Seventh Heaven

Chris Kreider goal to make it 4-0

Well, they did it again. The New York Rangers advance in the interminable Stanley Cup playoffs by winning their 8th game, this time on the road to defeat the Carolina Hurricanes at PNC arena in Raleigh, Carolina's first home loss in their playoffs this year.

It was as well-played a hockey game as I've ever seen—if you're a Ranger fan. Carolina fans were stunned by the 6-2 loss and were leaving in droves before the game ended. A young boy was caught on camera crying, being consoled by his Dad. Don't worry kid, these defeats happen. I've seen plenty, but perhaps not as young as you. You'll live long enough to see better results.

Is Mika Zibanejad a Russian monk? Is he Rasputin with a helmet and a Ranger jersey? He's listed as being from Sweden, but I'm sure he fell off an Eastern Orthodox church icon with his sinister facial hair and long locks. As smooth a center as I've seen. A veteran player who is only 29 years old. They better keep him.

Watching all the Ranger games now I'm getting a little better at identifying their lineup. It's nothing new, but the N.H.L. is full of Scandinavian and Russian players. There was a time when everyone was from Canada, and only a few were from the U.S. As a fraud detection specialist I once had to program a search for Russian names out of Boca Raton, Florida, because there was a ton of Russian-centered health insurance fraud being committed in Southern Florida. I simply pulled out names of N.H.L. players and mimicked the spelling of Russian names.

It is interesting to hear that the phenomenal Ranger goaltender, Igor Shesterkin, from Russia, although in this country for three years, still gives interviews through an interpreter. Who cares? He stops nearly everything that comes his way in any language.

I have no idea what the face value of tickets are going for at the Garden. The prices increase as you get further into the playoffs. Who knows what they'll be if the Rangers make the final round. It takes an insane 16 victories to win the Cup, from a maximum of 28 games played. It's mind boggling.

No rest for the victors. The Rangers are set to have home ice advantage starting Wednesday against Tampa Bay Lightning, the back-to-back winners of the Stanley Cup the last two years, and a team that knocked the Rangers out at the same juncture in the 2015 playoffs. They are the Rangers bête-noire.

But this lineup is not 2015, and the coach is not the same. Gerard Gallant might just be the Mike Keenan who gets the Rangers into the finals and wins. 

When my wife and I finished dinner last night a little after 7:00 I gave my talking head commentary: The Rangers have to score early, and often to throw Carolina off. They can't let them get the lead. The Rangers of course did this when they scored a pair of power play goals in the first period to give the Rangers a 2-0 by the end of it. Carolina was never in the game.

Carolina's power play was non-existent. And they took penalties, giving  the Ranger power play a chance to be deadly,  and of course took two minutes away from Carolina's offense. The Caroline coach Rod Brind'Amour looked panicked. The players looked sullen.

I've taken to subscribing to the New York Post because they have an actual sports section and not a section of magazine essays like the NYT's approach these days. There is of course no narrative in today's NYT of last night's game. As Mollie Walker of the Post rightly put it: "The Rangers braved a hurricane. Now they'll have to survive lightning."

Is this the year I get to see the Rangers win the Cup again before I shuffle off this mortal coil? The next round will tell. At least I'm not spending beaucoup bucks to be there. But I wish I were.

Let's Go Rangers.

http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com

The Unflappable Brits

It is something I never gave  any thought to until I read the NYT obituary for Simon Preston, 83, Force In World of Choral Music: pipe organs are hardly portable, and you're the only one in the church playing it. It's a lonely job.

Of course pianos are not portable either, but they are often part of an orchestra with other musicians. So, no pipe organ is getting stuffed in a black carrying case, plopped in a cab or an airplane, and have the musician come through the stage door carrying one. The pipe organ is a very large instrument.

Of course not all organs are pipe organs. Jane Jarvis and Eddie Layton played many a rousing ditty at Yankee Stadium and Madison Square Garden sitting at a console. Their organs weren't portable either, and of course, they were the only ones playing any music at those venues. It's a lonely job.

All this became apparent as I read the obit for Simon Preston. Many people who become famous for their field of endeavor do so because their parents were steeped in it as well. This is true for Mr. Preston, whose parents were worshipers at the local church in Bournemouth, England; his uncle played the organ there; there was a harmonium in his home, and he learned to played the piano when he was old enough to read the psalter (the Book of Psalms); he later dappled with a harpsichord. If Bruce Springsteen was Born to Run, Simon Preston was born to play the organ.

Mr. Preston made the rounds at the top level of organ music in England: Cambridge King's College, Christ Church Oxford and Westminster Abbey, even directing the music played at Westminster Abbey for the wedding of Prince Andrew and Sarah Ferguson in 1986.

Being the pre-eminent organ player in the world, Mr. Preston of course traveled, and played often in NYC at St. Bartholomew's Church, where the largest pipe organ in New York can be found. If Carnegie Hall had a pipe organ, he would have played there as well.

And as is my habit, I look on iTunes for the music of someone who has just passed away that I might be interested in. I downloaded two of Mr. Preston's recordings to add to my iPod that holds many recordings of deceased musical artists of all stripes.

The last word quote from Mr. Preston that closes the obituary neatly sums up the life of a pipe organist who has to travel to his instrument, rather than someone who brings it with them. (I understand Vladimir Horowitz when he came out of retirement in the '60s and played Carnegie Hall, had his own piano brought in.) 

