The Bettor’s Box

Those of you who have followed our coverage in this paper over the years will remember that I engage in what some might call frivolous handicapping contests against children and forces of nature. Two years ago, I put my handicapping savvy to the test against a 4-year-old neighbor. When the final counts were tallied, I was up 50 cents, and she was in ruin, down $33.25. Last year, before each of the Triple Crown races, I rolled up slips of paper with the runners’ names on them and tossed them out my second-story office window in the direction of an appropriate commemorative glass. Frankly, I assumed, and many agreed, that simply throwing paper balls at a glass would be a more successful strategy for picking winners than professional analysis. Again, when the tickets were cashed and the windows were closed, I was up $12 and Sir Isaac Newton was down $41.