Pennsylvania Derby: A Happy Place for Fans of Racing

Fans were happy to be at Parx Racing for the Pennsylvania Derby on Sept. 20. (Photos by Eclipse Sportswire)
First, they called it Keystone Racetrack, then Philadelphia Park, now they just call it Parx.
It’s a thoroughly modern name for a thoroughly modern racetrack. Parx Casino and Racing is a massive facility in the quiet burg of Bensalem, Pa. Benefiting from Pennsylvania’s gaming expansion in 2009, Parx is now more than just a racetrack. It’s a racetrack with a 60-table poker room and an adjoining casino with more than 3,000 slot machines and table games.
The slot money has done Parx Racing well. Despite the fact that on some weekdays Parx runs multiple 5-horse races, they still can afford to not only host the $1-million Pennsylvania Derby, but offer $100,000 to the owners and trainer of California Chrome just to show up.
The gambit worked. The Pennsylvania Derby was packed with fans on Sept. 20. There’s no official number since Parx doesn’t charge admission (imagine that!), but estimates are around the 15,000 range. It was only my third visit to Parx, but I certainly had never seen so many people there, let alone there to watch the horse races.
FANS CROWD PARX TO GET A GLIMPSE OF CALIFORNIA CHROME

As I entered the track a man with slicked-back hair behind the wheel of a vintage convertible corvette grew impatient with the long line of cars. He leaned over and asked a guy selling donuts along the side of the road what the deal was.
“California Chrome is here!” the man responded.
“What is that, a band?”
“Nope. It’s a horse!”
“A horse? Are you serious?”
“He won the Kentucky Derby!” shouted a woman who was walking by. The rich guy shook his head in bafflement.
“All these people to see a horse?” He pressed his horn in frustration.
It was true. All these people to see a horse.
It seemed Chromemania didn’t die with his Belmont stretch run. The purple shirts and “Chromie is my Homie” signs were back. The grandstand was electric. The casual race fans were back in the seats, jabbering about the difference between an exacta and a trifecta and wondering if they should bet Chrome to win or to show. The lines at the windows and the concession stands were long. Parx Racing was in business. The California Chrome show was in town.
CHROMIES WERE OUT IN FORCE

Parx is quite a racetrack. It’s a massive, boxy facility with a tall, sloping indoor grandstand. The top floor, three stories up, was replete with first-come, first-served seating. I got there early enough to grab a chair. It was a decent spot to watch the races from, an almost overhead view of the entire track. I passed on standing in the betting lines and loaded up my online account so I could hang out in the seats and read uninterrupted. I alternated between the Daily Racing Form, the New York Times magazine, and Twitter.
Despite the crowd, it felt comfortable. I typically feel at home at the racetrack. A racetrack is a happy place. Even the dirtiest and dingiest of them give me a warm, familiar feeling that relaxes me. But a nice racetrack can be a uniquely communal experience. When race fans are happy and excited, they tend to talk to each other. Strangers ask each other which horse they are betting. Loud debates about the merits of one horse over another invite those within earshot to lean in and offer their two cents. Occasionally, a round of drinks is offered, if not a hot tip on the next race.
And the next thing you know we’re all friends, all in it together. Cheering on each other’s picks and kicking ourselves for not trusting the guy sitting behind us who swore he knew the five was due when the five is pulling away in the stretch. This was one of those days at one of those racetracks.
It helped that I was cashing tickets. After a few races, it was obvious that the track was fast and that speed was holding up. There was one wire-to-wire finish after the next. And some big longshots were hitting, too. So I just played the front-runners and let things happen. By the time the Pick 4, arrived I was up pretty good. But looking over the feature races for the Pick 4, I figured there were too many strong favorites I didn’t want to bet against. So, I left it alone and went to check out the poker room.
PARX WAS A FRIENDLY ENVIRONMENT FOR THE PENNSYLVANIA DERBY

