Bluegrass Mama

Once upon a time, our friend Racetrack Lenny came down to join us for the Derby (no one here actually refers to it as the “Kentucky Derby”). Tickets for this event are hard to come by, unless you’re willing to pay a small fortune (as in thousands of dollars) to a ticket broker. This despite the fact that Kentucky law prohibits ticket scalping. But I digress.

The few times that I have actually attended the Derby, we have been in the infield. This was in the days before they started charging $40 a head for that privilege. I’m sure many of you have heard stories of the wild goings-on in the infield.

The stories, for the most part, are true.

However, there are traditions even in the mayhem of the infield. The wild college age types tend to cluster at the third turn, with a slightly more staid crowd at the first turn. We are definitely first turn people.

The year in question was 1995. We got to the track in the late morning, having paid some lucky homeowner a few blocks from the track $20 to park in his yard. During the course of the day, Lenny may have a had a little too much to drink (the only time in the 20+ years I’ve known him that he did). Those mint juleps can sneak up on you. Not on me, since I think they taste like nasty cough medicine.

An hour or so before the Derby went off, Lenny proposed a “Hat Hunt.” While women in the stands tend to wear lovely hats, many infield denizens pride themselves on the creativity of their hats. Like this one.

On our way, I noticed that the line at the betting windows was only about six people deep. This, my friends, is nothing short of a miracle on Derby Day. I decided to take the opportunity to cash in a winning ticket from an earlier race. Lenny said, “You know, I’ve been saying all spring that I was going to bet Thunder Gulch, and I never did. I’m going to now.”

And he did.

Thunder Gulch won.

At 30-1 odds.

And our under-the-influence friend had put $50 across the board on him.

One guess as to who bought dinner that night.