2016 RedsFest Was BestFest

RedsFest 2016 goes down in B Team record books as the best RedsFest ever!  Hence, my having dubbed this year's iteration as BestFest.  Cutting right to the chase, Lou and I each acquired 13 autographs on the first day of the two-day event.  We killed it.  Being veterans of a couple decades' worth of such events, we'd long ago secured signatures from the star players on today's Big League club and so each year we focus our alliterative autograph acquisition assault on the (many) assorted prospects and minor leaguers who populate much of the roster of appearing players.  The #1 prospect in our crosshairs this year was the Reds' #2 overall draft pick from this past summer's amateur draft, the former University of Tennessee third baseman Nick Senzel.  Senzel was announced among the first hour's group of players signing autographs on Friday.  Lou and I blitzed the swarming crowds of rabid autograph seekers (are there any other kind?) and seized a spot in line near the front.  For those who don't know, here's what Nick Senzel looks like:

And here's what his autograph looks like on the sweet spot of a baseball:

"N. Al?"  

"National American League?"  

"N. Delta... umm... Vertical Loop?"  

Dunno.  This I do know; all of Reds Country is hoping he develops into something closer to the Johnny Bench end of the Reds' draft spectrum and not the Brandon Larson end.

Nick was signing in the Season Ticket Holders only line (membership has its privileges) and due in part to the early hour and also due in part to the seeming dearth of surviving Reds season ticket holders, Lou and I were able to go through Nick's line twice in that first hour of RedsFest.

Herewith, a rapid-fire aggregation of the leading lights from our autograph-seeking achievements On December 3rd and 4th;

Robert Stephenson, pitcher.

Shedric Long (catcher, second base) shooting me the horns.  Very cool. 

Jose Peraza, shortstop.

Dilson Herrera, second base, acquired from the Mets in the Jay Bruce trade.

Rookie Davis, pitcher.

Many former players were on hand Friday and Saturday.  Among the vets, it was great - and heart warming - to see Dave Parker (below) engaging with his hometown fans:

The biggest draw is, naturally enough, the current Reds:

I've been to a nearly innumerable number of RedsFests and Big Red Machine Reunion autograph shows (and a disastrous 1990 Reds Reunion autograph show)  and the 2015 All-Star Game FanFest going back to 1991/92.  I've observed and experienced the full range of player-fan interactions; from players who were last-minute no-shows (Aroldis Chapman) to players who wouldn't deign to glance at the fans (Yorman Rodriguez) or even grunt an acknowledgement (did I mention Yorman Rodriquez?) to players who were friendly, eagerly interactive, talkative and warmly animated.  I'm happy to report - because I'm a Vottomaniac - that I have never seen any player, retired or active, who was more engaging and friendly to every fan who went through an autograph line than was/is Joey Votto.  No sooner than one fan would depart the podium that Joey Votto's eyes would immediately search for the next fan in line, smile broadly, look each fan square in the eye and initiate a friendly greeting.  Votto asked the fans visiting him how their own day was going, if they were having fun, if they were enjoying RedsFest.  At the conclusion of each encounter, Votto thanked the fans for being there.

Must be that Canadian brand of kindness we hear so much about.  Who knows what any of us are like behind closed doors, but in my own experiences Joey Votto publicly has consistently been a decent, generous, kind fellow.

Lou and I spied a variety of personalities and dignitaries at RedsFest on Friday:

Such as WLWT-TV long-time sports anchor "Lonesome" George Vogel.  I don't often watch channel 5 for my local news fix these days.  For the latest breaking news from River City I most often tune into WCPO hoping to catch Tanya O'Rourke.....

..... or newsbabe Ashley Zilka.  She is a fabulous reporter or something.

We ran into two of Lou's old Reily Elementary School best pals:

Tim F. (the man in black, top) and Mitch S. (the man in red, directly above).  None of my preppy Townie friends would know these two fine gentlemen but they were both former Little League teammates on the various Reily-based teams Lou played for back in the day; Cherokee Motors, Big Valley Auto Parts, Wilman Furniture.

Former Middletown Middie and current Chicago Cubs World Champion Kyle Schwarber was in line to get autographs, too!

Lou insists this guy was not Kyle Schwarber.  Maybe he's right.  Maybe.

