How to win at ponies and life

I don't know if you can tell past the brim of my enormous hat, dear readers, but it is High Holy Day in the Jeffers house. It's Kentucky Derby Day and though my house is exactly 333 miles from Churchill Downs, rest assured I can feel the stampede of those hoofbeats in my heart the minute those gates open just as much if I'm standing at the rail. Maybe it's in the blood. My mom would tell me how much my grandpa loved to listen to horse races on the radio, in the days when War Admiral was a national hero. By the time the fever overtook me, Grandpa was long gone and I couldn't ask him if he kept a talisman nearby to make sure his favorite horse won. That would have been more important to know than the family tree. You can find dusty old records anywhere, but making sure your horse doesn't fall apart coming into the final stretch? That's the stuff, baby. Ask a fan of any sport — we all have our superstitions. We all want to see our heroes win, because in them we see a little bit of ourselves. There's a shorthand for it — BIRGing, Basking In Reflected Glory. It's why sports merchandising is a $40 billion-a-year market. It's tempting to lose yourself in the wins of your favorite player, in the victory of the team when real life is challenging. And it's tantalizing to many who want to wager on the outcome. Since the U.S. Supreme Court overturned a federal ban on sports betting in 2018, 39 states have legalized some form of it, skyrocketing wagering to a $12.11 billion industry in 2023. I'm a conservative bettor on horses myself, having learned my lesson early in life at a traveling carnival. Having inherited the family disease of "crow eyes" — terminally attracted to anything shiny; value unimportant, Hope diamond or tinfoil makes no difference — I was drawn to a booth festooned with lurid colors, promising fast-paced action. At the center was a big wheel, its spokes painted in all colors, like a Wheel of Fortune laid on its side, with a hole at each wide end. The barker told us to place our bets and everyone gathered round the open bar-height sides of the booth, painted in stripes corresponding to the spokes on the wheel, slapped down quarters on their chosen colors. I did, too, having no idea what we were doing. The barker spun the wheel, shook a little wooden box in his hand and out slid a mouse onto the center of the wheel. The crowd erupted in spirited urging, most of them having come from the tavern nearby, heartily encouraging the mouse's path. The mouse, disoriented by the spinning, the yelling, or the unfair labor practices, scampered down a hole to escape. My quarter was on a color matching his chosen hidey-hole and that's how I ended up with a stuffed animal, the manic chained drummer from "The Muppet Show". Drunk with victory, I spent another $11.75, a quarter at a time, while the barker kept switching out fresh mice before I stumbled away. But I did not come away defeated: I left with a lifelong wariness for bigger gambles and a bone-deep understanding of that feeling of rooting for your team, or your player — though admittedly mine tend to be 1,500 lbs. and lose by a neck. Look, I'm a Cleveland native. I'm familiar with doing whatever it takes to get a little luck on our side. I lived in Oklahoma when the then-Tribe was in the World Series, and I wore my jersey during every game, no matter what. That week the county sheriff, commissioners, hospital president and a federal judge asked me what gives. I said our boys had serious business back home and I appreciated their prayers. In the buckle of the Bible Belt, people like to say they don't believe in luck, but they will say "blessed and highly favored" without blinking an eye. Me, I'm not sure you can squeeze a four-leaf clover between the two. It was in the pews that I first believed, I say; right there in Ecclesiastes, when wise ole King Solomon told us that "time and chance happens to us all." So when I hear of certain customs or beliefs that people swear by, I give them credence. Who am I to doubt? When it comes to horse racing, it's commonplace knowledge to not wear green to the track — some people will refuse to even bet a horse if the jockey's silks are green — and never, ever have peanuts near a barn or touch a $50. "You're not supposed to touch a $50 bill or your bet is going to go south," said my friend John Scheinman, railbird and former horse racing journalist at The Washington Post. And if he's next to somebody yelling at their horse to "c'mon, c'mon, go," — that's the kiss of death. "Every time I lose, I'm next to a guy who does that," he said. "Every single time. My horse, even if he's like hundreds of miles away, invariably he's like collapsing or breaking a leg." To be safe, steer clear of black cats just before race time, he says — a superstition he shares with others, like famed trainer Todd Pletcher, who also won't allow hats on the bed in race week. Some believe the gospel of "gray in the rain," betting gray horses if the track is sloppy. My cousin the horse breeder always bets a gray for luck, and for whatever reason — the origins to this are lost even to me — my children and I have always "stamped a gray for luck." If we see a gray horse in a field we lick our thumbs, stick it in our palms and twist it. Maybe when it comes right down to it, Tennessee Williams said it best: "Luck is believing you're lucky." Go find your fortune today, friends. Contact Chronicle-Telegram columnist Rini Jeffers at rinijeffers@gmail.com.