by Merv Oswalt

I hate turtleneck sweaters. They scratch my skin and give me a headache.

Part of the reason I try to spend a few weeks in Pompano every winter is to avoid the damn things in the first place. I’ve never once self-strangled myself, 50 Shades of Roan-style, on a Hawaiian seersucker.

Unfortunately, my daughter Beckie got the bright idea to give me one for my birthday last month. She said I needed color in my wardrobe, so she picked out a red turtleneck with a small white snowflake embroidered on the neck.

It had post-Christmas sale bin written all over it, which would be fine if I was a 45-year-old spinster music teacher.

Why did I need this? She’s got a heart of gold, but she should have saved her money. Times are hard and I need a red-snowflake turtleneck like I need a $1 win ticket on a 1-9 shot.

The stupid sweater has been in my closet since I got it. Bernie convinced me to wear it for the first time the other day when I was going to take Beckie out for supper. I could barely pull the vice-grip head hole over my noggin and when I finally escaped for air my face was as red as the damn straightjacket.

I had a headache within minutes, not to mention a full understanding of why turtles spend most of their time hiding from the world. With some time to kill before Beckie got off work, I slipped into Yonkers for a few races.

My racing buddy Carl shook his head. “What’s with the sweater? You look like a fat librarian.” I decided not to mention that Carl’s wife is, in fact, a fat librarian and asked him who he liked in the 5th. We threw in together and took a flyer on a triactor. The favorite broke and we cashed in. The next race I had 10 across on a 5-1 shot that came in.

“Maybe it’s your lucky lady sweater,” said Carl.

God, I hope not.