"Actually trying to work the very best of a rather recalcitrant instrument is still fun. It's lonely though. You're on your own. You're a solo performer. There's nothing much around. You can be stuck in some cold cheerless church, or overheated cheerless church, and it can be grim from that point of view.

"But no, I think it's fun."

http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com

Ponk!

I'm hoping there is a special place in heaven for people like me. People who save things, perhaps not necessarily hoard things, but set things aside for what at the moment seems like a good idea.

And further enshrined in heaven will be a hoped for sub-set of those people, the ones who know full well they saved something, cannot find it amongst their piles, but know they have it. So, they keep looking. And are rewarded when they find it.

Along the way through my rabbit hole I came across what was quite appropriately a December 30, 2003 NYT piece written by Robert D. McFadden that I had saved.  Bronx Man Is Rescued From His Own Paper Prison. Mr. McFadden's lede goes: 

A Bronx man trapped for two days under an avalanche of newspapers, magazines and books was rescued by firefighters and neighbors yesterday in a small urban drama that recalled the macabre tale of the Collyer brothers.

The lede of course is pure gold. Anyone who doesn't know anything about the Collyer brothers is in for a good read if they deep dive.  

That poor fellow was a hoarder, so I suffered no such bad luck. So finding the full copy of The New Yorker from March 25, 1967 that I bought on eBay because it contained a priceless Roger Angell piece on New York Ranger hockey makes the day complete. Perhaps more than the day. The euphoria might last a week. I might even forget about the price of gas for a while.

As anyone who reads obituaries knows by now Mr. Roger Angell just passed away at 101 in his home in Manhattan. Anyone who worked at The New Yorker as long as he did surely was not going to be anywhere else but Manhattan when they passed away.

Mr. Angell is a literary legend. Just read the obit and you'll why. He's credited with being a great baseball writer. But does anyone remember the 1967 piece on the New York Rangers, a hockey team that played the game at the time at "Old" Garden on 8th Avenue between 49th and 50th streets, where the cigarette smoke hung in the air by the third period in games the Rangers were more than likely to lose? They weren't every good in those days, and were most often left out of the four team playoffs at the end of the season in the six team National Hockey League. Oh, how things have changed. But this isn't about my memories of going to see those games at the Old Garden with its side balcony admission price of $1.50 (end balcony, unobstructed view, $2.00), it's about Mr. Angell's piece.

I don't know when I originally read the piece. I didn't get The New Yorker. In 1967 I was just out of high school and by then had dropped out of two colleges. I probably started to read the story in a doctor's office, maybe spent the 35¢! to get a newsstand copy, and read the rest of the story in the back of the family flower shop.

I always remembered the story. So, being retired I gave it a go several years ago and tried to find the article again. Research at the New York Public Library, the big guy on 5th Avenue, lead me to microfilm for The New Yorker where I found the story and the edition it was in. I read it. I must have made a copy, but I wasn't satisfied with that. I looked into eBay and purchasing the hardcopy. Success. I forget what it cost me, but it was not 35¢. 

The New Yorker of 1967 played peek-a-boo with its stories. There was no index, so finding the copy of the edition I had to thumb through many pages—with ads for products no longer in existent and hairstyles certainly never to be seen again—until page 128 when the piece appears, built around an inserted cartoon. "The Sporting Scene: The Last Flowers in the Garden." 

Mr. Angell's piece is precipitated by the fact that 1967 will be the last season for the "Old" Garden. A new one is being built atop Penn Station, and will open in 1968. And that Garden is still with us, vastly reconfigured, improved, and now the oldest arena in the N.H.L. It's old, but not the Old Garden.

I don't know how many words the piece is, but it is quite lengthy. After the opening page, the story is continued in a single column layout on subsequent pages, shouldered in by ads. Mr. Angell' name does not appear until the end in true New Yorker fashion.

Mr. Angell's opening paragraphs set the stage for the Garden's unique ambiance. He acknowledges the cigarette smoke: 

"...the cigarette smoke thickening under the spotlights up near the yellow Quonset-siding ceiling..."

He acknowledges the vast variety of events that were held at the Garden (and still now) but the kicker is when he admits, like I would...

"the Garden—to me, at least—means ice hockey first. Hockey and the Rangers.

Memories of games and players follow. One of my favorite players of the Rangers in the '60s was Harry Howell, No. 3, the reliable defenseman described by Angell thusly:

"Enemy bombers arriving in Howell's territory are rarely shot down; they seem, rather, to fly into a wall of wet Kleenex and stick there, kicking. When carrying the puck through a cloud of opposing forecheckers up to the safety of center ice, Howell has the reassuring, mistake-proof elegance of a veteran waiter managing a loaded tray in heavy dinner traffic."

The writing is precise; it is elegant.

Mr. Angell weighs in on the upcoming expansion of he N.H.L. when the league will add six teams to the lineup.

"Television money. as much as with all sports, is what breeds expansion, and I can only dread its further intrusion into this particular sport. Television's prissy eye has always looked quickly away from rowdiness, fights, and the spilling of angry blood by its athletes, and its pauses for commercials will at last lower the pulse rate of this winged game. Hockey will be bigger, duller, cleaner, and duller next year."

