MAKE THE RACING FORM EASY TO READ

They're in the Paddock.  Fifteen minutes 'till Post Time.  They've been preparing for this race. They walk their horse, Sorrowful, out onto the dirt Oval.
 
"I've got the bets down,"  says Calder, the Trainer.  "Morning Line has us at 45 to one.  I'm sure it'll end up a lot higher.  It worked last year.  Should work again."

 "We got this," says Hawthorne, the Jockey.  "Six races, I put him last twice, and 8th four times.  I had him first into the stretch five times, so I know he can do it.  Today's the day."

"Nobody knows but us.  The owners ain't got a clue. So I bet big."  says Calder.

"Good.  This time I won't hold back.  Hey, when you're pushing 50,  you need a big score, so you can retire with a few more bucks in the bank.  I can see what's happening.  Horse racing is slowly dying.  Scratch in The Triple Crown didn't help."

"Didn't used to be.  Used to be million dollar Stake Races every weekend.  Aqueduct, Santa Anita, Churchill Downs."

"It's  lack of TV," says Hawthorne. "They say we're losing fans at about 4% a year. Won't be long."

The Loudspeaker:  "Riders Up."

Calder takes Hawthorne's boot, and hoist him into the saddle.  He then mounts his own horse, and together they walk through the crowd, under the Grandstands, and out onto the Main Track.

"Nobody talks about Horse Racing, anymore," says Hawthorne.  "Baseball, Football, Basketball.  That's the problem.  They talk sports, but it's not Horse Racing."

Again the loudspeaker. "Ninth and final race of the afternoon.  Six and a half furlongs.  The track is firm.  Post time in ten minutes.  There are no scratches."

"You watch SportsCenter," says Hawthorne.  "There's hardly anything.  There's some talk about the Triple Crown,  and maybe the Breeder's Cup, but that's it.  Come on, Bowling gets more TV time than we do."

They gallop down the main stretch.  Sorrowful sees the crowd.  He hears the voices.  He senses it's his time.

"Owners should race their horses more often," says Calder. "Instead they save them for stud. Who can get interested in a horse when it only races 6 or 7 times and you never hear about him again?"

Hawthorne pats Sorrowful on the neck.  "Today's our day, Sorrowful. We  got them thinking you're a nag, my friend.  But we know better, don't we."  He pats the neck again. " Yup, today's our day."

"It's no secret." says Calder.  "We used to be the only legit way to gamble, except in Vegas.  Now, what do we got?  Lotto, Indian reservations, underground poker dens, computer betting.   The only thing holding us up is the online horse betting. TVG, ExpressBet, BetFair."

"And," says Hawthorne.  "Make the Racing  Form easy to read.  It's like printed in Chinese.  Who's going to learn all that?  Even I don't know all the symbols."

Calder looks over at him.

"Just kidding, but I'm just saying.  And the track's cut is so high.  Crazy.  Majority of bettors see that, they'll stop betting so much."

They get in line now for the walk to the starting gate.

"And when word gets out about Frog Juice...Dermorphine..."

"...Horse morphine......from the Monkey Tree Frog, South America..."

..Yeah, and now we got a doping scandal.  I'll Have Another's trainer has already been suspended for using it.  Not good."

"I never use those kinds of drugs," says Calder.  "Hurts the horse.  No, we're making money by the rules...sort of.  No telling how long it will take before we get another chance."

They get near the Starting Gate.  Calder peels off.  Hawthorne and Sorrowful go in.  The flag is up.  And, They're Off.

One minute, twelve and four fifths seconds later...

Again the loudspeaker.  "Ladies and Gentlemen.  I direct you attention to the Winner's Circle. Breaking his maiden, it's Sorrowful, a six year old bay gelding, the half brother of  'Feeble.'   99 to one long shot.  Who knew?  What a pedigree.  By 'Dreadful,' and 'Choke,' out of that multiple stakes winner, 'Disappointment.'   99 to one, who knew?"