A racetrack is a happy place in inverse proportion to how unhappy a place a poker room can be. I’ve spent far too much of my life in poker rooms around the country. From the glitz of the Bellagio to the grime of a Florida dog track and every kind of place in between. A home game in South Carolina with a gun on the table “just in case,” a no limit game in Las Vegas with Jimmy Johnson from the Dallas Cowboys, a low stakes game on the Kickapoo Indian reservation on the Texas/Mexico border.
I’ve seen all kinds of poker rooms. Sometimes they can be a blast. But typically, especially lately, they can be a drag. This is partly because the people sitting at a poker table are competitors. They are playing against each other trying to take each other’s money. There are no friends. In fact, I’ve known more than one friendship ruined because two guys decided to kill time at the same table and ended up in a big pot together.
What’s more likely is that the sour mood of most poker rooms stems from the type of poker player born out of the poker boom of 2003 - young, cocky, and far too personally invested in looking like a good poker player. This is the kind of player who despises luck, who blathers on endlessly about strategy to show everyone how smart he/she is, who treats every decision as if it were the last he/she would ever make, taking forever and hemming and hawing. These people might talk to you, probably only about poker, and never with the intention of being your friend. They want to show you they are good at cards, nothing more. And they don’t have the bandwith to talk about much else.
The only difference on this day was that a few people at my particular table were talking horses. Despite getting the customary grunt and glare from the players when I took my seat, one guy decided to chat me up about the horses when he saw me reading the Form.
“What kind of odds does Chrome got right now?”
“Not sure. Maybe still even money. I’m sure he’ll be odds-on.”
“He won’t win,” the handicapper said. “The Derby horses never win.”
I found his comment puzzling but decided not to press it.
“So who do you like?” I asked. He paused for a second.
“Who’s the other favorite? What’s his name?” he asked as if it were on the tip of his tongue.
“Bayern?”
“Yeah, Bayern,” he said as he raked the chips from the last pot into his stack. “He’s gonna win it.”
In the poker room, everybody’s an expert at everything. Everybody’s a goddamn wise guy.
STANDING ROOM ONLY AT PARX

After winning a couple hundred bucks on some outrageously lucky hands, I headed back to the grandstand to watch the main event. In the few races I spent in the poker room, the racetrack had filled up pretty good. It was standing room only. I stood on my tiptoes at the top of the grandstand. It was still a pretty good view.
By post time for the Pennsylvania Derby, all anyone could talk about was the obvious track bias on the dirt main track at Parx. The front-runners were still sailing and the whole thing spelled trouble for California Chrome, who was expected to rate behind the early speed. Bayern, his chief rival, was a front-running horse who was perfect for this kind of fast surface. If things went like they had been going all day, Bayern would get to the front early and stay there, probably sprouting wings in the stretch and literally flying over the finish line.
Bayern was 5-to-1 on the tote board. While my heart was with California Chrome, I couldn’t ignore the price on Bayern. I mean if the cookie jar is just sitting there, open, nobody around to see …
THE FIELD BREAKS FROM THE GATE

The crowd erupted when the starting gate flew open, and they cheered when California Chrome’s name was announced as the horses got into line. But it was obvious by the final turn whose day it was going to be. Bayern got in front and stayed in front, and in the stretch he pulled away like a beast. California Chrome wouldn’t rally for second. He’d officially finish in sixth — a disappointing day for the horse that was hoping for an Eclipse Award, and especially for all his fans and those who bet him.
As I was dragging my bag of money to my car after the races, I bumped in to Steve Coburn on his way out of the racetrack. He wasn’t hard to miss. He was surrounded by fans who were taking pictures and asking him for autographs. The throng was right at the foot of the escalator near the exit, so there was a steady stream of well-wishers to join the crowd.
COBURN POSES FOR A PHOTO WITH FANS

Every time Coburn thought he had signed his last autograph, a new group of fans would take the place of the last. He didn’t seem to mind. He laughed with them, hugged them, thanked them, kissed them. Occasionally, he’d pick one up off the ground in a bear hug. One man embraced Coburn, tears in his eyes, and said “I admire you, sir.” Afterward, he stood next to me, still dazed from the encounter, and said to me “did you know he works in a factory?” I nodded. “I admire him. I really do.”
The whole circus went on for at least a half-hour. They laughed and high-fived and had a big time. And Steve Coburn just kept saying “I love you, Parx. I love you.” And each time the fans would say, “We love you, too.” These were the losers, though you wouldn’t know it.
The racetrack is a happy place.