Jack's Gift

Jack's Gift

He'd spoken about it a few times. Not in despair, or morbidly or with any level of regret. It was just the kind of anecdote a horse player chats about between races.

Jack was 81. Full of life and full of horse stories. It was the triactor he was meant to cash, but didn't

"I knew the trainers of two horses," he would say. " They told me each had a chance. Chancey Dibble had this mare named Oats Eater and she was 20-1. And Max Woods sent out this old gelding named Sudsalot. He was probably better than the $10,000 claimers he was in with, but who's gonna take a 9 year-old horse? I wheeled Oats Eater and Sudsalot up and down with half the field in tris. There was a horse called Jacks Whacked. I don't like to bet horses with my name. So I left him out. And of course, Jacks Whacked was a huge longshot and he gets up in the final stride for third. I had the first two by 10 lengths, but not the third. The tri pays $39,998.30. I remember it to the dime, because ...I didn't get a dime."

I'd heard the story half a dozen times and each telling, I gave the required half laugh, half moan. Actually, the story resonated with me because through 30 years of betting the ponies, I had never won more than $500 on any day. I loved Jack Milrod. Technically, he wasn't really my uncle, but he'd known my dad since they were kids, so he was always Unca Jack to me.

It was another gorgeous sunny afternoon at Woodbine and the fact that it would be the last card of races jack would ever see was an impossible thought. Sometime between the third and fourth race, the usually bombastic Jack went quiet. I started to worry when he began moving his head from side to side as if he was trying to dislodge water from an ear. I asked him what was wrong, but he couldn't respond.

As the horses came on to the track for the fourth race, Jack Milrod was having a massive stroke.

My heart was pounding. I trid to lift him up under one arm and he pushed me away.

"We have to get you to a hospital!" I cried. He seemed to understand and got up, trying clumsily to get to the main floor escalator. I tried to hold him, but he kept breaking away. At the top of the escalator, he reached for the handrail but missed and plummeted forward, bouncing horribly down, stopped from a complete downhill catastrophe by the people he smashed into ahead of him.

As the escalator brought him to the ground floor, he was morbidly injured. Blood streamed freely from an ugly gash on his head. His eyes were glazed and unfocused. A stunned crowd gathered around.

"Get a doctor!" I screamed. But that would be too late. Jack's right arm grabbed me.

"Take it!" he whispered. There was a ragged little black book in his hand.

"Take it!" And with his last breath, he gasped,

"1...2...3..."

And he said nothing more. My head was spinning. Medics arrived and put Jack on a stretcher and carried him to a waiting ambulance. The first responders were working furiously, working furiously in vain.

Less than two hours later, the official sign lit up. Jack was gone.

I cried that night and I wept through the funeral two days later. It wasn't until several days later when I put on my favourite jacket and reached into the pocket did I once again find the tattered black book. I looked at it and wondered. Why did he give it to me? What did he mean 1...2...3...?

The book was clearly a collection of his wagering exploits, wins, losses and various notes on horses he had watched. Jack was what they call a 'trip' handicapper, a bettor who notes the difficulty a horse has in one race and bets that horse the next time out, assuming the journey can't be as hazardous.

1...2...3...Hmmm.

Pages 1,2 and 3 revealed nothing to me. There were details about a trip to Finger Lakes Racetrack some 20 years earlier and some positive messages about a stallion named Blushing Groom. But nothing connected to his last message to me. I tried pages 12, 13 and 14. No luck there. I leafed back and forth, hoping pathetically that a page would magically reveal a secret.

Nothing.

I didn't go back to the track for several weeks. When I did, I brought the black book along, kind of like a good luck charm, a small piece of Jack to keep me company. It didn't go well. I couldn't get a sniff. I must have lost over $200 in the first six races. I was fidgeting with the book in my pocket, flipping it around, riffling the pages and suddenly I sensed something different.

