A Hoopaholic’s Derby

Posted: May 4th, 2025 | Filed under: Culture, Ruminations, Sports | 5 Comments »

Yes, kids, that’s me wearing my personalized Hoopaholic ballcap.

All day, Derby Day.

Along with a Dr. Gonzo Kentucky Derby is decadent and depraved t-shirt.

As for the quote on the back above the signature of Randall Ave’s Favorite Tormentor, “From that point on, the weekend became a vicious drunken nightmare,” those days are long past*

*But while knocking out this perfunctory, meeting-my-contractual-obligation obligation, I remembered another doozy tale from yesteryore, which I’ll regale you with below.

Adding to the legitimacy of my header: While running errands drizzly Derby morn, I ran into Lancaster Gordon at Costco. That counts, right? Plus upon returning from a post-race pizza run (Wheated, if you must ask, on my virgin trip. Tasty, worthy of being mentioned in same sentence as Pizza Lupo.), my hosts graciously agreed to turn off the local post-Downs telecasting, and turn to the Nugs vs. Clips.

Ya know, enough is enough even for the obsessed, watching folks limping to buses, shoes muddied, fascinators drooping

So, yeah, I was bi-sportal, Derby 2025. Hoops & Horses.

It ended up being my favorite Derby Day in decades.

I am infamously indisposed these days to go to the track. Not a horse player at all. But I do pay attention. And I lamented the soggy weather, because it means so much for so many.

As it turned out my long time pal, New Orleans Marc, a contemporary with achilles tsouris, was going to pass going to the track after two arduous days there. (For the first time since coincidentally around the last time I missed JazzFest, which he introduced me to.)

He was going to be hangin’ at our pal Allen’s abode. Who was also taking a Pasadena on the Downs. So I went over there to savor the day with them and Mr. Bunny, another serious lover of the ponies.

The rest of the crew, Rose, Jill, LA Marc and Milton, who could make some spare change hiring himself out as a James Taylor look alike, forged onward. To the track. Ponchos ‘r’ Them.

In Crescent Hill, it was a fun day. Lots of schmooze. Memories retold for the umpteenth time. Too much to eat.

The vibe shifted an hour before the race. Those guys are serious wagerers. Allen less so, but the other duo, Oh My! Their faces were buried on their laptops, checking the Form, and on their phones, laying down their moolah at Twin Spires.

Allen also was invested. He, in a consortium of 30, each of which threw in a Benjamin, and one of their guys bet the $3 Large on a plethora of exotics.

I noshed. They others finally raised their heads when the TV guys announced the Walkover.

Then the quartet who’d been at the track returned.

So, come race time, I was gathered with my Derby gang of long ago, for the first time in who knows when.

I love watching the race. Fascinated by the whole dynamic.

It was another level entirely for these guys. When Mr. B and NO jumped out of their seats as Sovereignty made his charge down the stretch, it took me back.

They won. Hugely, I imagine. Allen tripled his wager.

And I had my favorite Derby Day in years.

 * * * * *

One actual race nugget that resonated.

Provided some symmetry.

Winning trainer Bill Mott was asked how long has he been dreaming of winning the Run for the Roses?

Since I sat in a GMC pickup truck in Fort Pierce, S.D. and listened to an AM radio call of Proud Clarion winning the Derby in 1967.

Which Derby Day I distinctly recall. The weather was mizzubull. Yesterday was bucolic compared with ’67. Cold. Serious rain all day. Unrelenting. My gang bagged going to the track. Except for our pal Zeke, a Hall of Fame trooper.

Watched the race on TV. Announcer Jack Drees was shredded for blowing the call. He didn’t see the winner’s run until right at the wire.

 * * * * *

As for that additional sordid, decadent and depraved tale from yesteryore.

Must have been mid 80s or so, when I was a prosecutor on the County Attorney staff.

A friend tracked me down at a Derby soiree in the Triangle, an hour or so before midnight after the race. She advised her brother had been arrested, and would I go down to the Hall of Justice where they were holding all day Arraignment Court to see if we could help him.

“What the hell,” I thought.

Besides, that same fellow had asked some legal advice earlier in the week. He’d moved out of town, but returned for the festivities. He had some outstanding bad check warrants. Nervous, he wondered how worried he should be? I thought he’d be safe, given how law enforcement had a lot more on their minds.

Got that one wrong. About par for my legal acumen.

Turns out my friend’s brother ran into the fellow he’d jilted at TGI Friday’s. But the guy told him all was forgiven, and bought him drinks to prove it so. Not letting on that he’d called the police. Who showed up after awhile and took the accused into custody.

I felt a bit of responsibility to see if there was anyway I could help.

After a long day of drunks and whoever being processed, gallows humor prevailed in the courtroom. At least among the officers of the court. The motley, rag tag assembled in the Peanut Gallery were more sullen.

OK, c d, get to the punch line.

Immediately upon my walking into the courtroom, Judge Ken Corey stopped admonishing some t-shirted scofflaw for relieving himself on an infield bush, looked at me across the room, and inquired for all to hear . . .

. . . “Counselor Kaplan, I must inquire. Are you here in your professional capacity? Or, as a defendant?”

— c d kaplan

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