Sports often bring fathers and sons together, and it was no exception for my father and me. Growing up, there were just two sports we seemed to watch together: baseball and horse racing. Though we were both Mets fans, the bond we shared over horse racing seemed to be the strongest.
My first experience of horse racing with my dad was at Aqueduct Racetrack, when we went to watch simulcast racing from Saratoga. A few months later, he took my younger brother Chris and me to Belmont Park, and the only thing I remember from that encounter was when an outrider horse in the paddock, for reasons known only to the equine, licked him from toe to head, stunning Chris and leaving my dad and I roaring with laughter.
But the fondest memories I have of my father, in many ways, were the times he took me to Aqueduct as a young kid in the early 1990s. I’ve been thinking a lot about my father in recent weeks, with The Big A having closed its doors for good. The timing could not be more coincidental; I’ll explain later.
When my dad first began taking me to the track, he was struggling to make ends meet. Every couple of weeks or so, he’d let me come with him to Aqueduct to catch the late double, hoping to turn $10 or $20 into $50 or $60 with a couple of bets.
Sometimes he won. Often he lost. Horse racing is much like fishing; just because you go with a net, rod, and plenty of bait doesn’t mean you’ll land a cooler-full of fish at the end of the day. You just take your chances and make the effort — though, in racing’s case, having a set of past performances on hand is helpful to getting a good payday.
We’d walk into the big grandstand at Aqueduct through the turnstiles, though I would crawl under it as Dad paid. No one seemed to mind; after all, how many 12-year-olds go to the Big A? The interior was often abuzz with activity, a thin haze of cigar and cigarette smoke stinging the sinuses. There was profanity amid the cacophony of noise that came with every race, and I loved it all.
Being back at Aqueduct one final time last Sunday, those memories came back. The track’s glory days were well behind it — a rusting overhang, a cracked apron, a virtually abandoned third floor with busted seats — but it was still alive with the energy of bettors shouting and cheering their horses down the stretch.
Back in the early 90s, Dad and I would watch from the apron, sometimes on a cold, overcast day, and watch the horses run. We would walk down to a point just across from the black-and-white eighth pole. I would strain my neck over the chainlink fence to see the toteboard and the horses run by during the race. And what a sight it was to see them in person go by, the jockeys urging them on down the stretch, hearing the hoofbeats pound the dirt. Television could not do it justice.
My Dad and I would high-five whenever we win, and then we’d head back inside to the cashier line to collect. It was never a big amount; Dad was the prototypical $2 bettor to win, place or show, or “across the board.” He loved daily doubles and the occasional exacta. As I learned myself as a $2 bettor, however, it’s often hard enough to pick one winner, let alone who will come in second, too.
At the end of the racing card, we’d head back to the parking lot for the ride home. When he won, Dad would slip me a $5 bill — a $10 if he really had a good day — as a token of appreciation. That money disappeared long ago, but in some ways, it has always remained with me.
Fathers and sons grow up, of course. Sons go off and do their own thing in their teenage years. I can’t even remember the last time I went to the track with my father and brothers, it was all too long ago.
But my brothers, Chris and Steve, and I were back at Aqueduct on Sunday, June 28, 2026, to help close the Big A down, make one final sendoff and make one more bet for the old man.
Here’s where the coincidence I mentioned earlier comes in; my father died five years ago Monday, June 29, 2021. Almost five years later, his favorite track has moved on into the history books. The timing is truly uncanny.
But in this bittersweet moment, there was joy. My son David came with us for the last card at the Big A. Words cannot describe how incredible it is to share the love of a sport with my son, the same one my father shared with me, at the place where we made so many memories.
While Aqueduct is no more, those memories will remain forever. Hopefully, at the new Belmont Park, other fathers and sons will be able to make such memories, too.