The highlight of RedsFest 2016, aside from our Nick Senzel crowning achievement, was the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity on Friday to meet the Hit King Peter Edward Rose and to have our photographs taken with him!

The Reds called this opportunity a "Meet & Greet with Pete Rose."  I dubbed it the "Pete & Greet."  The Reds should pay me to come up with names for their events.

OK, OK.  You got me.  A twice-in-a-lifetime opportunity.  We hit up Pete on Saturday, too.  I was proud of my Hit King photos and, later, shared them with Kuertz who I knew would be wildly mildly interested.

On Saturday afternoon The B Team took a time-out from the RedsFest activities and ventured on a brief excursion to the downtown branch of the Cincinnati Public Library in order for my youngest niece (picture above with Peter Edward) to collect an Honorable Mention award for artwork she submitted to a CPL contest.

Awesome, right?!  While waiting for the awards ceremony to begin, I discussed with my niece the Impressionistic nature of her painting (thank you Antiques Roadshow!) and through the voodoo magic of smartphone technology I showed her some of the more famous works of Monet, Degas, Cezanne and Bob Ross.  

Meanwhile, almost simultaneously in Michigan, my oldest niece - and her team - achieved a medal finish in a synchronized skating competition (hence her absence from the Pete Rose photo).

The B Team was killin' it that December weekend!

Speaking of artists, Tom Tsuchiya was at RedsFest demonstrating the technique he uses in creating all the baseball player sculptures (not statues) found outside Great American Ball Park. 

I engaged Tom in a discussion about his sculptures, the details of which I will not bore you with here.

WLW broadcast legend, and former Professional League of American Rules Football tight end, Bob Trumpy was not at RedsFest but when cruising the memorabilia vendor tables we found a jersey autographed by "Grumpy."

Lou and I found this to be funny.  We generally find all things Trumpy to be funny.

Nearing the conclusion of RedsFest late on Saturday afternoon and worn out from ceaselessly killin' it, we retired to the Season Ticket Holders VIP Ultra Lounge.

We luxuriated on the sumptuous faux leather couches, enjoying the dulcet vocal stylings of The Mistics (on stage, behind us).

The Mistics brought their A-game, as they always do.  Midway through the set The Mistics singled-out Reds' Senior V.P. of Business Operations Karen Forgus for a serenade.

We took that as our cue to exit RedsFest as conquering heroes.

Roll the credits!

December 7, 1941

Today marks the somber 75th anniversary of the December 7th, 1941 attack on Pearl Harbor.  This historic event, contextualized as "a date which will live in infamy" by President Roosevelt in a radio address the following day for the American public, marked the most significant fulcrum point in American history since, perhaps, the April 12, 1861 firing on Fort Sumter by Confederate forces or the military engagements of April 19, 1775 between the British army and American colonists at Lexington and Concord.

What follows is a series of excerpts forming a narrative from Winston Groom's superlative book 1942: The Year That Tried Men's Souls that brings to life the unfolding scene on that dark day at sunny Pearl Harbor from so long ago.

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Commander Fuchida’s dive-bombers had already climbed high in the sky for altitude while his torpedo bombers had descended and circled so as to come in low from the southwest, that is, the ocean side of Pearl Harbor. The American battleships were moored in line two by two alongside Ford Island, which is in the center of the harbor. It was almost eight A.M., time for morning colors, and aboard the USS Nevada bandleader Oden McMillan had just raised his baton to begin playing “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Some of the bandsmen were puzzled to see large flights of planes diving down toward the battleships at the opposite end of the island, but McMillan concluded it must be some kind of army air corps drill and with a wave of his baton the band struck up the National Anthem. Almost in the same moment he heard explosions at the far end of Battleship Row.

One of Fuchida’s torpedo bombers skimmed across the harbor and launched its torpedo at the Arizona, just astern of the Nevada, as McMillan’s band was finishing the first stanza, then swooped up right over the Nevada’s fantail, where the American flag was being raised. The Japanese tail gunner let loose a burst of machine-gun fire on the musicians, who continued to play the anthem. No band members were hit, but the American flag was suddenly shredded. Other sailors on deck, momentarily confused, stood at attention, their right arms still raised in salute.

