If you look up the sport of horse racing in the dictionary, the official spokesperson for the entire thing is Bruce. Grandpa Harry took him to the track when he was just a little colt and the fascination with the activity immediately took root. Over the years, he stuffed money in a band-aid can that came out of hiding on Saturday afternoon when he went to the track. Harry never died because he lives on in trackside venues throughout the world as Bruce continues to keep his memory alive each time someone calls, “…………annnnnnnnnddddddddtheyyyyyyrrrrrrofffff!” somewhere where horses pee before running in a circle.
I don’t know horse poop about horse racing but I love to wear my hat and smoke a cigar while occasionally jumping up and screaming “Come On, Rust Bucket!” at what I hope is the appropriate time. I do it once or twice a year and only leave 20 bucks at the track which includes a beer and nachos. We don’t meet up to do track stuff often but occasionally we do and this was one of those times. We stayed at the Motel 6 across from the racetrack and had a nice trip. I got a can cooler and a sunburn.