The Amazing Greyhound Race

One of Tuesday's election results that has been overlooked because of other, slightly more important matters still deserves some attention. In Massachusetts, amongst the preservation of the income tax and the decriminalization of marijuana, dog racing in the state was banned.

So allow me to share a story with y'all. Last year, three buddies and I embarked on a road trip along a great part of America. The trip, which we dubbed "Three Jews and a Mexican," was memorable, to say the least. In part because we abused the power of the press, but that's a story for another time.

In this instance, we started the morning in Memphis, Tennessee. When we realized we were very close to West Memphis, Arkansas, we figured, wow, we can add another state to our tally. Plus, it's frickin' Arkansas. We had to go.

After a regrettable breakfast in a Perkin's restaurant (which would, later on, send one of our number to a bathroom at Graceland for a good twenty minutes, actually eliciting concern from the media relations guy), we were wondering what to do in West Memphis. I even texted my buddy Michael, who is from Memphis, for advice, but all I got in reply was, "Don't make eye contact."

Then, suddenly, we see a Downs.

Done.

So there we were, three Jews and Mexican, at a dog track in the majestic state of Arkansas.


After taking a picture with a nice man by the name of Dennis Scott, of Clearwater, Mississippi, we went into the Downs.

Like good investors, we immediately descended on the literature, trying to find a good greyhound on which to wager. Our first dog, on whom we placed an extravagant five dollars, lost terribly.

Undaunted, we scoured the pages to find our great champion. And there it was, with a name to match its potential.

DrinkininPhoenix.

Showing prudence and caution, we only bet two dollars on DrinkininPhoenix. He was a longshot, paying at 11/1 odds. With a name like that, however, we were certain we could not lose.

But then they brought the Greyhounds out to show, before they raced. As they paraded them in front of us, we searched for DrinkininPhoenix, to no avail.

Then, we spotted him. Lagging in the back of the pack, in the terminal stages of what seemed to be the mange, and, worst of all, faintly limping.

We resigned ourselves to the loss of two dollars.

But fate would not be so unkind. DrinkininPhoenix turned out to be the reincarnation of Secretariat. DrinkininPhoenix won the race by at least ten lengths, all while we stood on our chairs and yelled for the dog to run, [female dog], run! Good times were had by all.

We collected $25 in winnings at the cage, feeling mighty proud. Of course, we promptly lost those $25 by putting it all on Big Red at a riverboat casino in Mississippi, but that's a story for another day.