According to Walter Lord’s account of the attack, “McMillan knew now, but kept on conducting. The years of training had taken over – it never occurred to him that once he had begun playing the National Anthem, he could possibly stop. Another strafer flashed by. This time McMillan unconsciously paused as the deck splintered around him, but he quickly picked up the beat again. The entire band stopped and started again with him, as though they had rehearsed it for weeks. Not a man broke formation until the final note died. Then everyone ran wildly for cover.”

As the first torpedo bombers came in, some Pearl Harbor personnel waved at them before they realized who they were. Recreational fliers in small light planes out for an early Sunday spin were bewildered, then terrified, as they realized what these huge flights of foreign warplanes meant. Great geysers of water shot into the air as Fuchida’s torpedoes splashed into the harbor on their way toward the U.S. battleships. Meantime, at Wheeler and Hickam Fields and other U.S air bases, the American airplanes - lined up in rows per the anti-sabotage instructions of General Walter Short – were being systematically wrecked and turned into burning infernos on the runway.

All of this only took a few minutes. In his home in the hills overlooking Pearl Harbor, Admiral Husband Kimmel, commander in chief of the Pacific Fleet, had been in the process of dressing for a golf game with his army counterpart, General Short. But by then the duty officer had phoned with the news of the destroyer Ward’s attack on the Japanese sub. Kimmel canceled the game and began redressing in his navy whites to attend to the situation from his office when the phone rang again with the frantic news that Pearl Harbor had just come under Japanese air attack. The admiral rushed outside, his uniform jacket still unbuttoned and flapping, just in time to see the first explosions. He dashed next door onto a neighbor’s lawn, which had a better view of Battleship Row. There he encountered Mrs. John B. Earle, wife of the Fourteenth Naval District’s commander’s chief of staff. The two of them gaped appalled at the unfolding spectacle. The sky was completely filled with Japanese planes and Kimmel instantly recognized this as no casual raid but a full-scale assault. The booms from the torpedo and bomb explosions began to reach their ears. Suddenly the battleship Oklahoma seemed to shudder and then slowly roll over in the shallow harbor until only its bottom was visible.

“It looks like they’ve got the Oklahoma,” Mrs. Earle remarked, awestruck.

“Yes, I see they have,” Kimmel told her, his face now a blanched mask of horror. He was experiencing a naval commander’s worst nightmare, as his fleet was being destroyed before his very eyes.

Then the battleship Arizona seemed actually to lift out of the water and an enormous flash of fire and smoke mushroomed above her forward decks; slowly she began to list and settle, and kept on settling. In that instant eleven hundred U.S. sailors perished. One of the big Japanese sixteen-inch naval shell bombs had hit the Arizona’s deck forward of the turrets and penetrated four decks below into the powder magazine. The ship blew up. The concussion was so stupendous that it blew sailors off of the other nearby ships into the water; it sucked up all the air in the area, actually stopping the engines of cars and military vehicles onshore rushing to or away from the scene; it blew people down inside of their own homes and offices, and even Fuchida, the Japanese air leader circling high above, felt his plane rock and roll.  Battleship division commander Admiral Isaac C. Kidd and the Arizona’s skipper, Captain Franklin Van Valkenburg, had been standing on the bridge and were incinerated by the blast.  Kimmel’s staff car roared up from nowhere and the stricken admiral jumped in and set off for his Pacific Fleet headquarters. By the time he got there the first wave of attack was reaching its most pitiless crescendo: bombs, torpedoes, and machine-gun fire from dive bombers and fighters filled the air; great billows of smoke from burning fuel oil obscured much of the harbor; and added to this was the constant roar of American anti-aircraft guns, which had finally begun coming to life.

Kimmel stood watching from the window of his War Plans office calm but grim-faced, with teeth clenched. Like the Oklahoma, the Arizona had gone down. The explosion had broken her in half. The battleships California and West Virginia had also begun to settle to the bottom. For the moment there was little Kimmel could do. The now famous message had already been dispatched to Washington and other naval commands: “Enemy Air Raid Pearl Harbor. This Is Not A Drill.” Suddenly a spent .30-caliber machine-gun bullet smashed through the window and hit Kimmel on the chest before dropping to the floor. The admiral looked at it, picked it up, and said to one of his staff members, “It would have been merciful if it had killed me.”

