Dearest slugger, ink-stained and booze-stained voice, beloved misanthrope. Plain-speaker, angry drinker, friend.

How would you type this day out on your Royal? Or would you even bother? I dedicated it to you, you know? That damp drive across the bridge to the track. The trek into a smoke-filled room, that first sight of high dollar horse rumps. Old beer and cigar smells overtook the scent of novel experience.

It was all a little different than the image built up in my mind. Everything has been digitized since your days of playing hooky then celebrating winning forms with beer, steak, and hookers. Pretty sure I did spot a few hookers, by the way.

I nursed a vodka, silently chanting 3, 4, 7, 3, 4, 7. Alas, it was the 2, 5, 9 that cleared the line. My first try at the track left me broke and not even a little bit tipsy. Still, I was smiling on the drive home.