POWER JUDGE IN THE FOURTH AT AQUEDUCT

Towards the end of fourth grade, the assistant principal came into our classroom with a little boy. Most of us guessed that he was the brother of a classmate or a misguided first grader in route to the principal's office. Instead, he was a new student about to be introduced to the class.

In this most awkward of "first-day" moments, every other "newbie" I ever was exposed to was overwhelmed, bashful or scared. But not tiny Fidel Gil (in Spanish, his last name is pronounced "heel"). Belying his size, this kid had tons of charisma to the point of star power. When he spoke to the class, despite his high-pitched voice, he displayed poise and intelligence as he described in refined English, the circumstances that led his family's move to Canarsie from Buenos Aires.

The whole class gravitated to vertically challenged Fidel. We loved his cute little Argentine accent, his adorable ever-happy disposition and infectious personality.

Fidel's charm was supported by a thick mop of curly black hair, chubby jowls and small hands that featured baby-like undeveloped knuckles. He became our class mascot and during recess or after school, Fidel loved being handled. The boys...including myself, liked picking him up, pinching his cheeks or mussing his hair. The girls treated him like a lap dog. They pet him and put bows in his hair. Had he not stopped them, they would have dressed him up like a doll.

The next year Fidel was in my class again. It's unclear why, but he decided to abbreviate his name to Del. I doubt it was to maintain his shortness theme...so maybe he was in solidarity with the area's large Cuban population who hated Castro or wanted to come-off as more Americanized. Either way, our friendship blossomed in September and October. He lived on the other end of the school district but I rode my bike and hung-out with him many times.

When football season got into full swing, it became obvious that Del was disinterested in it. He hated the colder weather outside and because he was foreign, he had no idea of the rules or how to play. At first, he tried but it was frustrating and embarrassing that he couldn't compete. Soon, he expressed a specific desire to NOT get involved. Unfortunately for our friendship, sports was an important part of my life. Therefore the luster of Del's novelty began to wear thin. In the heart of the winter, it got dark early and was too cold to bike to his house. We remained close in school but spent nearly no other time together.

When it warmed up, I found out he didn't want to play baseball either. We drifted apart. In sixth grade, we were in different classes and fell out of touch. In the summer before seventh grade, (1967), his family moved. It would be eleven years later when I bumped into him one last time.

In the mid-70's, a few doors down from the infamous Tip-Top Diner and three blocks from Lundy's, my favorite restaurant in the world, was the Davy Jones Bar. Located in Sheepshead Bay, across the street from the picturesque flotilla of party (fishing) boats on Emmons Avenue, Davy Jones was a popular Brooklyn watering-hole when I was in college. On weekend nights, you could count on the place being so packed that you could barely move.

FOR PICK-UP ARTISTS, THE SECLUDED ROW OF PARTY BOATS WAS A GREAT SPOT TO MAKE-OUT. THAT IS IF THE PRESUMABLY DRUNK GIRL COULD OVERLOOK THE POLLUTED WATER AND STENCH OF DEAD FISH.

Somewhere along the way, the bar changed hands and was re-named Captain Walter's. Among my crowd of stubborns, it was and still is referred to as Davy Jones. Aside from the name, the biggest (only?) change was to bring in live performers during the week. My favorite was an acoustic guitarist named Harry Maddox. We liked Maddox so well, on many occasions we traveled to another bar, Gantry's Tavern near St. John's University to hear him.

Harry closed each gig with his signature song, "THE ROLLING STONES" smash, "SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL." It was an especially big crowd-pleaser because he trained his audience to replace the doo-ta-doo chorus by singing out "F*** YOU!" Ah yes, you can't put a price-tag on the sophisticated, high-level of entertainment we Brooklynites demand.

In March 1978, during my Jameson chased by Heineken phase, I sat at the bar on a snowy, raw and windy Thursday night. Harry was between sets so it as fairly quiet when I felt a tap on the shoulder and heard a baritone voice say, "Hey Steve." I turned around and some pudgy guy stood there grinning. I didn't recognize him. I'm usually good with faces and I wasn't drunk but still, I drew a complete blank. Before I could say you must have me confused with somebody else...he said, "It's me Del, Fidel Gil."

After we hugged, he sat down and drank with me. He said, "I moved to Miami in seventh grade. I got a bimmie-job at Hialeah race track and quit school. After I while I decided to become a jockey." He was now my height and heavier than me so I said, "Really?" "Well," he sighed, "I sort of filled-out. When I was seventeen, friggin' puberty came out of nowhere and hit me hard. But I stayed in racing and now I work as a groom at Aqueduct." Later when the booze took effect on him he whispered, "On Saturday, the fix is in! And the smart money is on Power Judge in the fourth. He'll probably go-off at ten-to-one. It's the feature race...you can even watch it live on TV."

