by Frank Cotolo

“It’s a game of inches,” my dad said.

He first used the philosophic phrase watching New York Mets baseball games. As time passed, he applied it to every humankind challenge. He was smitten by betting thoroughbreds after his fortuitous initial success. We returned to Belmont but his score in one race is to this day something I have not heard about anywhere.

That event in horse racing’s game of inches occurred in the last race on what would be our final trip to Belmont Racetrack. Ralph bet $2 to win on a 9-2 shot. At the wire the finishing order was distinct. The win the place and the show horse numbers lighted the board. Ralph’s 9-2 shot finished third. I urged we make an early exit to the crowded parking lot.

“Wait,” Ralph said, “what’s that flashing on the screen?”

He meant the tote board. It was flashing an INQUIRY on the race. I explained.

“They can change the order of finish?” he said.

“Yes. But your horse finished third. The inquiry is on the win and place horses. There’s no chance the first two will be disqualified and your horse gets placed first.”

“Let’s wait and see. You never know the result of anything until it’s over. It’s a game of inches.”

He would not accept my dissent. I strolled back and forth. Ralph did not take his eyes off of the tote board until he coughed up a phlegm-filled laugh. I looked at the tote board awestricken. All three numbers were wiped from it and replaced with a new order where Ralph’s horse was first and the other two brought down in status. A double disqualification! Ralph won though his 9-2 shot finished third.

He handed me his ticket and said, “Look.”

“Five dollars to win?” I said. “Your biggest bet yet and you win [$27.50] finishing third? Will wonders ever cease?”

A week later he called me up and said, “When are we going to the track again?”

It was time to test my dad’s luck on a gritty half-mile harness track, Freehold Raceway. The change offered a new type of pari-mutuel experience for Ralph. America’s oldest daytime harness racetrack presented an intimate atmosphere by contrast to Belmont’s monument enclosure. And it was a shorter drive from Brooklyn.

A hot afternoon baked the Datsun I drove (the car did not have air conditioning). We settled for the hot air rushing through the windows as I pushed the speed limit. Ralph did not complain. He relaxed in the passenger seat and all I could do is smile. I looked at that ride as the resonance of my victory over my dad’s bleak notions about pari-mutuel wagering. I was happy and surprised it brought him happiness. I thought my personal rewards ended there. I was wrong.

Dad wanted to sit in the enclosed track-level seats because they were air-conditioned. I agreed but I could not sit still. I served the coffee and ran the bets. Dad’s harness wagers were not blessed with the luck he experienced at Belmont but he did not seem to care. I cared about my bets. I lost each one through all but two races I passed. Then came the final race.

“Who’s better?” Ralph asked. “Fontayn Lucyann or Phil-leon Hurvay?”

“They print the drivers’ names last to first, dad.”

He shrugged.

“Let’s play some triples,” I said. “It’s where you have to pick the first three finishers in order. We can be partners.”

I was hoping to tap into Lucky Ralph’s random selections using a ticket that included my choices handicapped with classic spins.

Ralph was all for it. Triples cost $3 a combo in the ‘70s but were only available in two races. They offered some hefty payoffs. We bought a $9 ticket and I urged dad that we view our Triple race on the apron close to the finish line. He agreed. I made the bet and we watched the field line up on the gate.

“Look dad. There’s Fontayn Lucyann.”

My eyes were pinned on the field the first time around and in the stretch our Triple took shape. I shouted. Then Ralph shouted. Our win horse won and our place horse placed and by a nose our show horse completed a winning Triple. I was suddenly lifted from the ground and squeezed. I saw my dad’s face up close. It was stretched by a wide smile.

As soon as the result was final, we went to a cashier window and I let him cash the ticket. It was worth hundreds of dollars to share. But I was exalted by the only hug I could recall my dad ever giving me.

Ralph was defunct in 1980. Freehold Raceway was defunct in 2024. And like the Buffalo Bill poem they resonate how death presides over mortal glory.