Not everything comes true. The game has evolved away from the outright donnybrooks that would see sticks and gloves and players from the bench clutching at each other as they waltzed around the ice holding each others' jerseys, "when the ice suddenly resembled a bombed glove factory." 

If anything, the game is faster, the passing crisper, and with the added five feet behind each net, and allowable two-line passing, has evolved into the desired European hockey of constant motion. There are far fewer whistles these days, and less freezing the puck along the boards waiting for a whistle to stop play. Play continues. Play-by-play announcers are sometimes left breathless because there haven't been stoppages.

Some of the best word portraits are of Emile Francis, (The Cat), the general manager and coach of the Rangers who just passed away. "Emile Francis was a goalie playing for 14 years, mostly in the high minors..."

Francis, the builder of this team is a small wiry intense man, whose pale face bears only a few reminders of the two hundred and forty stitches, the five-times-broken nose, and the eighteen lost teeth of his playing days. (The expanses of empty gums visible at any N.H.L. practice session would electrify a denture manufacturer.

Francis was a sergeant in the Canadian Army at the age of sixteen, and during one practice session in January I heard him deliver a ten-minute oration to the ranks that matched, in vocabulary and high-register breath control, anything I encountered during a lengthy stretch under several famous parade-ground Ciceros.

But it is the game itself, played in the confines of an arena with pillars, balconies, obstructed views, and a closeness to the ice that cannot be achieved with modern bowl design that Mr. Angell recreates the festive atmosphere. In closing...

All of us there, between our own roars, will be adding almost to the last and surely the best flowers of our Garden bouquet: the bright balloons batting from hand to hand in the end promenades between the periods; the organ wheezing out the "Mexican Hat Dance;" the wintry electric slither of skate blades; and the sudden cry of "Ooo!" as a puck flies past the home goal and strikes—ponk!—against the glass and bounds away, and the Rangers, fortunately, gather it in and fly up the ice.

Remember that sound the next time you're at a game. Remember Roger Angell.

Ponk!

http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com

Renting the Flag-pole

As in any structured playoff round of games, you only advance if you win your last game played in the round. 

The Stanley Cup playoffs are such a structured playoff that there are 16 teams in the opening round, eight in the quarter finals, four in the semi-finals, and two in the finals. That anyone is left breathing by the time the final rolls around is a testament to youth, physical endurance, and lots of air travel. 

It is possible a team can go 7 games in each round, thereby playing 28 games in postseason in addition to the 82 in the regular season. That's 35%, over one-third if you need help with the math. No wonder it's called ESPN. Entertainment...Sports...

It is also a testament to the fans who can afford to attend the home games of their team as they advance through the rounds. The prices keep going up like a helium balloon that some kid let go. I don't remember the cost, but by the time the Rangers reached the 1972 finals and I was in attendance, I had probably spent some good money for the two seats I had as a season ticket holder. And in 1972 there were only eight teams that were bracketed for the Cup playoffs. Now there are 16! teams.

I wonder if my memory will hold onto the Rangers beating the Penguins after being behind 3-1 in the series, winning three straight games and capping it off with a win at home in overtime? And that Folly Floater that but them ahead late in Game Six! 

Right now, any advancement in the playoffs has me thinking that I might have to ask my neighbor who is an Islander fan, if I can rent their flag-pole and let the Ranger flag flap in the breeze like she did the Islander flag when the Islanders reached last year's semi-finals.

She's a single mom who grew up with the Islanders when they pulled off their Stanley Cup streak of four, so naturally she's an Islander fan. Last year she'd prop a television on her patio and curse rather vigorously at the telecasts. My wife got the biggest kick out of it.

After the first two games against the Carolina Hurricanes I'm thinking I may not be asking her for her flag-pole rental. You can lose any first game, but you can't lose the second game, not when you have power plays galore and still can't score.

I went to sleep after last night's second period convinced the Rangers were going to get blanked, and they did. Right now, this series reminds me of the finals in 1972 when the Ranger lost the first two in Boston but roared back in the third game at he Garden, which is still memorable to me, as much for the win as for the fact that my father came to the Saturday night game.

Boston's Derek Sanderson, a great penalty killer who would later become a Ranger, was a fight instigator of the first degree. He took some runs at the Ranger goalie Giacomin, and the place went NUTS! In that era, there was no third-man-in penalty, and benches could clear. And with Sanderson acting up, they did. It was gloves, stick and players everywhere. My father was worried they'd never get the game started again.

They did, and the Rangers won, but then lost the next game at home to fall behind 3-1 in games and limped into Boston for the 5th game, which to everyone's surprise they did win, shooting the puck high against an aging Jacques Plante in goal if I remember correctly. But they didn't win the 6th game back at MSG. So, we all got the see the cup being paraded around Garden ice, but in Boston's hands. It is VERY shiny. Sucked. 

I wonder if Sam Rosen, the New York Ranger announcer will get to call any more Ranger games this year due to contracts with ESPN. In 1994 Sam intoned the never to be forgotten, "the waiting is over" when the Rangers finally disposed of the Vancouver Canucks in Game 7 at the Garden in the final.

That was an astounding 28 years ago, and shows you just how hard it is to get to the finals again. Both my daughters were still in school and living at home. Now they are both married and over 40. The Rangers were last in the finals in 2014 and I don't think I remember a damn thing about the series, other than I seem to remember the Rangers lost home games and you can't lose home games and expect to win.

