HOPE IN THE HOME STRETCH
REJECTED: FEBRUARY 2008

Primarily because of the two Democrats still campaigning to be President, the country has of late been consumed with thoughts of hope and change. So much so in fact that political watchers and machers alike have, at times, complained about the inherent abstraction of such principles.

Those fretting over the nebulous natures of hope and change would have found solace during a recent mid-week afternoon at the Off-Track Betting parlor located on the corner of Seventh Avenue and 38th Street. There, hope is hardcore, change imminent.

To the uninitiated, the idea that hope burns brightly inside the smudged glass doors might be a surprise. The street-level room of that particular OTB operation is a gloomily lit, windowless home to dozens of closed-circuit televisions — there are eight crammed along but one dingy wall — and not much else. It is roughly the size of an Olympic pool, with the ambiance of a Greyhound bus terminal, minus the charm. Some 75 mostly middle-aged men consult the TV screens broadcasting horse and harness races from across the country, the day's racing forms and occasionally each other. If any of them are winning big they sure aren't blowing their take at the nearby designer suit outlets.

"Nobody does well here," confirms a rangy African-American bettor who appears to be in possession of more cigarettes than teeth.

And yet — against all odds, you could say -- hope, real, visceral hope, blooms. Right there, at one moment, in the corner of the room: "C'mon 5! C'mon 5! C'mon 5!" goes up a heart-clenched wail. "Yeah, baby!"

Entrance to the upstairs Winner's Circle restaurant, or bar, really, costs five dollars, which buys a slightly less dimly lit room, heating, cloth-covered rather than metal chairs and even more manifest hope. The optimism takes a couple of forms. For some there is hope, great hope, that Rockability can somehow overcome 30-1 odds to steal the 3rd race at Laurel Park in Maryland that day. Others save some hope for a change in course of a related matter: the morning papers brought news of the city's plans to close all 61 of New York's OTB branches by mid-June. "We're not in the splitting-loses business, particularly with our money," a rather powerful change agent -- that is, Mayor Bloomberg — was quoted as saying in a page two story in the New York Post.

Mr. Bloomberg is of the opinion that, despite taking in over $1 billion in bets a year and employing nearly 1, 500 New Yorkers, OTB pays the state so much money that it has become a financial drain on city resources. He is intent on shuttering the shops.  Nonetheless, Sal Russo, a 59-year-old personal trainer at the neighborhood's Crunch gym built like a muscular eggplant and wearing a diamond stud in his left ear and a backward newsboy cap, clings to hope. "The rumor is that the state's going to come in and give them the money," Mr. Russo says, not turning away from the Fourth Race at Tampa Bay Downs. (He was referring to the $1.1 million OTB reportedly needs to continue operating past June.)

If you are interested in the latest OTB rumors, consulting Sal Russo is a solid bet. He says he can be found at that mid-town outpost seven days and seven nights a week, often putting in 12 hours a visit. "I try to spend most of my time here because I'm going through a bitter divorce and I'm trying to stay away from my wife," Mr. Russo explains in a way that oddly makes perfect sense. He says he knows all the regulars and by regulars he means everyone else in the room. "That guy over there, in the wool ski cap," Mr. Russo says, pointing to a pale, craggy faced man only a few feet away, "He's here every day. And that guy beyond you holding the cardboard box? Yeah, that box is packed with stacks of hundreds." The cardboard box holder, not amused by the joke, turns and walks away.

At the risk of trampling upon hope, a reporter asks Mr. Russo what he would do instead for those 12 hours a day should Mr. Bloomberg have his way. "If OTB closes down," Mr. Russo says out of the side of his mouth while taking in the action at Gulfstream Park in Hallandale Beach, Fla., "I'll quit working and go back to the track selling racing forms." This is, apparently, what he did for work in the 1970s and '80s. "I have to be involved with this game," Mr. Russo continues, his voice swelling with emotion. "It's my therapy." 

If OTB board Vice Chairman Mike Hess is to be believed, Mr. Russo should hold off on changing jobs just yet. Mr. Hess told the Post he's "still very hopeful this can be remedied."

-Maccabee Montandon