Off to the races

Why write in anger and despair while everyone is cool with all that is wrong? This discussion at a family gathering brought the suggestion that I “lighten up”, and sometimes write like a story I had shared at an extended “old talk” and laughter session.

Why not? So here goes.

Back in the 1960s I was attending the University of Houston.

When I left Trinidad I was keen on horse-racing, regularly attending the sport at the Savannah, Union Park and the Arima tracks.

At the beginning of my third year there, I took a class titled Business Law (Introductory, my attorney friends!). The professor was a much-feared man, for he was a strict disciplinarian, and set stern rules—like if you arrived late you could not enter the room. Big deal to Americans maybe, but if you had been schooled in the British system of the 1950s, like most people my age, he was no terror. He was always immaculately dressed, had wavy grey hair, spoke with a deep, clear non-Texan accent. It was said that he was part of the prosecution team who jailed Al Capone in Chicago, but no one dared to ask him about that.

He and the study text had two recurring words and phrases. Every land dispute was over a parcel of land called Blackacre, and the value of the land was always described as the Sum Certain.

For Christmas that year, the International Students’ Office organised a bus excursion from Houston to Mexico City. Two nights and three days with guitar music on a Greyhound bus we sang and laughed our way south.

I had to bribe border guards because “Trinidad y Tobahgo”(sic) was apparently not on Mexican maps. We arrived at our hotel to be met there by fellow students resident in Mexico City, and began planning our adventures and tours. A poster board in the lobby advertised horse-racing at El Hippodromo.

I organized about eight of us for a day at the races.

The exchange rate was so in our favour, we found we could easily afford a private box, with Mexican students as waiters/hosts and placers of our bets. We lost small sums all day long, following our hosts’ kind tips and fuelled by endless cerveza and margaritas.

As I looked at the programme for the penultimate race my eye fell on a horse named “Sum Certain”.

I read on down, there was a horse named “Dark Terrain”! If Dark Terrain is not Blackacre, you tell me what it is! Our hosts beg me not to bet on those rank outsiders, as the Odds Board showed.

But I insist. I know about caprice and this one is sure. Forecast reverse and each horse to win and to show.

And they are off and running, Sum Certain bolts to the front, and leads by several lengths all the way to the far turn. Dark Terrain trails the pack by several lengths.

Forget him! As they turn for home, the whole pack begins to close on Sum Certain, jockey on the whip, but the horse has little left. We all “hand riding” hard to help. Can he hold on? But to no avail. In the very last pace, Sum Certain is pipped at the post. Oh NO! By Dark Terrain! Where he come from (sic)? Bacchanal in our box! People want to know where we get that magic. We return to our hotel in triumph, those who went for culture (pyramids, museums and the like) are amazed at what we achieved. We had planned to be on the streets, Mexican style for Old Year’s Night (New Year’s Eve to non-Trinis), which was two nights away. But we upgraded to a proper dinner with champagne and everything, tumbling out into the streets with our champagne just before midnight, all courtesy of Dark Terrain and Sum Certain! Upon our return to classes— the semester was not yet over—I approached Professor Irwin after the first lecture was over. He looked forebodingly at me, as if questioning my boldness: “Yes Mr O’Connor?” I told him that I needed to thank him. “Thank me, Mr O’Connor? The semester is not yet over, and neither you nor I know your grade.” I politely agreed, and told him my story. He listened without interruption and said, “I hope you get more out of this course than that”. Then-- was that a flicker of a smile?—he added “congratulations, Mr O’Connor, I would have done the same!” I suppose that I will have to “return home” next Sunday, as horrors upon horrors mount?