Saturday morning, 8 a.m. I'm on the first tee at Bear's Best in Summerlin, in the research stage of a cover story for Vegas Golfer. "Cart Girl: The Mystery of the Fairway Muse." My brother, Rick, eternal golf partner and 20-year resident of Clark County, couldn't make today's round. He had to train a new girl at one of the four Fantastic Sam's he and his angelic wife, Lynda, own. They were in the casino business until three years ago. "I'll work a paper route before I ever take a casino job again," he says emphatically. "I'm free."
There was one voice-mail message when I turned my phone on at the end of the round. I shot a miserable 49 on the front and an effortless 39 on the back; was slow out of the gate, you might say. Then I got my stride on the far turn. I'll get to the symbolism in a moment. "Listen, when you get this message, call me. I've been reading the Racing Form all morning. I think Smarty can be beat today. There's one horse. He's the only horse that's won a grade-one stakes race at Belmont. He's been over the track. That's important. He's really long, like 30 to 1. Go put a bet on Birdstone. Birdstone. How'd you play? See ya."
Uncle Ed introduced the Friend brothers to horse racing when we were barely in our teens. He took us to Hollywood Park and Santa Anita and taught my brother how to read the Form. Rick taught me later, though my knowledge is still rudimentary. Ed died in '87. He's buried in the mortuary under the glide path at McCarran, in the Garden of Heroes. Once a Marine, always a Marine. Uncle Ed spent the last 15 happy years of his life right here in his favorite vacation spot, with a fine woman who didn't scream and browbeat his ass every day like my late Aunt Natalie. I loved them both dearly.
Like I said, my understanding of the ponies was pretty basic; my brother, however, ingested the schooling with savant assimilation. He picked a $600 exacta at Hollywood Park when he was 12 years old. I was there. Classy Mark at 15 to 1 and Impo Luck at 25, best I can recall. Over the past three decades, my brother has developed a skill in handicapping that transcends the numerical. It's spiritual. He sees things that others don't. He hears things, feels things, reads between the lines and makes a decision. I've told him for years he should start an online touting service. There are guys in this town making bank with half his skill and organic insight. "Yeah," he mused one time. "Rick's Picks!"
The secret to handicapping is knowing how to read between those digits and dashes. There's no sport in laying your cash on an even-money shot. No real confrontation, no sense of mystery, fear or uncertainty. No challenge. The high from gaming is all about the big score. And this is philosophy from a nongambler—I don't have the stomach for it. Never had. Just the horses. To me, it's not just numbers and chance. Horse racing is a sport with immense soul, human and animal. All those day trips with Uncle Ed and later, with my brother and his crazy friends, drinking beer in the infield at Santa Anita—home of Seabiscuit—hanging near the rail of the backstretch as those powerful, equine warriors galloped past us, kicking up dirt, making us sweaty and excited for the outcome when a minute or so later they would hit the finish line, our horse hopefully in the lead. In the money.
When I finished my bout with the Bear, closing strong with a back nine that featured seven pars, one double bogey and one three-putt bogey, I didn't hesitate to follow the lead from my bro's message. I was off to the Rampart. I parked my car in the underground structure and traversed the human cattle resting their beefy behinds in rapt fixation of the pixilated queens and kings rolling past their lifeless eyes. My purpose was clear. My action, preordained. One bet. One race. I went up to our favorite counter guy, another Rick, who is always jolly and of kind word for the Brothers Friend. "Twenty and 20 on 4, Belmont, 11th Race." The white-haired Vegas vet tapped in the bet on his keyboard, spit out the ticket and I was off and running.
I'm at my brother's. The race is about to start. I haven't even told him about the bet. Smarty takes a four-length lead at the top of the stretch, but while the other, lesser steeds on the front end are in retrograde, there is one forward-moving shadow beginning to loom on the outside. "Dude, look at Birdstone!" he says. "He's the only horse that can beat him, but he has to suuurrrggggeee." Down the stretch, it still looks like Smarty. But the happy horse of destiny is galloping harder and longer than ever before. His breeding doesn't dictate this kind of distance. No breeding does. This is the Belmont, the Tour De France, game 7 of the World Series or the NBA finals, the fourth quarter of the Super Bowl. Our eyes fixate on a horse in yellow silks bearing the number 4 that has miraculously found his stride in the far turn. The impossible is about to morph to reality. "Birdstone surges!" roars track announcer Tom Durkin. Time slows as the Earth crumbles. At the wire, it's Birdstone by a length. It could have been a light year. No Triple Crown.
Universal disappointment is instantly replaced by the rush of victory born that comes from beating the house. In a flash, the green kingdom of Las Vegas is revealed to my psyche with hypnotic clarity. As I proudly pull the winning ticket of the 3-to-1 longest shot in the history of the Belmont Stakes from my pocket, I stare at my brother's face. I don't want to miss one second of his expression. That is the real currency, the gold at the end of experience rainbow. I drop the ticket on the table and get that look I get from him when Alyssa Milano has sent me an e-mail. Let's call it silent jubilation mixed with a bit of goofy pride. Ronald Reagan died this morning. Smarty Jones was defeated, but two brothers have eight Benjamins they didn't have when the sun came up. "You know," opined the bro, "I may have made the pick. But you made the bet. We're a great team." Viva Rick! Viva Las Vegas!