I don't remember Eddie Olczyk was with the Rangers then. Every time I see Enzo handicapping horses on NBC racing telecasts I always think of him with just the Black Hawks.

Will the Rangers prevail and pull it out against the Hurricanes? Will I get closer to asking the neighbor if I can fly a Ranger flag from their flag-pole? Come to think of, I'd have to buy the flag first. I have my own flag-pole, but it's one of those that juts out from the side of the house. Hers is a real tall, hoist the flag up the pole, pole, standing front and center in the front yard, usually flying Old Glory.

Please. Let's go Rangers.

http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com

The Wobblies

The Assembled returned to Belmont yesterday after a hiatus that started last October. The place is under construction at every juncture, and reminds me of something that they used to say about NYC: It will be nice when they finish it.

The third floor is again closed off. There is a huge section of the second floor walled off by Sheetrock. I have to think that perhaps NYRA, flush with some UBS Bank money for building the Islander arena in their backyard, is embarked on a program of making the place looking like a sporting place you want to be at. They've already built a so-called horsemans' and owners' lounge on the second floor complete with heavily padded lounge chairs.

The parking lot is freshly paved, and it looks like they are reconfiguring a Hempstead Avenue entrance. There are scant places to get anything to eat of drink. There are no water fountains, and maybe because of Covid that's not a bad idea. Johnny M. brings his own lunch and managed to buy a bottle of water in an obscure corner of the first floor, The Belmont Café I think they call it.

Bobby G., who needs something to eat, did find the famous Harry M. Stevens clam chowder at the same Belmont Café for $8, a price he was willing to pay. However, the Bulgarians must be in the kitchen because he said he couldn't finish it. It was too salty, and too peppery. He says he left half of it. So much for playing with the recipe.

I remember getting an email a few years ago showing some proposed drawings and asking if I'd like to come in and comment. I didn't take them up on their offer, but hopefully, their designers will put something together that makes the place look like a place you want to place a bet in. Right now it looks like a tired old NYC OTB parlor. The seats on the second floor show different colors for replacement seats. Jose B. scooped up a discarded Churchill Down ticket from Friday. Why was there a discard ticket from Friday still there? (Jose B. fed it into the betting machine just in case. It was a loser.) 

Perhaps to management's credit, there were actually TWO clerks manning windows on the second floor. Other than that, you were on your own with self-help wagering, something we've gotten used to, even shoveling hard currency into a machine to buy a voucher. Talk about trust. Bobby G. stays in his seat and bets on his phone, saving the grind of going up and down the steps.

The second floor was never a viewing place of our choice. I've spent decades watching races from Belmont from the third floor, a vantage that brings you a little closer to the finish line because you overlook the unused boxes, rather than sit to the right of them. I don't know about the others in the group, but watching the races from the second floor makes me feel like a displaced homeowner who has to go to the high school gym because the creek is rising. I feel out of place.

But, the results are the same from either floor, and for myself, Johnny D., the results were not good. After hours of pre-care handicapping at home on Friday afternoon and Saturday morning, no winners were picked in 11 races. Nada. Zip. Some close second place finishes, that put me on the wrong side of the wire, but no payoffs when you bet win. Such is life. You win some, and lose most.

The four members of The Assembled have always been two octogenarians, one septuagenarian and one sexagenarian, who is now freshly retired. So, all members are now retirees. No more W-2s. It's 1099-Rs from here on in for all.

As you might expect with a group of guys who are already long in the tooth, and one who is quickly joining them, some of the conversation briefly centered on medications. For a while there, we were ads for the evening news. But not for long.

We all exhibited a bit of wobbly gaits. The most senior member, Bobby G., remembers Jamaica racetrack AND Pearl Harbor. There's a continuity of going to the races there that we the others have yet to achieve.

No one had a winning day. But at least three members other than Johnny D. had cashable tickets. Jose B., who sprays $20 in bets across a race like buckshot, did hit a $118 $1 exacta, pretty much because he bets 1/7 exactas for some obscure numerology reason. He does make some ungodly hits for unknown cosmic reasons.

The day started showing off why Linda Rice is perennially at the top of the trainer stats. A thoroughly bettable Safalow's Mission cruised home in a 6f Maiden Special Weight race and paid $16.60.

The third race was the first race to predict how Johnny D's day was going to go with noses. Frank's Rockette was chosen over anything to do with Rudy Rodriguez's Bella Sofia, a talented filly now making it's 4-year-old debut in the 6½f Grade 3 Vagrancy Handicap  at 2/5, after banking $592,600 last year in a 4 for 6 record that saw victories in the Gallant Bloom and the Test. The horse's season finished with a credible fourth in the Breeders' Cup Filly and Mare Sprint behind Ce Ce, Edgeway and Gamine. Formidable company.

Frank's Rockette, ridden by Flavian Pratt gave it to Bella, but was just passed right before the wire to lose by a nose. Pratt went on to win 4 races on the day, but couldn't bring home the upset I didn't to feel good about myself.

