A further study in harness-fan recruitment.

by Frank Cotolo

Part 1 is here.

In the winter of 1978, Mr. Bruce and I were among a select group of Los Angeles citizens continuing to make Western Harness Racing (WHR) at Hollywood Park a staple of our evenings’ entertainment. The regulars knew one another by names and/or faces. Some were celebrities. Others were media blue collar workers; writers and film technicians and makeup artists and so on. Altogether we were aces of the apron and guardians of the grandstands and we kept the place tidy for when the bigger crowds for thoroughbred racing returned. Suffice it to say that during any nine-race card there was nothing north of Prairie and La Brea separating us.

One evening while walking towards the admission entrance, Mr. Bruce was stopped by a stocky man dressed like a taxi driver with a flat cap.

“I’ve seen you guys around a lot,” he said.

“We’re usually here,” Mr. Bruce said.

He reached into his jeans and handed Mr. Bruce a card encased in hard plastic. “Take this,” he said, “and get yourself in free for the rest of the meet.” And he walked away.

The card belonged to Roger Stein. Mr. Bruce said, “He’s a trainer. And this is his personal ID card.”

We saw Stein before. Mostly in the food court where we bought rounds of coffee and he bought slices of pizza. The next time he saw us he gave us a batch of free passes but never asked for his ID card back. Mr. Bruce and I paid better attention to his entries and earned well on his champion pacer Courageous Red.

It was not long until Mr. Bruce and I began to do what handicappers do best: disagree with our betting choices. He was able to make confident cases for his bets after limited visits to WHR and by using what knowledge he obtained from a single book and whatever I shared with him about my New York harness adventures.

This was a time when exotics were static. The first two races offered the Daily Double; it made for punctual attendance because there was only one Double a night. There were exactas and trifectas (triples) but they were assigned to particular races. Mr. Bruce and I were betting partners when it came to exotics. We favored exactas because at California pari-mutuel tracks the base bet for exactas was $5. It was cha-ching with every hit. They paid well and we always used only two horses and then nothing more than a box.

Our partnership was solid. One night when Mr. Bruce was ill, I wandered the apron alone and I hit a huge exacta early in the program. I left well before the last race and drove to his apartment with the best medicine a horse player can get; half of a $5 exacta payoff. Stein’s horse was one exacta element — as usual driven by Rick Kuebler — and the other exacta element was driven by an unknown-to-me Joe Hudon.

Mr. Bruce bought into the harness experience big that season. In no time he felt it was where he belonged. He picked up certain anomalies that assisted his handicapping. Like Mark Aubin driving winning horses in the last race on many nights. And Gene Vallandingham winning races after his horses looked exhausted in post parades. And like me he became a huge Shelly Goudreau fan (we were happy not to be present on the night of his fatal accident).

After regular visits it was as much about camaraderie as it was making money. Harness racing under the stars was our island far from the maddening Hollywood scene.

No one else I knew in Hollywood cared to join me and Mr. Bruce at WHR more than once; they all became bored after three races. Stein remembered us and we talked over coffee and pizza while the sun sank and the pollution tainted a pretty sky the hour before post time.

The WHR meet came to an end and Mr. Bruce said, “Now what?”

I told him not to worry. All we had to do the following week was ride three freeways to attend harness racing. It meant investing at least an hour’s ride to and from another racetrack; a five-eighths mile racetrack surrounded by land owned by the United States Military. No orange adorned the Los Alamitos Raceway grandstands but it was located in Orange County and deep in John Wayne territory.

Our routine changed. We left Hollywood early enough to stop at the Katella Deli (it is still standing on Katella Avenue in Los Alamitos proper). There we dined on Matzo Ball soup and then drove down the road and into the racetrack parking lot.

“Roger will be there,” I told Mr. Bruce. “And the regular cast of horsemen.”

“Good,” said Mr. Bruce.