Pictures snap.  Owners crowd around.  Hawaiian shirts, dark glasses, large flashy rings.  And a Jockey and a Trainer.
 
They look at each other, and laugh.   Hawthorne, pats Sorrowful's neck.  "We did it, Sorrowful."

"Yup," says Calder.  "We certainly did.  99 to one.  Who knew?"

They bump fists, grin big for the cameras, and wave to the crowd.
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Help comes from:
content.usatoday.com/communities/gameon/post/2012/06/substance
equibase.com/  readabilityformulas.com,   horsehats.com/horse-racing-records,
guelphmercury.com/news/canada/article/723496--ontario-horse-racing-crisis,

BASEBALL STATS THAT PAY OFF

Again the banksters come knock knock knocking at my bank account door.  E-Mail, yadda, yadda, yadda, something about my checking account dipping below, yadda, yadda, yadda, I will be charged an extra, yadda, yadda, yadda.  All right, already, I'll make a deposit.   Don't they have bigger fish to fry?

I rub my forehead.  But, I have an idea.   I know what I want to do.  I thumb my iPhone.  It's ringing.  He answers.  "Yeah?"

"Key,  Key West.  Waz up.  How are things in Southern Florida?"

"Not bad.  Who's asking?"

"Come on, it's me, Brentwood.  Brentwood Belair.  I'm calling the special number you gave me."

Key West uses a system of cell phones for privacy. It gratifies his paranoia.  With a private phone number code.  He's real stingy who gets it.

"Woody?  Belair?  That you?"

"'Course, who'd you think?"

"You recording this?"

"Key, it's me.  Come on.  Called cause I need help.  I need your expert opinion."

"Belair needs my help?"  He quickly laughs.  "This should be good.  What's it going to cost me this time?"

"Key, you made out good on that, come on.  This is different.  I gotta come up with some quick cash, and who better to call..."

"You want me to book some bets?  I thought that's what you did. Take other people's wagers.  And live on the vig.  Times must be tough out there in LA?  All your fish swim off to Vegas?"
 
"Fish?  Loyal patrons, I'll have you know.  Look,"  I say.  "I need some quick cash, so I was just thinking.  It's baseball season right now.  What's your best odds percentage.  I promise not to use it against you?"

"Hey, Woody, come on.  You're my friend and all, but that's like insider information.  Didn't they throw Martha in jail for something like that?"

"Well, she served time actually for trying to cover it up, but that's a whole different...   Okay, here's what I got.  I'll give you a 89% winning factor, for your best.  How's that?"

"So...89%...okay," says Key.  "I got a way to bet baseball, but it's only 76%, over the last three years.  Major League Baseball, right?"

"Problem for me is this," I say.  "It doesn't come by every day, so I have to bet quite a bit to make it worthwhile when it does."

"Nothing weird, right?"

"I'll tell you, then you tell me.  Ready?"

"Okay, go."  says Key.

"A home team will win outright on the second game back home after a long road trip of six games or more."

"That's it?"

"Yeah, and that's over a ten year span.  I've won big on it.  But it only comes around maybe fifteen times or so during a season.  But still 89 %, can you believe?"

"You sure.  89%?"

"It's because they're in front of their home crowd again, players can relax.  Home cooking, no hotel beds, no close quarters.  No place like home.  First game back they're still adjusting.  It's best when there's a long distance involved.  Like the Yankees on a road trip to play the Angels, something like that."

"Make sense.  And it's that high a percentage?  Wow.  Okay Woody. I'll be seeing you."

"Hey, hold on.  Come on.  I need something.  I need cash flow here, Key.  Come on.  What've you got?"

"Cash Flow?  I know you got money stashed."

"That's for emergencies.  If I ever have to flee...for some reason...hey, how'd you know?"

"Okay, you want one of my Key Formulas?"

"I'm writing this down.  Go."

"WHIP."

"What?"