Aboard the sinking West Virginia, which had taken six or seven torpedoes in her port side, Captain Mervyn Bennion had been disemboweled by a shard from the Arizona when it exploded. He lay on the bridge perfectly conscious as his ship was gradually engulfed in fire, inquiring how the fight was going. At some point his officers decided to move him to a safer spot and for this agonizing task they recruited a large black cook, third class, named Doris Miller, who was the West Virginia’s heavyweight boxing champion. Captain Bennion died a short while later and Doris Miller, who knew nothing about weapons or weaponry, went out to a machine-gun station and in no time was “blazing away as though he had fired one all his life.”

Two young army fighter pilots, Lieutenants Kenneth Taylor and George Welch, had planned to spend their Sunday at the beach. When they saw the runway wreckage at Wheeler Field they jumped into a car and rushed off to a little grass landing strip about ten miles away where there were a few P40 fighters parked. Soon they were in the air and loaded for bear. Before it was over they racked up seven of the eleven Japanese planes shot down that day by the U.S. Army Air Corps.

Among the most startled people that morning – and that included everyone – were the pilots and crews of the big four-engine B-17 bombers who arrived at Pearl Harbor at the height of the attack. The twelve planes had flown fourteen hours straight from the West Coast with skeleton crews, their machine guns still packed in Cosmoline, listening to the soothing Hawaiian music on the radio guiding them in. They had just about enough gas to make land when they arrived on the scene of the carnage. Japanese fighters, whom the crews first thought were U.S. Army planes, suddenly attacked them. Hickam Field, their designated landing spot, was mostly ablaze with burning aircraft. One B-17 somehow made a landing with three Japanese Zeros on his tail, blazing away at him. Others followed but the rest scattered for the other airfields on Oahu. One managed to land on a golf course, another on a twelve-hundred-foot grass strip half the size of what it took to safely land a B-17.

At 8:40, a half an hour after the attack had begun, there was a fifteen minute lull, and then the second wave of 153 Japanese planes arrived. Pearl Harbor was so enshrouded in smoke by then that it was difficult to find targets, so many Japanese amused themselves by shooting up anything and everything. They strafed private homes, churches, hospitals, mess halls, groups of men, and, for target practice, speeding automobiles and trucks. One army ambulance received fifty-two bullet holes. What the Japanese did not do – and in hindsight this was one of the few blessings of the Pearl Harbor raid – was to destroy the huge fuel-storage tanks containing millions of gallons of precious fuel oil; nor did they destroy the vast naval repair shops and facilities. This oversight allowed the United States military to go on the offensive almost immediately after the attack.

In the middle of all this a stirring spectacle unfolded. The USS Nevada, whose crew at the beginning of the attack had stood at attention while “The Star-Spangled Banner” was played and they were being bombed and machine-gunned, had somehow raised enough steam to get underway – the only big ship that did so. Her senior officers were all ashore but there was an experienced reserve officer aboard, Lieutenant Commander Francis Thomas, who took charge. He knew next to nothing about handling anything as big as a battleship but Chief Quartermaster Robert Sedberry did and by some miracle, or a series of them (it normally took four tugboats to free a battleship from a mooring and set her straight in the channel), the Nevada came on, so as not to remain a sitting duck for the Japanese. She was seriously afire amidships and had a hole blown into her bow the size of a house, but out of the smoke and flames and crash and gloom of the battle she emerged into the bright morning sun full speed ahead, her American flag snapping in the breeze. Men onshore stopped whatever they were doing and gaped at this sight to behold. Many wept tears down their grimy, oil-stained cheeks and a great cheer arose all along Battleship Row, for to see the Nevada headed for the open sea, all her guns blazing at the Japanese planes, meant there was still a fighting U.S. Navy left in the Pacific.

If It's November It Must Still Be Rocktober

The foremost paleontologist of the western Carolinas, The Paleorider, submitted to the Heavy Artillery editorial board this week via text two unsolicited items which have been approved for publication on these digital pages.  [Unsolicited works submitted to HA become the intellectual property of this publication and cannot be returned except by formal written request, a self-addressed and stamped envelope plus purchase of a slice of pizza and ice cold beverage, adult or otherwise.]

