| dellinger63 |
05-12-2015 10:06 AM |
Although taking a bit of a tangent I thought this thread may be an ideal local to re-post a description, by DT's own Satan's Twin, of the 'jewel' of the Midwest, known as Hawthorne Park.
Quote:
Oh, pish posh, sir. Enough of this blasphemy. How dare one besmirch this winter palace of racing without full consideration of all its treasures. Where else but this crown jewel will the diligent horseplayer find all that he seeks, requiring only warm clothing, a strong stomach and, on most occasions, a fully loaded weapon.
Consider the sensory overload of the Hawthorne experience. First, the unparalleled skyline of Stickney, Illinois, resplendent in towering smokestacks, billowing mammouth clouds of industrial glory for all to inhale and savor. If not ingesting the rich blends of sulphates and ores, it is hard to ignore the toe-tapping serenade abounding from the adjacent Stevenson Expressway or nearby Midway Airport. Be it the roar of a departing jet or the wafting aromas from the nearby filtration plant of the Chicago Sanitary District, the sights, smells and sounds of Hawthorne is like none other.
Besides the idyllic, park-like conditions of the surrounding areas, one never tires of the interaction with those quaint railbirds one finds at HRC. Oh sure, on the walk from the parking lot to the grandstand, you may see the occasional wheel-chaired bound patron hopelessly stranded in a snow drift, but if you divert your eyes quickly enough, you're just as apt to see local legend Sun Tan Tommy, clad stylishly in a t-shirt, shorts and flip-flops, hustling to the front door from the Cicero Avenue bus stop, hoping to win enough to buy a seasonal windbreaker, though highly unlikely, since his last big score at the track went for a roll of duct tape used for flip-flop repairs.
On those occasions when temperatures drop to single digits, and the street industrialists working the entrance to the expressway just can't seem to find enough consumers for their packages of white tube socks, they may switch products and hawk hand-packed bags of salted peanuts at the entrance to Hawthorne. Who can resist that heart-tugging sales pitch of that vendor holding a bag of peanuts in one fingerless gloved hand and that Turkish blend we commonly call a Lucky Strike in the other, which he inserts with morbid rapidity into that tracheal hole four inches south of his chin....But aside from the questionable sales presentation, who doesn't fondly link the purchase of a bag of peanuts with some irresistibly memorable experience from one's youth? And who can resist tearing open the bag to bite open the crunchy shell.....to taste the peanuts themselves...........and that lingering taste of the salt...........which is an odd taste of salt............sea salt? Considering the purveyor, I'm going with either.....hand sweat......or, urine?
But the best prize of all is the racing itself. Full fields or five, sometimes six, runners sporting as many as two, and sometimes three, good legs running in memorable four-figured, and on some rare days, five-figured purses!
With such an enviable purse structure, it is no wonder that Hawthorne can attract "the best of the best" for their riding colony. And no truer is that fact demonstrated than when the likes of a racing stalwart like a 'SpongeBob' Eddie Perez heads up your racing colony. There is no bigger thrill in the game today that when seeing that dwarf, clad in a snowmobile suit instead of racing silks during the winter months, ride a 3-to-5 favorite down the stretch for a hard fought fourth place finish. Many are the occasions when I have wondered how the Michelin Man secured a mount at Hawthorne only to be reminded that it was none other than E. Perez pulling the curtain down on yet another promising steed's racing career.
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