"WHIP.  You take the starting pitchers, and find their WHIP for the last 28 days. WHIP stand for, so you won't forget, the number of Walks, plus the number of Hits, divided by the number of Innings Pitched.  For real good pitchers it's less than one.  But for most it's somewhere between 1.3 and 1.7."

Silence.

"Hello...With me so far?...Hello."

"Gotcha, Key.  WHIP.  Now what?"

"Okay, add them together.  If it's over 3.0 and the Over and Unders is 7.5 or less, you got 76% for Overs.  Simple as that."

"3.0...7.5...76%.  Okay, but...there's adding and dividing involved...?"

"It's my best.  And like yours...second game back idea...this doesn't come around every day.  So bet big.  You'll be way ahead of the game.  Just don't try to book those bets with me, please."

"Hey, thanks Key.  76%?  You sure?"

"Am I sure?  Good bye, Woody. 

"Wait." I say.

"You think you got troubles.  I got guys who won't pay up on the Pacquiao Bradley fight.  They say that Pacquiao won the thing, so they're not going to pay."

"Don't you charge a vig?  Get your money up front?"

"Sure...but since I give them credit...You know, over the phone..."

"Credit?" I laugh.  "What's the first rule of  bookie-ism.  Key, come on.  Repeat after me:  No Credit.  Never never, ever, ever give anybody..."

"I got it, Woody.  I got it."

"You need a Muscle Beach type to start visiting your..."

"I got it, Woody.  I got it.  I should be terrorizing these guy?  Man up.  Start breaking knee caps."

"I've found a number 12 ball peen hammer's my encouragement of choice..."  I laugh again.

"Good Bye, Woody," 

"Wait?  Key?  I'm Kidding."

Click.
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Help comes from:
Google Images, readabilityformulas.com,
covers.com/sports/mlb,
baseballpress.com/lineup_team.php?team
predictem.com/mlb

IRON MIKE AND THE GREAT WHITE WAY

"Crazy.  Get out of the way.  What are you doing?"  The car jolts.  The tires screech.  I jump up in the back seat.

There's a man in the street right in front of us, waving for us to stop, and pointing in the air.   A large man in a white jacket,  gray silk shirt, gray slacks.   A man with a face tattoo.

It's Mike Tyson.
 
A simple cab ride from McCarran to Caesars Palace.   Las Vegas is exciting, all right, but this?  Even before we get to the strip?

We skid to a stop, he jumps in with me, rolls down the window, and sticks his head out.  "It's LaVerne," he says.  "She's flown away.  I almost had her but she got out.  I have to catch her."

He pulls out cash, peels off a $100 bill, and tosses it over the seat to the driver.  "Please, go north.  She's gone north."

The driver stares in his mirror.  I'm stunned.  It's Mike Tyson.

"Sorry guys," he says.  "I gotta get her real quick, I'm rehearsing, so I gotta get back."

"Rehearsing?" I say, wondering what would Iron Mike be rehearsing for?  "I'm Brentwood Belair, Sports Blogger from LA.  Lost a pigeon?"

"Not just any pigeon," he says, looking out the window, "LaVerne."  Up in the sky, he points, "There, I think?"

He looks over at me.  "Yeah.  Rehearsing my life, with my wife Kiki. Not much to remember, 'cause it all happened to me, but she got it together, all in order, so it makes sense." 

"Your life?" I say. 

"My next KO, it'll be on Broadway." he says, and giggles.  His voice is high.  "Me and Spike Lee.  Guess you didn't here.  It's my one man show."  He looks at me and smiles.  I look away from his missing teeth.  "Spike Lee, he's the guy.  I've already done the show at the MGM."  Again the smile.  "Same place I bit off part of Holyfield's ear."

"Oh, yeah," I say, not knowing exactly how to respond.  Is he still mad about the way the fight was ref'd?  He's sitting right next to me.  So I say, " I didn't know you were on stage, Mike.  You've already done your show...at the MGM Grand?"

"Yeah, the papers reviewed me too.  They said I did okay, but too many bad words. Raw and filthy they said.   That's why I'm rehearsing it some more.  Spike is excited.  What am I gonna do?  I'm almost 46."