The next Stakes race on the card  was the Runhappy, a Grade 3 6f sprint for older horses was won by Drafted that paid $8.60. Again, Johnny D. finished second with Chateau, with Kendrick Carmouche riding. Kendrick is a noted fast break jockey and this is what was counted on, getting the front-runner out of the 1 hole. And Kendrick did not disappoint. He was two lengths in front at the bell, seemingly beating the gate. Shot from a cannon. To no avail for me.

The next disappointment was the Grade 1 Man O' War, a 13/8 turf race that was once held in October, won by such turf stalwarts as Czar Alexander. Back in the day, as they say.

The field was reduced to 5 when So High was scratched. This era's turf stalwarts were entered, basically Godolphin's Yibir, winner of the Breeders' Cup Turf with a trouble line comment of "circled, full of run." Yibir apparently is a high mountain pass in the United Arab Emirates. Hard to think of mountains in the UAE.

Yibir's last two starts this year were seconds in Newmarket, Great Britain, and Meydan, United Arab Emirates. The horse is trained by the globe-trotting trainer Charlie Appleby and was ridden by William Buick, from across the pond.

The two seconds earned by Yibir padded the 4-year-old gelding's already substantial earnings by an astounding $1,230,806. So, going into this year's Man O' War, Yibir had earned $4,126,386, also an astounding number.

The Closer Look blurb in the Racing Form told us: "any horse than can win in England, Belmont and Del Mar in consecutive starts is a flat-out star."

Yibir usually gets off to slow starts and trails the field. When there is a field of 5 dominated by an odds-on horse like Yibir, going off at 1/2, I make a 10¢ Superfecta Box bet with 4 horses, leaving Yibir out, hoping for a real upset, and another 10¢ Superfecta Box leaving the longest shot on the board out, in this case the 5 horse Highland Chief.

I've won before this way, and payoffs can be lucrative especially if the odds-on finishes last (not usual) OR, finishes worse that first, as often happens. The whole bet cost me $4.80, and gives me skin in the game against a formidable favorite.

The other millionaire horse in the field was Gufo, trained by hall-of-famer Christophe Clement. Gufo's lifetime record of 15-8-2-4 had him winning $1,360 030, with a recent victory in the Grade 2 Pan American at Gulfstream in April by a comfortable two lengths, with a trouble line comment of, "inhaled leader." Colorful, no? 

The gates opened, and Yibir almost seemed to fall down, quickly trailing the field by 5-6 lengths.  The chart tells us he hit the side of the gate. Was this was going to be my astounding Superfecta? As they passed in front of us for the first time, my Superfecta of leaving Yibir out was headed into the Clubhouse turn with Yibir struggling to gain traction and running last. Could this be the finish I needed?

Yes, until it wasn't. The longest shot, Highland Chief, trained by no less than Graham Motion, ran to the front, pulled away, and scored at 19-1. The horse had won a total of $12,883 in two starts in the last two years! The horse had a dreadful finish this year at Aqueduct, finishing 9th in a 12 horse field in a non-winners-of-two Optional Claimer. This horse did not show the same ability as Yibir and Gufo by any stretch of the imagination.

But Graham Motion is like Michael Dickinson in getting a horse ready, (remember Da Hoss?) and the obscure trainer stat of winning 25% of the time with horses with over 180 day layoffs (6 months) was a telling stat for a trainer now only hitting at 16%. Still, there was a decent reason the horse was sent off at 19-1. But, if you wanted a long shot, you had a capable one looking at you.

Yibir threatened gallantly in the stretch, with William Buick showing off that distinct European riding style of lifting of off the saddle, whipping furiously, to no avail. Yibir finished third, a neck behind Gufo who was a length behind Highland Chief.

A boxed Superfecta that leaves off the winner will never pay off. Highland Chief was ridden by the American Trevor McCarthy, who had the mount for Graham Motion in the horse's last start that earned a trouble line of "pinched start; no impact."

Maggie Wolfendale, doing the interview with Trevor as he's riding back toward the winner's circle, commented that this was Trevor's first Grade 1 win. Trevor was understandably beaming.

The next-to-last stakes race on the card was the Peter Pan, a 11/8 Grade 3 race long considered a prep for the Belmont Stakes.

Due to Belmont's massive configuration of being a 1½ mile track, the 11/8 race is a one-turn affair. Despite the one-turn aspect of the race, the timing of the race, four weeks before the Belmont, makes it a perfect prep for the Belmont Stakes: a decent distance, and a race over the surface.

The Peter Pan is supposedly where the connections for Rich Strike were headed if they didn't crawl into the starting gate at the Derby as the 20th replacement. Since Rich Strike won the Derby, the connections have decided that the two week interval between the Derby and the Preakness is too short to race in. So, they say they are holding the colt out for the Belmont.

Maybe. There are those who was betting they won't even run in the Belmont, but will instead head for the breeding shed, since it is not felt that can duplicate another win against this crop of 3-year-olds. We shall all see. Plenty of time to come up with an excuse for skipping the Belmont. Racing is filled with excuses.

Given that the Peter Pan is such a middle prep for the Belmont, the field is usually full of lightly raced talented 3-year-olds who have just won their maiden race in impressive style. The owners and trainers are high on their continued prospects for a lucrative 3-year-old campaign. They have yet to disappoint.

The sale price of some of these colts reflect very optimistic, and well-heeled ownership. Electability, (my choice) is a Chad Brown/Klaravich horse ridden by Irad Ortiz. The Quality Road sire fetched a sale price of $300,000. Seth Klaravich has deep pockets.