First to materialize on the editor's desk was a photo of The Paleorider mowing the lawn of his neighboring ranch circa 1974:

What the reader should observe here is not the sterling work ethic of a 3-year old nor the Herb Tarlek-inspired vetements (hey, we were all guilty) but rather the stark contrast differentiating between the bucolic vistas which brought the first mid-century settlers to this part of the Township from the blight which later residential development brought to Curve Road now familiar to anyone who's visited The Ranch in the past 30 years [fx: cue The Pretenders].  A oh, way to go Ohio indeed.  In addition to regular exploratory adventures in those fields and woodlands, Lou and I used to launch model rockets that rained down all over the sparsely-populated neighborhood.  Kids today don't know how awful they have it.  Would that we could return to those sunny days of our Nixonian Administration youth.

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This month's issue of Car and Driver magazine (on newsstands now) makes further reference to everyone's favorite Canadian Power Trio.

That's two Rush references in two months.  C/D is rapidly re-branding itself as Car and Rush Fan.  Added editorial bonus; this C/D excerpt ties into the The Pretenders' "My City Was Gone" by way of Rush Limbaugh.  Whoever said Heavy Artillery can't also be sneaky?

On the subject of cars and rock music, another late-late night on patrol this month in the Jeep Main Battle Tank was Clash-intensive:

Nothing like a London Calling/Communista! two-fer to keep the adrenaline flowing at midnight.

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This week's second Paleorider submission arrived in the form of a brief PBS video clip which, perhaps none too coincidentally, also featured sights and sounds from the Age of Nixon.  The declaratory purpose of the video clip is to inform viewers of the revolutionary work of Pete Townshend and by further inference of the superior degree of quality found in his recorded demonstration tracks (or "demos").

A handful of official compilations of Townshend's demos have been released, notably the Scoop series of double-albums.  Scoop, released in 1983 right around the time of the demise of The Who, then Another Scoop (1987) and Scoop 3 arrived in record stores in 1994.  More of Pete's demos could be found on an assortment of releases in the year 2000 which related to his sprawling Lifehouse Chronicles project.  While unofficial/bootleg compilations of his demos are too numerous and too illegal to identify here you should operate with the understanding that I have them all.  For purposes of research only, of course.

Recently you enjoyed a selection of my favorite Scoop 3 demos.   Herewith, a more comprehensive listing of my favorite Pete Townshend demos from the first two installments of Scoop.  The Scoop albums have detailed liner notes informing the listener as to dates of recording, venue, instruments used and backstories about the individual tracks.  Time constraints prevent me from consulting those for use here.  As such, a fact-check may reveal errors in my brief annotations below.  My added comments are just meant to serve no more than thumbnail sketches.  At any rate, you'll find a musical style for just about everyone.

So Sad About Us/Brr

"So Sad About Us" was recorded by The Who and appeared on their 1966 album A Quick One.  "Brr" - completely unrelated to "So Sad About Us" - was a jazzy experimental track recorded in 1972 intended for use on the 1973 Who album Quadrophenia but was ultimately unused.

Politician

"Politician" takes a sympathetic look at political leaders, perhaps just as controversially in the mid-1960s when he recorded it as it would be today.  Dig the vibrant Motown groove, true to the early Who ethos of Maximum R&B.

Dirty Water

"Dirty Water" is a country-tinged exposition of, well.... dirty water.  Gotta be a witty metaphor for something I'm too dense to figure out.

Unused Piano: Quadrophenia

Like "Brr," recorded with the intention of using for Quadrophenia in 1973.  Elements of this theme were eventually incorporated into the album.

Things Have Changed

Mid-1960s pop/country-tinged demo not recorded by The Who.

Popular

Recorded for the Who's 1981 Face Dances album.  The band liked the New Wave-inspired sound but didn't like the lyrics.  It was re-written and renamed as the title song for The Who's 1982 album It's Hard.

Cookin'

There may be are more country influenced songs among Pete's demos than you might think.  Are the lyrics here a metaphor?  Are they not?  It's funny, for sure.

You're So Clever

Early 1980's New Wave electronica.

Body Language

See above.  Sounds much like some of the material that appeared on Townshend's 1982 solo album All the Best Cowboys Have Chinese Eyes.

Initial Machine Experiments

Early 1980s, just what the title implies.  Toying around in the home studio with a new synth.

To Barney Kessel

A guitar solo tribute to a noted jazz guitarist.  You'll find a lot of jazz-inspired demos in Townshend's catalog and I quite like them all.

