my faith. I liken them to the pseudo church-going family who struggles to make it to the Christmas or Easter service each year at a traditional church.
Horses have benefitted Maryland in other ways than horseracing, in fact, the beginnings of Methodism in America started in Maryland, rather appropriately, on horseback. Around 1760, a young Irish immigrant named Robert Strawbridge brought his zeal for Methodism with him when he settled in Frederick County, Maryland. He had such conviction for his religion that he would ride his horse around the burgeoning colony, convincing other Marylanders to follow his lead. “What faith and courage those early Wesleyan itinerants had shown in riding the vanguard of the American frontier” (Williams, xi). Wherever he stopped, crowds of people would gather around his horse, eager to hear his sermons. Even the first Bishop of the Methodist Church in America, Francis Asbury spread the word on horseback. In 1771, Asbury answered John Wesley’s call to spread the word of Methodism in America. He did so with a passion, and was responsible for creating “districts of churches, each of which would be served by circuit rider – preachers who traveled from church to church to preach” (Goetz, 26) Asbury was a circuit rider himself, and “traveled on horseback or in a carriage an estimated 300,000 miles” in his lifetime, “delivering some 16,500 sermons” (Goetz, 26). I was raised in the Methodist Church, but since my adolescence I have distilled the faith into its main parts and taken what I felt necessary. Virtues such as regard for my fellow man and a desire to do more good than evil remain, as well as an innate desire to share my faith with others, around a horse. With this in mind, it is no surprise I was practicing my faith on December 26th.
The previous day was Christmas, and sitting at the holiday table with my grandmother Helen, I had learned of a special Robinson family connection to horse racing. Apparently in the late fifties, my grandparents lived on a sizeable parcel of land outside of Baltimore, and one year they decided on a whim to buy a horse for the property and race it occasionally. “Don, Jr.”, named after my uncle Donald, was this horse. He was not a descendant of any notable racing lineage, nor was he trained to race particularly well. Yet, despite his shortcomings, my grandparents entered him into a few races at Pimlico over the course of a year, if only to say they had taken part in a Maryland tradition. Speed, it turns out, was not a strong trait in Don Jr., but by some strange twist of fate he did place first in his final race. Whatever purse he claimed may or may not have recouped the expenses of raising and racing a horse, but the impact of this race had a lasting effect on my Grandmother. Even years after Don Jr.’s victory, strangers would approach my grandmother at random, asking if she was the owner of the horse that had won them money at Pimlico a few years back. Some even hugged her, stating that because of Don Jr’s performance, they were able to put a down payment on their first home, or send their child to college. “Perhaps,” Helen said to me, “gambling on horses isn’t all that bad.”
Back at Laurel Park, less than twenty four hours later I was at the racetrack, beer in hand, just in time to wager on the eighth race. Veteran horse gamblers will tell you there is a method to betting on horses. In their eyes, the finely printed tables and charts of abstract information called the race program makes wagering less of a gamble, and more of an educated guess. Perhaps this is true, but my method is to generally pick the horse with the most appealing name. Imagine my surprise when I scanned the program, and found that the fourth horse in the race, with ten-to-one odds, was named “Helen Says”. If ever there was a message from the almighty, this had to be it. My race program was now a holy book, a piece of scripture, the word of the lord in black and white.
A reading from the book of Equus, Chapter 8, Verse 4 – “And Helen Sayeth, ‘Thou shalt place thy wager upon this steed, and reapeth a yield, ten-fold.’”
I wasted no time taking advantage of this divine intervention, putting a crisp five dollar bill on the counter and stating, “Helen Says to win”. Minutes later the shot went off, the gates swung wide open, and eight disciples of the track came bursting out, nostrils flaring. An unmistakable surge of electricity passed through the crowd that was now, like me, pressed up hard against the cold railing. The man next to me was yelling, in a thick “Bawlmerese” accent, “Come on number four!” We briefly made eye contact, acknowledging our shared faith. As the horses drew nearer, and the volume increased, the patrons’ cries to their horses became urgent pleas. I half expected some to start speaking in tongues as their passion intensified, their voices joining in a chorus of the faithful, a choir almost. The air was cold enough that the horses’ hot breaths created a cloud behind them as they crossed the finish line, but through the mist I could plainly see that Helen Say’s had won by half a length. My pocket was swollen from my winnings as I left the track, and I was a true believer.
Spirituality can be found in numerous places, but I feel especially spiritual at the horse track. It is hard for me to decipher what difference there is between a faith in god and faith in a racehorse. Both can alter the outcome of your day, but with a horse you get to see the result, a tangible reward to your faith. Churches are a group of people united by a common belief, so in a way, Laurel Park is a dirtier, less stuffy church. Just as Maryland colonists had gathered around Robert Strawbridge and his horse to hear the word, my fellow worshipers gather around a group of sweaty horses, and make monetary offerings of their faith. I do not expect many people to accept this philosophy, but there are certainly some good reasons to. You never have to get too dressed up, you can drink while you’re worshiping, and every once in a while, the collection plate ends up in your pocket.