Complete Agenda was a $250,00 purchase by Mike Repole, another major played these days as an owner. The Curlin sire makes it no slouch. Curlin is the leading 2021 sire of Grade 1 winners with five.

We the People, sired by the reliable Constitution (get the name?) is co-owned by WinStar, another deep pocket stable that shelled out $230,000 at the sale.

And then there was Golden Glider, a $365,000 sale purchase by Ghostzapper, co-owned by Gary Barber that's been playing in the 3-year-old campaigns with limited finishes.

Electability ticked all the boxes for me, so I upped my win wager. The running if the race was no disappointment. Until it was.

Electability was doing well, scooting right behind We The People's pace setting. But We the People hit the afterburners at the top of the lane and pulled away, exploded really, to a 10 length victory! in a decent time of 1:481/5, considering the soft early fractions. An impressive performance that will easily stamp the horse as a favorite/co-favorite for the Belmont Stakes.

Today's telecast of Racing Across America has Andy Serling telling us We the People earned a 103 Beyer, an impressive number. Andy of course downplays any excitement by telling us wet/sealed tracks often produce inflated, runaway numbers. Maybe. Andy for sure didn't play the horse.

The 5/14 date for The Assembled to assemble was chosen not because of the weather (rain was expected, and it did), but because it was right after the Derby. It did drizzle enough that the tractors came out with weights behind them to press the surface down and seal the wet track. The phalanx of six tractors making their way around the track had the look of invading tanks.

We The People was one of Pratt's four winners. You never really realize how well a jockey is doing on the day until the day is over. And Pratt won the 11th Race with Finest Work, at nearly 8-1, paying $17.80. Winning four races for a jockey for some reason is called an Ecuador. Five is a Golden Sombrero. Why? Have no idea.

The 10th race proved that any time the sun comes up Chad Brown is going to win a turf race. The 1 horse, filly Rougir ridden by Flavian Pratt, gave Chad the win for his major clients of Peter Brant and Michael Tabor.

The 10th race was the last of the five stakes races, the Beaugay, a Grade 3 affair a 11/16 on the turf for older fillies and mares.

Rougir was the Morning Line favorite at 1-1, and did not disappoint anyone who had her. She was 3/5, and won like one, inhaling the leaders at the start of the stretch, and winning with ease.

On this afternoon's telecast of Racing Across America Richie, Migliore was interviewing Chad Brown after his second race win on today's card, and Chad explained that Rougir put on a "ton of weight" in the off-season, starting now for the first time since a disappointing 7th at the Breeders' Cup at Delmar in November in the Filly and Mare Turf race. Clearly, the rest was to her liking. The Closer Look comments are, after a long preamble, "the one to beat." You can say that again.

O-fer 11 is disappointing for sure. But the day's surfaces changed with the rain, even as light as it was, and I've never done well on off-track days. The turf today is labeled soft after yesterday's rain.

Will I stop going to the races? Will I stop breathing? Eventually yes, but not stop going to the races. But considering the state of Belmont and its amenity-less environment, I'm more likely to next watch the races on TV in the kitchen with my downloaded Racing Form. Racing is the one sport that is enhanced by watching it on television. I can least get a drink of water easily, and not have to hump up and down even shallow steps. And Acacia Clement is easy to look at and has a brain the size of Canada. (A stolen line from an episode of Silent Witness.)

Listening to Andy Serling can be annoying because he's always telling you the Price is Wrong. But what can you expect from a former commodities broker than someone who is always looking at the board?

So, it's not too likely The Assembled will be assembled again until October. Johnny M. and myself will probably make an outing sooner than that, but by then, I might have to refer to ourselves as the ERs.

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The New York Rangers-2022

There is no story in today's New York Times about the Rangers winning Game 5 of their series against the Pittsburgh Penguins last night at Madison Square Garden, thereby avoiding elimination with a 5-3 victory in front of delirious fans.

The empty-net sealer that was lofted over a defender's head was the ball dropping in Times Square. The place went nuts. Years ago I would have been one of those delirious fans, being a suffering season ticket holder from the late '60s to the late '70s. We did make the finals once, but as the now departed coach Emile Francis commented after losing the 6th game to the Bruins at Madison Square Garden, "Bobby Orr killed us." Bobby Orr killed a lot of teams.

The names of the Rangers are pretty much unknown to me. I remember Chris Krieder as a veteran player, as I do Mike Zibanejad,  but all the other names are who? No matter. The memorial 7 that the players are wearing on their jerseys are for the now departed Rod Gilbert. The hockey players and coaches I remember are now passing away.

Where do all those white towels come from that fans are waving like a shipwrecked someone stuck on an island as a freighter passes by, hoping to be sighted? We didn't have towels to wave in my time.

There's a ban the bomb song from the '60s that goes..."where have all the flowers gone." In my mind, where did all these Ranger fans come from, outfitted in what are not cheap jerseys going crazy? Did their dad take them to a game as mine did when I think my first game was at the Old Garden when The Montreal goaltender Jacques Plante got smacked in the face, went off for repairs, and came back wearing the mask he had been experimenting with in practice. Toe Blake, the general manager and coach of the Canadians was not a proponent of goalies wearing masks, but had to give in. 