When I extracted the book, an old tote ticket was sticking out of the middle. It was from back in the days when the number and amount of each bet was printed on a light piece of coloured cardboard with rudimentary computer numbers at the top. It was a triactor ticket, clearly a losing one (because otherwise, he would have cashed it), I saw the date and the wager. It said June 6. 1972. Race 8. $2 triactor 2 with 1 with 5.

I clutched the old ticket in my hand. I began to get dizzy. The stands were spinning around and I felt I was about to pass out. I had to sit down and collect myself. I held my head in my hands until my brain caught up with me. When I opened my eyes, there horses being led onto the track, but the voice announcing the names was from very far in the past.

"Here are the horses for race 8," bellowed the legendary Darryl Wells. Darryl Wells? He had died in 2003.

"Number 1 is Sudsalot, trained by Max Woods, ridden by Gary Stahlbaum. Number 2 if Oats Eater, trained by Chancey Dibble and ridden today by Don McBeth. The 3-horses is Jacks Whacked. The trainer is Brian Craig and the rider is Chris Rogers. Number 4 is..."

I kept blinking my eyes, thinking that would jar me back to reality, but it dawned on me....as unbelievable as it felt...I was at Woodbine for the race that had eluded Jack Milrod.

I shook my head as my inside voice told me I was insane. But as the horses gathered behind the starting gate, I knew I had to make a bet.

1...2...3...

Jack had wheeled the 1-horse and the 2-horse up and down in triactors, but he had not taken Jacks Whacked, the 3-horse. I needed to spend just $4.

At the window, I could barely whisper my bet.

$2 triactors. 2 with 1 with 3. 1 with 2 with 3."

Unlike the bland third millennium machines that spit out generically thin slips of paper, the ticket puncher slammed his fingers against some keys and a grumbling contraption ground out two firm pieces of pastel flavoured cardboard.

"The horses have reached the starting gate," intoned Darryl Wells. "They're at the post."

And the bizarre dream continued. Exactly the way Jack had told the story. Oats Eater went right to the lead and dared the rest of the field to catch her. Sudsalot was in mid-pack, restrained early. And clearly, Jacks Whacked was outclassed as he trailed by about 15 lengths as the field preceded him into the far turn.

As the horses came into the stretch, it was still Oats Eater in front, but Sudsalot was chewing up ground in the middle of the track and you could see he was going to win. The rest of the field was faltering and third place was up for grabs. At the wire, it was Sudsalot at 30-1 winning by two lengths, with Oats Eater at 20-1 all alone in second. It was many lengths back to the rest of the gang, but just before the wire, Jacks Whacked flew by the rest for third. I looked at the tote board.

Jacks Whacked was 60-1. The winning triactor numbers were...1...2...3.

Was this really happening?

When he told the story, Jack said the triactor paid $39.998.30. But when they posted the payoff, the tri that I had bet paid only $19,998.15.

Of course! When Jack missed it, only one person scored the huge tri. My bet split the pot in two. I staggered to the window, the one from which I had bought the ticket.

"Nice score," said the cashier. "What made you bet those dogs."

"Uh, I got a tip from an old timer," I replied. The cashier counted out my winnings and dutifully wrapped each set of 10 $100 bills in a little paper band. 19 of those. Some considerable small change one the side.

I tipped him a $100 bill.

The money completely filled my pockets and the inside of my jacket. I felt disoriented, dizzy again. I remember clutching the side rail as I rode the escalator down from the main floor. I stumbled and fell at the bottom.

There were several people helping me to my feet.

"Hey guy, you ok?"

I assured them I was.

"Yeah, I'm ok...just embarrassed," I grimaced. I desperately needed the fresh air outside the track. As I left the main entrance, there was a newspaper box. I looked at the top paper. The date was June 6, 2019.

I had just imagined it all. Jack's famous story had sent me off to the land of hallucination.

Oh well, it was exciting.

I reached into my pockets. Every one was full. Ten $100 bills per packet. Nine packets with a lot of tip money left over.

I looked up into a cloudless sky.

Thanks Jack!