The walking death of pari-mutuel racing in Tennessee, Part 1

by Frank Cotolo

One strange twist of poetic justice is that the equine breed the state of Tennessee is known for is called the Tennessee walker. Not the Tennessee thoroughbred. Not the Tennessee pacer or the Tennessee trotter. Not the Tennessee quarter horse.

Nope.

The Tennessee walker.

Wikipedia is accurate with a specific description of “walker” in the equine context; just in case anyone with a brain is confused about the breed’s gait (walk). And that is the intention; define the walker as exclusive enough to never be allowed to race — no less against any other living animal — and no less as an object people may enjoy to assist in the bodacious acts of gambling.

Another twist of fate is the Tennessee walker is the product of a pair of trotters: Narragansett and Canadian pacers “crossed with gaited Spanish mustangs from Texas.” Note the word “gaited,” and the intentional exclusion of the words “trot” or “pace” in the description: “its unique four-beat running-walk and flashy movement.”

“So, there is no harness racing in Tennessee?” Natasha said.

“No any kind of horse racing,” I said.

None of that meant anything to Natasha when I asked her if she wanted to move to Tennessee with me.

“Leave San Diego?”

“Yup. Move to the American Bible Belt.”

“I’m in.”

The subtext was clear and a gamble all its own. We were going together in the most intimate ways couples do. No ring or formal words or promises. A gamble for a gambler in a world where gambling is illegal. What was I thinking? Like a gambler. Like “someone who risks loss or injury in the hope of gain or excitement.”

I do not know nor will I expect to meet any serious gambler who could turn away from attempting to beat the provocative odds of success presented to me in the late ’80s. The kid from Brooklyn places himself in a cultural arena guaranteed to be combative; which translates to the gambler as provoking and exciting and stimulating.

There was no need for me to do any research about the whys and hows pari-mutuel racing was illegal in the state we would call our home. There were enough professional areas to handle as well as the setup to settle where to call home and update all the data that had to be changed in order to become a Tennessean. Including the extended family members, an Australian Shepherd and an English Spaniel.

Moving was a gamble all its own and enough to take my mind off of living in a state where one of my former professions was criminal. On the positive side there were little to no temptations to commit the crime of gambling there. In the late ’80s there were no racetracks or off-track betting parlors and digital communications were not available (which did not matter because by law they were illegal to use for any kind of gambling).

Of course, all expenses were paid prior to the move: On my first trip to Nashville to insure the job (a round-trip plane ride to meet primary members of the Nashville music and broadcast community), I secured a wonderful house to live in with Natasha and the dogs. That trip in itself could have been the end of any adventure in the South but the challenges and risks attracting me in the first place were heightened by the power I obtained over the project.

The Nashville Network (NN) cable-television channel was expanding its broadcast division. It was launching the first country music radio network (TNNR) with a huge budget. TNNR covered the USA through any states with radio stations presenting a country music format. Old and new country music was to be presented by young and older format-experienced disc jockeys. Conservative standards of the genre applied. Except for one bold offering: TNNR’s country music lynchpin talent was the world’s most outrageous radio persona.

I was hired to be the lynchpin’s only local representative and to produce and run the network’s main Wolfman Jack Country Music Show and keep it pumping five nights a week. Other Wolfman projects popped up on the cable-TV network and I wrote them. And there were other pop-up Nashville promotional appearances where Wolf counted on me to come up with bits of humor for him. Suffice it to say I was busy.

I began to convince myself it was a good thing there was no pari-mutuel racing in the state because any strict gambling investments could only be a distraction from the TNNR tasks I owned, without the help of a staff.

“Of course, you can hang out at the studio and with Wolf and me,” I said to Natasha.

There was more than one night I fell to sleep with fond memories of Del Mar racing and night walks on the beach and the solitude of bohemian lifestyle I created with ease.