When Plante left he ice, there was a somewhat lengthy delay before the game started because in the '50s the NHL didn't dress two goaltenders. Times change. And coaches are not general managers, and there are at least three more assistant coaches behind the players on the bench. And there are iPads to watch replays and diagram plays. There are replays and time outs, and now two referees. There is now advertising on the boards, and on the players' helmets, which they are now required to wear. Not so "back then."

This playoff series is the first for the Rangers in four years. I wasn't aware that they had gone four years without making a playoff round. My fandom is limited to television, when I can remember they're on. Televised hockey to me just never captures the game. The two dimensions of a TV screen, no matter how big the screen is or how high the resolution is, is never as good as being there.

I've been part of a crowd of delirious fans, and interestingly enough the most epic game I ever saw at the Garden was the triple overtime win against the Chicago Black Hawks that also kept the Rangers alive in the playoff round. It was the 6th game of the series, the Rangers miraculously coming out of their losing cocoon after defeating the Toronto Maple Leafs in an overtime win in 1971 in the prior round.

When Bob Nevin scored that goal on wobbly legs I was watching the game at home since the game was in Toronto, and promptly went out and bought a six back at a local bar in Flushing and celebrated by myself at home. I called in sick the next day and went to the racetrack.

When Pete Stemkowski scored the goal in the 3rd overtime against the Black Hawks that night the concession stands at the Garden had already run out of beer. When the second game of the Ranger series against the  Penguins this year the game entered a third overtime as well, it was reported it was the longest game played at the current Garden, a little more than five minute after the start of the overtime.

Huh? Well, how long into the third overtime was it before Stemmer popped one into the net? From  my season seat vantage point in Section 333, Row M, Seats 5& 6, I distinctly remember that just shortly before that delightful goal, Black Hawk defenseman Pat Stapleton was leaving the penalty box. Stemmer's goal wasn't an overtime goal, but it was close.

Imagine being able to read about the game in the next day's paper. It's all there. Imagine a hockey box score. The oxygen in the dressing room, Brad Park quoted as saying he was tied of going back out there, the rebound stuffed in past goalie Tony Esposito after Teddy Irvine's shot, the fans who "bellowed, raised their fists, hugging whoever was close enough, tossing programs toward the roof."

There will be no Gerald Eskenazi byline on last night's game. There was none after the 2nd playoff game when the longest game at the "new" Garden (1968 is hardly new to some people) was played. Yep, it was 1:29 seconds when Stemmer scored. They were right, The 2nd Ranger/Penguin game was the longest in Garden history, since when? Well, it was not reported by the paper of record, a paper that will tell you journalism is the first draft of history. It isn't if you don't write about it.

The 1971 game was the second longest in Garden history when Eskenzai tells us it was 1938 when the New York Americans (yep, there were two New York teams playing at the Garden) defeated the Rangers 40 seconds into the fourth overtime on March 27th, a game that ended at 1:25 in the morning.

The 1971 triple overtime finished at two minutes to midnight (weekday games then started at 7:30). My friend Andy and I spent the next hour celebrating at a Blarney Stone on 33rd Street. I made a 1:20 train home to Murray Hill, and made it into work the next day. I don't think Andy made it in.

I had to make it in to take Derby bets. NYC OTB had just  started in March and I had a phone account from Day 1. One of the women I worked with liked the story about Canonero II and his funny leg and the fact that the was the only horse in the field that had even been in a 1¼ race in Venezuela. She gave me $4 to bet on him to win.

In those days, pari-mutuel racing could only go up to 12 unique numbers in the betting. If there were more that number in the race the longshots were lumped into what was called a "field." However many horses were in the field, you in effect had a bet on all of them since they were all number 12.

The newly formed NYC Off Track Betting (OTB) did not recognize "fields." Every horse was a separate bet. So while at Churchill Canonero II and his three entrymates were morning line 20-1, Canonero II's odds at OTB were soaring. 

When Canonero II won I was happy for Tina, since she was now going to get back $118 when I got the check. But I was worried that telephone betting was going to work and that my account was going to be properly credited. It was. I paid her, and she bought me a book as a thank you that I wish I still had because she inscribed it.

1971 is a long time ago. I'm sure there were plenty of people at last night's game who are as old as I was then. And because they are an entirely different generation, 51 years from now they are not going to wish the NYT had written about the game. They are not used to reading a newspaper, period.

My 14-year-old granddaughter is shown a short news clip in school from CNN for current events. A newspaper has always been in my life, and it's hard to think of their diminished role in being the paper of record.

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The First Saturday in May-2022

Save the date. May 7, 2022. The wedding of Matt and Morgan. Yes, we'll be there, despite its conflict with the Run for the Roses. There's got to be a TV somewhere, right? There was. I was not shut out from watching the race. I was shut out from winning by seeing a horse appropriately named Rich Strike at 80-1 come up the rail, weave through traffic like a getaway car and pass Epicenter in the shadow of the wire, for the second longest price in Derby history, $163.60 for a $2 bet. Such is life.  It's why they call it gambling. 

I had placed some exacta combinations, which were not going to click even if Rich Strike stayed in the barn. But I did bet Epicenter to win, and was calculating my winnings when the horse was in deep stretch and the wire loomed. I was going to win, right? Nope.

