by Kerry Dougherty
I read this post on X the other day. It was posted by a school principal.
I wanted to argue. Instead, I reminisced about one of the happiest days of my life.
Here it is:
One morning, in the spring of my junior year, my dad offered to drive me to school. I usually walked the mile or so to my high school, so I eagerly accepted.
Once in the passenger seat my father looked at me with an impish smile: “What would you rather do today, go to school or watch the ponies run at Monmouth Park?”
Are you serious? I screamed.
“Let’s go,” he said. “If we hurry we can catch the morning workouts.”
Then he added: “We’ll stop and call Mom when we’re almost there and let her deal with the school.”
That seemed like an excellent idea. It‘s always easier to say you’re sorry than ask permission.
Here’s what I remember about that memorable hooky day: I ate breakfast with my dad by the sparkling glass window in the clubhouse at Monmouth Park. There were white linen tablecloths, fine china, cinnamon rolls and a spectacular view of the track and the horses.
After breakfast we wandered down to the paddock and talked to some of the jockeys and trainers, getting a close look at the thoroughbreds. The jumpy, the docile, the limpy.
Dad bought me my own copy of The Racing Form that morning and we each grabbed a couple of tip sheets from the touts. Continue reading.
