In two years, greyhound dog racing will end in West Memphis, Arkansas.
It is probably a good thing. Playing the puppies is nowhere near as popular as it once was. Southland Casino Racing makes much more money with its ever growing indoor casino. Animal rights activists have helped to close all but a handful of dog tracks in the United States. A reason track officials in West Memphis say they are keeping the racing going a little longer is to find adoption homes for the greyhounds. If the dogs will get better homes, I am happy for them.
Yet, on a personal level, there will be a part of me sad to see it go.
I did not cross the bridge from my old home in suburban Memphis to the track at Southland that frequently, but when I did, I always felt at home. It was a place that came without any questions. It was familiar. It was comfortable. There were no dress codes.
Going up that long escalator and entering the old concrete concourse was like a time warp.
I think I made my first trip to Southland when I was about 16 years old. I made my last trip their last summer as a middle aged man, but so much of it was the same.
The menu at the concession stand was the same. The only thing they ever had worth buying was a hot dog and a beer, which always came in a see-through plastic cup.
The old red bleachers did not change much. They just got dingier.
The mechanical rabbit was the same. When it came racing around the track to the starting gate, the announcer still said those three exciting words I first heard as a younger man — “HERE COMES RUSTY!”
But, maybe what I liked even most about the place was how the people did not change. I was always one of the youngest people at the dog track. It was mostly old men, many in fancy fedora hats, smoking their cigars and cigarettes, with stacks of losing tickets covering their tables and under their chairs. Each man was so wrapped up in his own day of gambling to not give me a moment’s worth of notice.
When the race began, the old men’s voices would roar to a fever pitch. As the dogs entered the home stretch, the roars got louder and louder, reaching a crescendo. It always ended with a few shouts of delight and many more groans and curse words.
Most of the times I did not speak much when I was there, but every so often I would make a short friendship with one of the older gentlemen.
“Who do you like in this race?” I would ask.
And, then I would get an answer that would make me a true believer. The man would tell me he had a hot tip he learned from the cousin of a friend who owns the kennel the greyhound is from. Or he would show me all the circles and numbers he wrote down on his daily racing form. He would explain his rationale before saying,“This dog is either gonna win it, or definitely come in second.”
And, I believed every word of it!
I would go to the ticket counter, place my money on that dog, already counting my winnings as I walked back to my seat.
Then, the race would start, and it usually would not go well.
Still, my new friend and I did not dwell on the loss long.
In a few seconds, we had turned the page and were studying the next race.
Yes, I am going to miss the old dog track. No matter what else was changing in my life or the world, I could always go to the old dog track and it would be the same.
David W. Healy is the sports editor of the Delta Democrat-Times. He can be reached at dhealy@ddtonline.com