But really. A horse that was winless in its last 7 starts, given up on by its breeders at Calumet Farm and offered for a $30,000 claiming price, is not a horse that should win the Kentucky Derby going away on a fast track. Any condition, really. A claiming horse winning the Derby is like a mutt winning Best in Show at the A.K.C. Westminster Dog Show.

Sure the Keen Ice breeding sire gave the horse a Travers winner's pedigree, but there are lots of horses sired by lots of good horses that do absolutely nothing in a race, and nothing in their career.

The last time a claimer won the Derby I think was Charismatic, who had run for a $62,500 tag. I liked his chances that day, but when I mentioned it, my buddy FourstarDave reminded me he had been a claimer, almost as if saying puh-leese, let's get serious here. I backed away from a winning bet, and hardly for the first time. You can look it up. I still think about it.

To add to the improbability of Rich Strike winning the Derby, was the fact that the horse was on the Also Eligible list to get in the starting gate. A horse had to scratch so that Rich Strike could be considered one of the 20 in the gate. And a horse did scratch, Ethereal Road. Rich Strike basically didn't make the cut to be one of the initial 20 to be entered, and had to wait for the possibility that someone ahead of them missed the flight. It happened.

When a horse like Rich Strike wins, horseplayers have a certain logic that protects their handicapping egos. There was no way I would ever bet Rich Strike based on any handicapping angles. There were none. Only hunch players who like the name, the connections, the colors, the last minute-entry circumstances, the number, something personal to hang their hat on, would ever place a bet on Rich Strike, and even fewer of those people who could tell you they truly believed their selection would win.

I'm still amazed the horse wins in the replay.

BTW, the wedding was great.

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O Canada! My Home and Native Land

The way things are going for Mattea Roach, a now 19-day Jeopardy champion these days, Ken Jennings should just have her introduced with a few bars from the Canadian national anthem. Forget the statistical recaps in the introduction. Drop the puck.

On Friday, Mattea answered a question/clue that could only have been written by a White House correspondent who is trying to suck up all the air time at a press conference by asking a multi-layered, cantilevered, dipsy doodle, twist and turn question of the press secretary. Friday's Final Jeopardy question, under the category of Musical Inspirations went:

“Tuileries” & “The Great Gate of Kiev” were 2 of the artworks that inspired this classical work completed in 1874.

Who writes this stuff? Former White House correspondents?

Friday's show was a bit of a nail bitter for Mattea. And we couldn't see it unless you time shifted your DVR to record it as some time early Saturday morning because the network pre-empted both Friday's Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune for more N.F.L. draft nonsense from Las Vegas.

It was sort of a reverse Heidi game preemption. Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune were bumped by a football-related telecast, while perhaps the more popular shows were shuttled into the wee hours of the following day. At least they were seen. When The unfinished Jets-Raider game was cut off at 7:00 P.M. EST in 1968, for the ultra-punctual start of a telecast of the children's story Heidi, the football game was never gotten back to because it was live, and soon climatically over. (The Jets lost.)

The N.F.L. used to consider anything Las Vegas a forbidden zone. It was radioactive. They now embrace it like a long-lost cousin. The N.F.L. draft is a thoroughly made-for-TV event created to showcase football's current crop of draft choices hugging their mothers and showing off designer clothing with outlandish styling and linings.

Maybe the top universities in the nation should showcase their incoming freshman classes in the same manner when the admission letters go out and the acceptance letters are returned. But face it. Nerds are nowhere near as colorful as football players in civilian clothing hugging relatives.

Mattea didn't have it wrapped up by the time Final Jeopardy came around on Friday. If she doesn't get it right, and her opponent in the middle, Julian Glander, gets it right after betting an amount that puts him over Mattea's $17,000, Mattea is sunk.

Drum roll. The second contestant, Terri Huggins doesn't know the answer. Can't even offer a response beyond a blank. Her $800 shrinks to $1 after a $799 bet.

Julian bets $6,001 from his pot of $11,000. If he gets the answer right, his total will be $17,001, a dollar (U.S.) over Mattea's current total. Mattea, not knowing Julian's bet, has to get her total to an amount just over double Julian's total as a defensive maneuver and get the answer right, because of the possibility of Julian getting it right.

Julian answers Swan Lake. Nope. Sorry, that's not correct. Ken Jennings seems disappointed. With Julian's incorrect answer the field is open for Mattea to win unless she bets something stupid and gets it wrong.

Not happening: doing something stupid and getting it wrong. Mattea craftily, and quite conservatively bets $5,001, and gets it right. And what is the answer? 'Pictures at an Exhibition,' a piano suite by Modest Mussorgsky, inspired after visiting an art show, as Ken Jennings informs us.

What kind of person knows the answer to a clue like that? Where did Mattea spend the 23 years of her life? Schools, libraries, museums, concert halls, movie theaters, sporting events, book store displays, marathon binges with TV? All of the above? You betcha.

Game set match. Checkmate. Mattea racks up her 19th win, bringing her total to $460,184, not James Holzhauer territory after 19 wins, but you've got to keep winning to stay in it, and Mattea is doing just that.

The Stanley Cup finals roll around by the middle of June. Perhaps Mattea will still be the champion when there is a 2022 N.H.L. champion. 

They can play the Canadian national anthem and she can drink from the Stanley Cup alongside the captain of the winning team. Stay tuned.

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