You Came Back

More jazz, this about re-incarnation.  The album's liner notes reveal that Pete couldn't work out a solo for the break so he left it with just the backing track.  I think it's understated and that works well, and yes I'm very biased.

Girl In A Suitcase

A mid-1970s song about the hardships of life on the road for a popular touring musician and the photos of family carried along. 

Brooklyn Kids

Symphonic Townshend from the mid-late 1970s.

Football Fugue

More symphonic Townshend from the same era as above, this with a more comical lyric which mashes up an orchestra and a soccer (football) game.

Substitute

Circa 1966 demo for The Who classic single of the same name/year.

Holly Like Ivy

Recorded one night in a Dallas hotel room on tour with The Who in 1982 about a girl Pete had just met at an after show party.

Vicious Interlude

1970s home recording interrupted by a bit of fatherly scolding.  Hilarious and hilarious reaction by his daughter.

Cat Snatch

In 1983 Townshend began putting together demos for a proposed Who concept album to be titled Siege.  It would have marked a significant aural change in the sound and direction of The Who, which one might assume the rest of the band would have resisted.   It was futuristic and experimental and I think it would have been revolutionary.  Or maybe it was just funkadelic Who?  It matters not because shortly after initiating home demos for Siege Pete Townshend pulled the plug on The Who.

Prelude #556

An unused electro-symphonic intro from the early 1980s.

Praying The Game

An exploration of spirituality combining acoustic guitar with an orchestra.  Mid-late 1970s.

Don't Let Go the Coat

Demo for a Who song of the same name on the 1981 album Face Dances.  Many of the demos for this album have a more nimble, New Wave influenced sound than The Who as a band were able (or willing) to capture.

Never Ask Me

Recorded for The Who album Who Are You (1978).  Rejected by the band.  Townshend also submitted it to Quincy Jones for Frank Sinatra to record.  They rejected it also.  I think it may be his best-ever demo for an unrecorded song.

Ask Yourself

Another of the Siege demos from 1983.  Hard to see how The Who would have been receptive to it's style.  Had they gone forward, this project might have given the band a much-needed revitalization.

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When The Who convened to begin recording for what initially was to be the Lifehouse concept double-album, the demos they were presented with by Pete Townshend didn't incorporate synthesizers.  Piano and organ, yes, but Townshend hadn't yet discovered synths.  The Lifehouse concept proved to be too complex thematically to pull off.  It was a difficult idea to convey and probably wasn't a fully-realized concept in the mind of Townshend to begin with.  The recording process was fraught with technical problems.  The band went from recording studios in England to New York City and back to England.  1970 bled into 1971.  Along the way Townshend began using synthesizers and their producer (seen in the PBS clip, above) finally convinced the band - and Pete - to drop the concept, drop the idea of a double-album, just record the strongest material and arrange the album's playing order without any pretense of an overarching theme or narrative.  Who's Next, one of the all-time greatest albums, is what resulted. 

Roll the credits!

BC2016; California Chrome Was My Spirit Animal

In the days leading up to The B Team Syndicate's big Breeders' Cup Saturday pilgrimage to the Indiana Grand racino in scenic Shelbyville, Indiana the personnel roster of our touring party came under withering assault.  Some key members of Mr B's cosa nostra of old school horse players were unavailable due to other commitments and so our standard two-table reservation was halved.  The next to RSVP his regrets was Lou.  His wife's beloved aunt passed away earlier in the week and their presence was rightfully and understandably needed elsewhere that Saturday.  Then that Friday the last of Mr B's cosa nostra vacillated.  Ultimately he joined us but that brought our surviving battalion down to three. 

Commanding the Jeep Main Battle Tank on a blitzkrieg westbound on I-74, my determined focus on the roadway led me to forget about charging my trusty Android Galaxy S8000.  An hour or so into our wagering assault I observed a low charge on my Android and so I powered it off during the bulk of our parimutuel mission.  As such, there are but a few surviving digital images with which to visually convey this narrative.

I'd spent much of the preceding week in blissful solitude - just a boy and his Daily Racing Form - studying with exacting detail the facts and figures found within the past performances of hundreds of horses from five continents, just as I do every October that the Reds aren't in the World Series.  [If you were looking for a mention about the stunning result to this year's Fall Classic, that's a subject for Jude's blog "Cubilation."  The title is a mash-up of the words Cubs and jubilation.]  Jude updates it about as often as he buys lunch for me and Joe.

