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Hot Tip: A joe and Hobby Fiction

Hobby was driving his Silver Cloud Rolls to Hollywood Park since valets there were likely to conviently leave it out front as a showpiece. It’s a short drive from Marina Del Rey to the racetrack, hardly time for me to study the Daily Racing Form for the nags in the first race. Not fair to disparage them however, they were just unproven 3 year-old maidens. My late uncle Victor was good at selecting winners of all stripes, especially those who never made it into the money. For many years he sold his cards of Vic’s Picks at southern California racetracks. I could use his advice now, nothing was jumping out at me, and even the consensus of handicappers was unconvincing. My last resort is numerology-permutations of my birth date-for quinellas in the first race.

As these fuzzy ideas floated in my noggin, Hobby was rattling on about something beyond my consciousness. Since he was kind enough to do the driving, I thought I should pay attention. “What was that?” I said as I folded the form onto my lap.

“I said, the thing I like about Hollywood, besides being so close, is that we can do the races in the afternoon and play poker in the casino at night.”

“I concur, Hobby, but are you aware of the subtle correlations of horse racing and poker?”

“What do you mean?”

“Horse racing is replete with poker metaphors.”

“Come on,Joe. Talk English.”

“You do know what a metaphor is…?”

“It’s…it’s…well, it’s like something in common?”

“I’m pleased to see your limited education at SC wasn’t totally wasted. You’re on the right track. To be more precise, a metaphor is a reference applied to something that is not literally applicable to imply a similarity.”

“If you say so, Joe. Can you give me an example?”

I’d been thinking about this for sometime and was just waiting for the opportunity to give my fleeting ideas a test flight. “I’d be glad to, Hobby. To begin with consider the…”

“Joe, sorry to interrupt, but there’s a car that’s been following us ever since we left the Marina.”

“Maybe they’re just heading where we are.”

“Could be, but it seems odd,” Hobby said with somewhat less concern.

“Now are you ready for my horse racing/poker metaphors?”

“I’m all ears, Joe,” he said with a disarming grin.

“To begin with, I’m talking Hold ‘Em. Think of the racetrack as the poker table and the horses with jockeys as players. Like poker, position is important. The horse on the inside has the advantage of less ground to cover. You with me so far?”

“Yeah, I like the position analogy, Joe.”

“Analogy, yet! Hobby, you get an A+ for that. Okay, to continue, the action of ‘There off!’ starting the race is like the deal. The jostling to the backstretch is the flop, the contest on the backstretch is the turn, and the race down the homestretch is the river. The jockey, like the player, is assessing his chances as he completes each segment. Measuring horseracing, like poker hands, is according to odds. They have one value at the beginning and effectively change as the race/game commences. To wind it up, the finish is the showdown. What do you think?”

Hobby was silent for a while. I thought he was digesting my clever presentation, but he said, “That car is passing us now.”

I saw the SUV with two cool looking dudes eyeballing the Rolls as they passed, then pull in front.

“Hey, Hobby, were you listening to what I was saying?”

“Yeah. I thought it was kind of weak, Joe.” He paused and I gave him a deadpan look, urging him to elaborate. He continued, “Like, what about bluffing? That’s important in poker.” I think it just popped into his head as he scrambled to show interest in my theory, but it was a valid question. “I’m relieved you didn’t totally tune me out and I shall respond. There is bluffing in racing. For example, during the course of a race a jockey may hold back and lose ground as if his stead is tiring. A competitor might press his horse ahead prematurely and tire it, setting up the opportunity for the bluff to work as the rested horse surges ahead to the finish line.”

“That was pretty good, Joe, but give it a rest.” “You’re right, Hobby. It is a little weak. I’ll have to work on it.”

Suddenly, the brake lights of the SUV in front flashed brightly. Smoking tires alerted Hobby to jam his brake pedal to the floor. With a screech of tires we stopped a few feet behind. A man wearing a Hawaiian shirt jumped out of the passenger side and approached. Hobby rolled down his window to hear what he was saying. From under his shirt the guy drewa .45 caliber pistol and said, “Get out of the car!”

I couldn’t believe it. A carjacking in broad daylight on Century Boulevard! As I was framing the thought-don’t do anything stupid-Hobby said as calmly as can be, “Is that a real gun?”

“It’s for real,” the assailant screamed as he shoved the weapon through the window opening.

Dumb move. Hobby’s hand shot up, grabbed the .45 and wrenched it free. I heard a snap then a scream as the attacker quickly withdrew his empty hand with its trigger finger pointed askew. He staggered back then rushed to the SUV, barely getting aboard before it raced off.

“Jeez, Hobby, that was a pretty reckless thing to do. He could have shot you, or worse yet, me!”

“No sweat, Joe. I saw the safety was on. It wouldn’t fire.”

“Take another look, buddy. The lever is pointing down.”

Hobby stared at it. As the color rapidly left his face he said, “Oh my God.”

Blaring horns from behind us impelled Hobby to move the car. He asked, “What do we do now?”

“We should probably stop and report it to the police, but I’ve got a better idea and a hot tip for the first race. We’ll call my cop friend at the West L.A. precinct from the clubhouse.”

“Sounds good to me,” Hobby replied. “But where did you get the hot tip?”

The perp’s license plate was 5BAM921.

“So?” Hobby said.

“So…in the first race there’s a horse named Bambambambino. And the odds are 9 to 1!”

I’d like to say I made a bundle on that longshot, but as of this writing the nag hasn’t crossed the finish line.

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