He jerks toward the window.  "There."  He points toward the top of a Eucalyptus tree next to the cab.  He jumps out, as the cab slows.  "LaVerne, it's me, Mike.  Come on, don't get lost.  Fly home. Please."

I slide out too.  "Mike," I say looking up into an empty tree.  "I never would have guessed.  Takes courage to go up on stage and talk."

"It's not hard.  I'm just talking about the stuff I've done in my life.  It's called. 'Undisputed Truth.'   Everybody knows what's happened to me.  The paper said my show was two hours of jab, jab, jab.  That's a good thing."

"Like to see your show.  Really sounds interesting."

"It's on DVD.  That's how Spike found out about me.  He saw it.  I talk about Robin, and the time she comes home with Brad Pitt."  His eyes turn to me.  "That's right, Brad Pitt."  He looks toward the open sky to the East.  "I talk about my trainer, GusD'Amato, and that time in the Clinic  for the cocaine.  Hate to say it, but I was in prison, everybody knows."  His eyes are in the trees again. "I was practicing, and then LaVerne takes off.  I had to stop and find her."

He shades his eyes, looking west, high toward the sun.  "Even how I felt in Japan when I fought Buster Douglas."

He points again.  "There...go...fly home."  He watches a plump bird darts through the air.  "It's the right direction, so...maybe she's on her way.  Don't get lost."

He brushes his hands together.  "Good.  I feel better."

"Well," I say. The man seems calm, but that face tattoo?  "Glad we could get LaVerne home safe and sound."

I get back into the cab.  "I was just on my way to Caesars Palace, but...you paid so much, we'll take you home."  The Cabbie nods.

Mike stands there for a second.  "Hey, thanks.  It's not far." 

We move out.  The Cabbie seems too know where he lives.
  
Sweat forms on his forehead.  His hands shake.  "I saw on Twitter what people think of me.  An ex felon who bites peoples ears off, beats up and rapes women.  Toothless, brainless waste of human flesh."  He takes a breath.  "It's pretty bad.  But I'm a different man now.  That's what I want them to understand."  He shakes his head. "People don't like what I said about Treyvon Martin.  But, it's how I feel about it."

A new Mike Tyson?  Or the same street kid with that lights out uppercut we watched on pay-per-view?   "You've done a lot Mike, you'll have to admit.  Evander Holyfield's ear?"

"Yeah, that.  And remember I said I'd eat Lennox Lewis' children?  All part of my show.   I don't hold back no punches either,  about my daughter's accident."  He stops.  "I could cry."  He stops again, and blinks.  "I got remarried.  I'm doing good now."

He has his arm out the window, and is scanning the sky.

"One other thing," he says.  "It's part of who I am.  I'm  a vegan.  I'm sick of venereal diseases and being a prostitute hunter. You know, because carnivores are all syphilis-infested hookers."

Say what?  Now my hands shake.  My voice, it isn't there.  Has he changed?

He points again.  "Stop.  It's LaVerne."   We skid.  He jumps out.  "I'm going after LaVerne.  You guys go.  I'll be okay."

He waves, then runs off into a neighborhood of two story houses, and is gone.
 
Iron Mike.  There right next to me.  Overpowering.  I didn't know quite how to act.  A man whose right cross was deadly.  Right there next to me.  Now playing out his life on stage?  Talking about himself?  Will it be a Tony performance?  You'll just have to get tickets and see. July 31 to Aug. 5, at the Longacre Theater, 220 West 48th Street, NYC.  With tickets priced anywhere between $74.50 - $198.50, depending, of course, on close you really want to get.
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Help comes from:
playbill.com/events, newyorkcitytheatre.com/theaters,
sports.yahoo.com/blogs/lookout/mike-tyson-trayvon-martin-case
Wikipedia/Mike tyson, readabilityformulas.com,  Google/Images.
yardbarker.com/boxing/articles/msn/mike_tyson_on_the_today_show