“She put nine-hundred dollars on the fifth horse in the sixth race, I think his name was Chips Ahoy! Came in six lengths ahead, we spent the whole next week getting high.” – The Hold Steady, Chips Ahoy!
The Sha Tin Racecourse
Somewhere near the base of the massive Mid-Levels escalator system on Hong Kong island, is a restaurant called Ivan The Kozak where they serve Russian and Ukrainian food. Across from The Kozak is a tiny cigar shop. It was there that we decided to buy something to smoke at the races. It only seemed appropriate to pick up a few Cuban cigars before heading out to the race track. It was, after all, a celebration of sorts. So we bought three Romeo Y Julietas and some proper cigar-lighting matches– long wooden things that wouldn’t corrupt the flavor, or so we were told. Lighting a Cuban cigar with a cheap lighter is akin to ripping a bowl with a Zippo— it’s just not proper etiquette and it tastes horrendous.
***
The Sha Tin Racecourse is a fine and modern thing. It possesses all the grandeur, spectacle and promise that one would expect from a place where a horse can change a man’s fortune in the span of a single lap. Situated out in the New Territories, Sha Tin lacks the prime, central location that Hong Kong’s Happy Valley Racecourse enjoys. But it is no less exciting when the horses charge out of the gate and the people begin to cheer with a thirst for victory that only potentially massive payouts can evoke.
Wandering inside, I began to wonder: who were these people? These hardened faces– their intense, stony eyes fixed on charts and TV screens that displayed esoteric odds that I would never understand. They were faces that conveyed the angst that comes before every capricious affair with Lady Luck. These where the men who courted her; men who believed in their hearts that with a great enough comprehension of these numbers, and a little grace from the gods, they could charm The Lady into their beds, for just long enough.
The natives huddled beneath these monitors, consulting their betting slips as the numbers changed; they appeared to be in a state of almost constant flux, and how these people maintained a grasp on the situation, I did not know. I must’ve been the only one not looking at the screens, and this worried me because I desperately needed a handle on this scene. And I wanted to be a part of it; I wanted to understand what it took to bet on the ponies and win– to triple a meager month’s paycheck on the back of a thoroughbred.
My good friend, Nick, is a Kentucky-boy and therefore imbued with an innate knowledge of pony-gambling. He attends The Derby annually. This is his turf. These are his people (albeit Chinese) and he moves in their midst comfortably.
The Sha Tin Racecourse lacks the decadence and depravity of The Derby, but I was sure it was just as easy to lose a fortune, especially if you didn’t know what you were doing, which I didn’t. However, with Nick’s help I marked some betting slips, taking a moment to consider the horses’ names and ages, their placements and the standings of their jockeys. This was information I could wrap my head around, but I suspected it wouldn’t be of much help in the long run. Then I went to the counter to place the bets.
Act cool, act natural, I told myself. Like all gambling institutions, I knew these sharks could smell a sucker. I wasn’t sure how this would work, but I felt it was important to place these bets with full confidence, so I ambled up to the window and gave the surly Chinese woman behind the glass a big grin— all teeth.
“Hi there, ma’am,” I blurted out. “I’d like to place a bet.” My twisted grin said I wasn’t simply gambling, I somehow knew the score. I was sure she’d seen that look before. Many times. She took my betting slips, scanned them into a computer, took my colorful Hong Kong money and gave me the slip back.
It was easy, of course. Any fool with a fistful of Hong Kong Dollars can place a bet on a pony, but with names like “Blessed Brethren” and “Solar Energy,” I felt that my horses could not lose. Our bets were placed, so my friends and I went outside to wait for the start. The crowd was tense and huddled beneath awnings and umbrellas as it drizzled slightly. We climbed the bleachers and hopped a hand-rail that divided the lower, uncovered seats from the higher seats beneath the large canopy.
With the race set to begin, we took the cigars out of the small canisters and lit them up with some difficulty from the wind. At last, the cigars were lit and the horses were off. I clutched my bets in one hand and the Cuban in the other, cheering and yelling, “Make me rich, dammit!”
Alas, I’m just a simple teacher and had placed bets just large enough to make it interesting. I wouldn’t get to come home to Taipei and quit my day job this time.