Here are a few international gems discovered within the sacred pages of this year's DRF Breeders' Cup Advance issue:

We think, correctly, that the Kentucky Derby 20-horse field is too large by about six thoroughbreds.  At least over the course of a mile and a quarter there is some distance of terrain over which the field might separate.  One of our visiting European competitors took part earlier in a six-furlong (or three-quarters of a mile) 23-horse sprint.  Talk about your cavalry charges, indeed!

Another of our trans-Atlantic equine friends once took part in a race held on an English course laid out in a figure eight.  Good luck applying your traditional North American-centric handicapping principles to that bewildering outing!

Yet another put upon Old World racehorse recently carried 140 pounds.  It's routine for horses in Europe to carry more weight than their North American counterparts but even so, 140 pounds is just about the upper limit.  If jockeys weigh 110 .lbs, more or less, this unfortunate steed carried the equivalent of a jockey (in this example, the excellent British jock Ryan Moore) plus 120 McDonald's Quarter Pounder cheeseburgers.

Year after year and seemingly without fail the maitre d'racino seats us on the third tier of four, high above the track and just steps below the all-you-can-shovel prime rib buffet.  In past excursions we've been fortunate enough to have an automated betting machine immediately adjacent to our table on the tier immediately below.  We were surprised to find this year that our betting machine had been replaced with a human-operated betting terminal.  A veritable betting window without the window!

That is the wagering clerk you see just over my right shoulder taking bets from a green polo shirted bettor.  While anyone else would have had to get up from their table and make a short walk over to the terminal, we lucky elements of Mr B's cosa nostra could merely reach over the ledge to make our bets.  Ad slogan:  Improved wagering opportunities!  Now without getting up from your seat at table #308!  Thank God for good ol' American sedentary ingenuity.  How many of the calories from my turkey sammich, Saratoga chips, two sugar cookies, one M&M cookie, three servings of prime rib, two servings of mashed potatoes with gravy, a dozen or so steamed carrots, helping of corn pudding, bowl of beef & vegetable soup, and chocolate cake would you estimate I burned off that day?  I eschewed the shrimp cocktail and clam chowder both of which Mr B extolled the virtues thereof.  One could also have dined on roast beef, ham, chicken, haddock, potato salad, Asian stir fry, pasta, tossed salads, chips, pretzels..... It should be evident why Mr B prefers Shelbyville to any other race day alternatives.

Soon, between mammoth caloric intakes, we got down to the business at hand.  Right out of the gate, to exploit an obvious horse racing term, my week-long handicapping sabbatical paid off handsomely when I hit Win and Place on a 30-1 long shot.  In the very next race my 18-1 "pick o' the day" ran third, killing my Win and Place wager on her, but the filly's on-the-board finish at long odds swelled the payout on my successful Superfecta nobly aided by the winning ride of the greatest jockey in the history of mankind, Lanfranco "Frankie" Dettori.  When I hit the back end of my Win and Place wager in the race that immediately followed I basked in the shower of adulation Mr B poured upon me.  Or was that au jus which splashed from his plate?  At any rate, after the first three Breeders' Cup races I was up big and - best of all - playing with house money for the rest of the afternoon and evening.

But do not mistake playing with house money, as it were [that's a misnomer; at the races you're not betting against the house but rather against other bettors.  It was their money I was walking around with.  OK, OK.  Walking back and forth to the buffet with.  Happy?], with going home flush with added cash reserves.  So please put down that phone.  Don't alert the IRS just yet.

As the day wore on, and despite twice more cashing winning tickets on Win/Place wagers (including one at odds of 12-1), the tide inexorably turned against me.  This was due, yes, to a decreased rate of winners but also due - perhaps primarily - to my wagering strategy.  Like a champion golfer who nevertheless tinkers with his swing in order to improve his game, I've been adjusting my wagering strategies in recent years.  I've eased off considerably from the Exactas and Trifectas [full disclosure; of Saturday's nine Breeders' Cup races I placed 4 Exacta Box wagers and one Tri Box wager - all losers], focusing my parimutuel efforts on the good old fashioned Win/Place wager as well as Pick Threes, Pick Fours, the Derby Day & BC Day Pick Sixes and ten-cent Superfectas (a relatively recent development in wagering and they cost the bettor a mere $2.40, inexpensive!).  Excepting the ten-cent Supers, this strategy allows me to just focus on one horse (winning) per race and sets aside the arduous task of figuring out a deeper order of finish for each race.  I think my adjustments are paying off, to grossly exploit another wagering term, as you might compare the volume of winning tickets I cashed on Saturday compared with other race days of recent vintage.  

