The Bettor’s Box

This year I’m pitting my (seemingly negligible) handicapping skills against my 2-year-old son, West. I’m sorry to say that the Watman Family Handicapping contest moves on to the next stage of the Triple Crown thoroughly embarrassed, without a ticket to cash among us. In years past, like when competing against gravity by throwing balls of paper with the runners’ names on them out a window and seeing which landed closest to an appropriate commemorative glass, I at least felt no conflict of emotion. Now, it being my own flesh and blood, I find myself ill at ease. I want him to win one. After all, fate should smile on young handicappers and those new to the sport. They should get a pass and cash a ticket so they can feel the thrill. How are we supposed to interest the next generation of handicappers? How are we to guarantee the sustainability of the sport? No one gets hooked on discouragement, right? That takes a special kind of sickness.