Ron Tiller
24th December 2006, 11:19.54 AM
Twas the night before Christmas when all through the track
Not a horse was racing, not even Artax;
The printouts were laid on the table with care
In hopes the trifecta soon would be there;
The players were nestled all snug in their beds
While visions of Secretariat danced in their heads;
My bookie in suspenders and I in my sweats
Had just settled down for a dreary day without bets;
When out on the track there arose such a clatter
I sprang from the table to see what was the matter;
When, what to my wondering eyes should relate,
But eight tiny thoroughbreds and a miniature starting gate,
With a little track announcer, the smallest one ever,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Trevor.
More rapid than eagles his race calls they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
"Now Seabiscuit! Now Secretariat! Now War Admiral and Man O War!
On Seattle Slew! On Cigar! On John Henry and Invasor!
They're lined up at the gate and the race won't be slow,
Off goes the bell, and away they go!"
And then, in a twinkling, the horses did scatter,
Who finished first, well it really didn't matter.
No bets could be made on this fateful event,
No touts could be heard and no bettor's lament.
No "could haves" or "would haves" were there to be heard,
No fighting or gloating, not a single bad word.
No backfitting problems in the printouts tonight,
No data or PPs for the race were in sight.
No trainer statistic or bias to blame,
No jockey was hurt and no horse pulled up lame.
No syndicates betting my horse to the ground
No longshots to root for, no value was found.
The night was for racing and love of the game,
That's why they gathered and that's why they came.
St. Trevor winked brightly and twisted his head,
letting me know there was nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word but went straight to his work,
And thanked all the horses; then turned with a jerk,
The starting gate vanished and the horses did too,
And so did the starters and the rest of the crew.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the paddock he rose.
I sprank to my feet as I savored the night,
But I wasn't prepared for this marvelous sight;
The table was covered with printouts galore,
I thought that was all but there seemed to be more;
Computers and systems and programs to boot,
A handicapper dreams often of this kind of loot;
But the part of that Christmas I'll remember forever
Was the race with no betting - Thank you St. Trevor.
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night."
Not a horse was racing, not even Artax;
The printouts were laid on the table with care
In hopes the trifecta soon would be there;
The players were nestled all snug in their beds
While visions of Secretariat danced in their heads;
My bookie in suspenders and I in my sweats
Had just settled down for a dreary day without bets;
When out on the track there arose such a clatter
I sprang from the table to see what was the matter;
When, what to my wondering eyes should relate,
But eight tiny thoroughbreds and a miniature starting gate,
With a little track announcer, the smallest one ever,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Trevor.
More rapid than eagles his race calls they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
"Now Seabiscuit! Now Secretariat! Now War Admiral and Man O War!
On Seattle Slew! On Cigar! On John Henry and Invasor!
They're lined up at the gate and the race won't be slow,
Off goes the bell, and away they go!"
And then, in a twinkling, the horses did scatter,
Who finished first, well it really didn't matter.
No bets could be made on this fateful event,
No touts could be heard and no bettor's lament.
No "could haves" or "would haves" were there to be heard,
No fighting or gloating, not a single bad word.
No backfitting problems in the printouts tonight,
No data or PPs for the race were in sight.
No trainer statistic or bias to blame,
No jockey was hurt and no horse pulled up lame.
No syndicates betting my horse to the ground
No longshots to root for, no value was found.
The night was for racing and love of the game,
That's why they gathered and that's why they came.
St. Trevor winked brightly and twisted his head,
letting me know there was nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word but went straight to his work,
And thanked all the horses; then turned with a jerk,
The starting gate vanished and the horses did too,
And so did the starters and the rest of the crew.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the paddock he rose.
I sprank to my feet as I savored the night,
But I wasn't prepared for this marvelous sight;
The table was covered with printouts galore,
I thought that was all but there seemed to be more;
Computers and systems and programs to boot,
A handicapper dreams often of this kind of loot;
But the part of that Christmas I'll remember forever
Was the race with no betting - Thank you St. Trevor.
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night."