THE FLAMINGO FOUNTAIN AT SOUTH FLORIDA'S LANDMARK THOROUGHBRED HORSE RACING VENUE; HIALEAH PARK . THIS ONCE-BEAUTIFUL AND WORLD RENOWN RACETRACK HAS FALLEN INTO RUIN AND HAS NOT HOSTED AN EVENT SINCE 2001.

Early Saturday afternoon, together with my current FACEBOOK friend AK and another long lost buddy, we went into the OFF TRACK BETTING parlor on Rockaway Parkway. Without trying to insult MRDIMES or any other of my horse racing readers, OTB was filthy, smoky and disgusting. In the short time inside, I saw a cockroach vomiting. The only thing that separated OTB from a New York subway station waiting room was that the cloud of intense body odor there was actually worse than the subterranean stink of stale urine. I was so grossed, that to avoid getting the streets dirty, I wiped my feet before leaving.
I COULDN'T FIND AN OTB PICTURE THAT CAME CLOSE TO CAPTURING THE NAUSEATING AMBIANCE AND CHARACTERS THERE IN '78...TO LAS VEGAS' CREDIT, I SAW SIMILAR LOW-LIFES IN SUCH RACE AND SPORTS BOOKS AS: LEROY'S AND CHURCHILL DOWNS...BUT I NEVER FELT THREATENED.

Maybe it has changed in the last 30+ years but that day (the only time in my life I set foot in an OTB), the scarred, tattered and bewildered clientele looked like homeless, retired extras from the "SOPRANO'S." At that point even though I knew a moth was going to fly out of my wallet, I turned away from an eye-balling skid in an eye-patch so he wouldn't be tempted to jump me outside over the pittance I had left.

At the betting window I saw our horse was going off at eight-to-one. I handed over a five and five singles and said, "Power Judge! Ten bucks on the nose in the fourth at Aqueduct." In a similar way AK followed suit and my other friend said the same thing but three of his dollars was loose change.

We drove back to AK's ground floor apartment on Ralph Avenue. Although it was cold, it was the first sunny day in a long time. From the car, we hurriedly navigated through the mine-field of melting slush. AK acknowledged a few of the senior citizens who crammed benches along the walkway to the main entrance. To me, most of them seemed to be hoping that we'd slip on the ice.

EVERYTHING IS RELATIVE. WITH OUR BIG TEN CLAMS RIDING ON POWER JUDGE'S NOSE, WE WERE GIDDY BEFORE THE RACE AS IF OUR LIVES DEPENDED ON THE WINNINGS!

The steam heat in AK's apartment was stifling. He opened the big living room windows and turned on the TV. When our race started, it was like a typical horse racing movie. The famous race announcer Dave Johnson, named every horse and finished by saying, "And Power Judge trails the field." I was getting hit with the stink-eye and verbal flak about my "sure-thing-tip" when Johnson's next update ended with, "And Power Judge is moving up."

It was like a firecracker exploded in his butt because all the other horses looked like they were standing still. When the racers hit the three-quarter pole, our horse was fifth. But the announcer was concentrating his energy on Power Judge's momentum.

When Johnson roared, "Down the stretch we come!" The three of us were yelling at the top of our lungs as Power Judge flew into third place. In the last furlong, he roared into second. A few lengths from the finish it was obvious that he was going to overtake the favorite. For an instant, the two magnificent steeds ran neck-and-neck. AK broke the tension by screaming, "I can't believe this is happening." As Power Judge surged ahead, the leader horse mis-stepped into his path.  Power Judge was knocked him off stride. After the bump, that stupid interferring horse maintained his speed and cruised to victory.

The horse that had been third nipped us at the wire for second place. AK was the loudest as all three of us repeatedly wailed, "No, no!" With our basketball mentality, we called for a foul. Then our wish came true! In his distinctive voice Dave Johnson interrupted the festivities, "Please hold all para-mutual tickets, there's an inquiry on the board!" At the track, an impropriety like that leads to an investigation.

In anticipation of our victory by technicality, our hearts raced faster than the ponies for the next five minutes. When Johnson finally made the announcement that the winner had been disqualified, we screamed our heads off again. Although Power Judge was indeed impeded from winning, he still finished THIRD not second. After the results were changed, Power Judge "placed" which means he was bumped-up to second place...not first! We bet him to win...so we still lost.

Reality set-in. We started whining and cursed our bad luck. Suddenly there was a knock on the door. It was an old man from the benches outside. He leaned in and tried to look past AK and said, "Everything here okay? Should we call the cops?" AK was deflated and laughed, "Yeah, yeah Jimmy, we're okay. Please, no cops." He shut the door, went to the window and opened the shade. Outside there were about thirty old folks standing, staring and pointing at AK's apartment.

SAY WHATEVER YOU WANT BUT DEL'S INSIDE INFORMATION WAS ACCURATE! AND WE STILL LOST...GEEZ, I COULD'VE USED AN EXTRA EIGHTY BUCKS BACK THEN !

Yes even though it didn't work out, little Del Gil gave me a big memory and it has lasted a life time.