The explanation for why I didn't charter a helicopter ride home from the track was that I calculated a plan of attack that emphasized using my early windfall to fund a series of rolling Pick Threes with a buy-in substantially higher than the minimum fifty-cent variety.  Had I wagered the minimum Pick 3 and Pick 4 amounts I would have driven home - or choppered - a victorious conqueror.  Instead, my calculations and my mounting losses found me minutes before the last race of the day, the $6 million Classic, at just about the break-even point.  In fact, for the BC Classic I placed a $12 wager on a five-horse Superfecta Box which - were it to be a loser (and it was) - would have ended my day precisely even, not one dollar up nor down.

And then it happened......

I looked down at my growing stack of dead tickets and saw that I still had a betting machine voucher (betting machines don't pay out in cash money, only in vouchers which may be used again at a betting machine, at a betting window or redeemed for cash at a betting window) in the amount of $36. 

Hmmm.... what to do?  What to do?

The 3-to-5 odds-on favorite in the Classic was the world's #1 ranked horse (seriously, this really is a thing) California Chrome.  The second wagering choice was Arrogate at Even Money odds.  Certainly, the Classic was a two-horse race and neither offered an attractive wagering proposition as a single.  And so there I sat 15 minutes to post, peppering The Old Master of the Turf with a variety of pace scenarios in which an alternate outcome could theoretically result in a more profitable payout.  In the final analysis we determined it really was simply a two-horse race.  Looking at the odds, Mr B posited that if the odds on California Chrome were to rise to Even Money that he himself would "load up" on Chrome.  With minutes to go and millions of dollars already wagered into the betting pools it would have taken a miracle - or a "late money" wager(s) in the tens of thousands - to change the odds that dramatically.   And change they did!   Chrome rose to 8-5, Arrogate dropped to 4-5 and I dropped my $36 voucher on a straight Win bet on California Chrome.

Post time!  "Racing!"

The gates opened and California Chrome jumped out to an early lead.  He led the field through the opening quarter mile, the opening half mile and through the first three-quarters of a mile in easy fractions.  Turning for home Arrogate, running fifth early, made his move on California Chrome and the anticipated two-horse duel was fully engaged.  Mere strides from the finish Chrome was still ahead in the race just as, metaphorically, I had been ahead for the whole day.  Chrome was caught and passed in the shadow of the finish line, a dissatisfying end to what had been a successful race up to that point.  Similarly, I had a disappointing end to what had been a wildly successful day of wagering.  For that sunny Indiana day and cool Hoosier state autumn evening California Chrome was my spirit animal.  As he went, so did I.

I exited Shelbyville down just the $36 I wagered with my voucher.

The Old Master had a sizable straight Exacta that had Arrogate on top of Chrome.  This information he did not share with me until after the race.

The race itself lived up to its name.  It truly was a classic that long will be remembered.  Take a look at my spirit animal here and see the parallels in my own experience that day.

On-track wagering at Santa Anita for Saturday's Breeders' Cup totaled $14 million.  Off-track wagering soared to $95 millionz, worldwide.

The statistic that most of you are interested to know (?) is how well my handicapping stacked up against that of the pros at the Daily Racing Form.  For this year's BC, the DRF assembled 15 members of its illustrious staff to make their picks for all nine of Saturday's BC races.  Just one DRF expert, Chuck Kuehhas and his five winners (!), exceeded my three correct Win picks.  Two DRF writers - David Grening and Dan Illman - equaled my total.  Four pros who shall remain nameless were shut out completely.

Remember my #1 tip when wagering on the Breeders' Cup;  Don't bet favorites!  

Next year's Breeders' Cup will be hosted by southern California's other notable racetrack, Del Mar.  Del Mar opened in 1937 and was built by a partnership which included, among others, Bing Crosby and Gary Cooper.  It's popular slogan is "Where the turf meets the surf."

Roll the credits!