Sunday, May 13, 2012

No Horse No Boxer

I hate horses.  This should be no surprise.  I know I've said this before.  Every time I start reading a story or a poem and a horse enters, I stop reading.  Every time I see a picture of a horse, I cluck my tongue and roll my eyes.  I really don't know where my aversion came from.  I do know that it's a pretty strong aversion.

Except for when those horses are set up at the gate and ready to run in a circle and possible win me money.

And so, as the Kentucky Derby fell on Cinco de Mayo, I found myself mixing Crystal Lite Mojito with Bacardi Rum from the freezer, OTB bet in hand. 

I don't choose horses based on the odds.  I refuse to even look at the odds.  I choose horses based on their names.  I chose El Padrino, thinking that it's a Spanish name and Mexicans speak Spanish, so it fit the day.  That's the definition of logic.

Eddie chooses horses based on odds as well as how the name would sound being yelled by the announcer as it came down the home stretch.

Everyone else randomly chose horses based on their own systems.  Everyone else pertains SMM and AF, J and C, and S and R, who we scrounged up at the last minute when Eddie found out he could get a driver for the night.  We threw together some crackers and cheese and called it a get-together.

We watched the race on delay because no one could show up until after 7 and Eddie had to make a trip to Brooklyn and back, so I was on media blackout, not wanting to find out who won before we watched.

We fast-fowarded through the hours of coverage.  We watched the race.  I lost.  Miserably.  My horse, I think, is still rounding the bend to the final stretch. His name didn't even come up once during the commentary.  I had flashbacks to last year's Preakness when my horse had a fever and then didn't want to even get into the gate.  The only difference?  That horse won.

Cutting my losses, we turned to boxing.  Mayweather was fighing Cotto.  The only thing I know about boxing is that the object is to beat the living crap out of someone else.  I understand why you have to be fit to do so, but I don't understand why the point of a sport needs to be to pummel someone.  Why can't they punch the punching bag and judge by the impact?  Or maybe they can each have a crack at the strong man game--just take the booth from the local carnival, put it in the ring, and try to make the bell go ding.  Just a thought.

So we watched the fight and it was filled with swollen faces and Justin Bieber.  That kids is everywhere.  I didn't bet on the boxing match, though.  I'd rather take my chances on the horses.  Maybe I'll eventually learn to like them.

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