I Saw Keefer at Derby Lane
It was March of 1986. Lefty Driesell was preparing to lead the Terps into the NCAA tournament for a first-round match up against Pepperdine. How could we know at the time that the two games Maryland played in that tournament would be the last two basketball games ever for the great Len Bias? But for the denizens of Tampa Bay, NCAA hoop was a distant haze on the sports landscape because, at the very same time, a young canine named Keefer was turning the Greyhound racing world upside down. Keefer, as I am sure you all know, was the greatest racing dog who ever wore a muzzle.
Normally, I spent my spring breaks cleaning the toilets and unloading delivery trucks at the Lockwood Dental Company, but this year was different. In collaboration with two of the upper-upper upperclassmen at James Madison, Wales and Little Man, we had put together a solid gameplan for a road trip: freeload off of my brother Timothy and his lovely wife Joan in Tampa for a few days, pick up Queeny at his folks’ place in Boca Raton, then head to Daytona Beach. It is questionable whether JT and Joan (our parents) were aware of phases 2 and 3, but clearly it was a well-conceived blueprint. What we did not anticipate, however, was an intersection with history.
Phase 1 of our trip, naturally, included a night at the Derby Lane Greyhound Track. As soon as we stepped out of the car and into the parking lot of the dog track, there was a buzz.
“O.W. got us some good weed”, I commented observantly.
But there was more to it. As we got closer to the entrance of the track, the buzz had escalated to a resonant electricity. People walked briskly, some trotting. Neon lights on the stadium façade began to glow against the dusk. There were balloons, some dude on stilts, and hucksters selling all sorts of paraphernalia. Forget about March Madness, it was ‘Keefermania.’
As we approached the entrance, we came upon a young lady selling t-shirts. She had wavy dark hair and a small gap between her two front teeth. We immediately recognized her integrity because she was proudly wearing the very product that she was selling. Holding the kelly green shirt aloft, her remarkably large and perfectly shaped breasts pressed against the image of a white greyhound dog emblazoned on the front of her shirt. On the back, in block letters, it read ‘I saw Keefer at Derby Lane’. ‘Keefer’ was written on its own line in much larger font.
She barked in the sweet and charming way that Southern girls can, being heard but not loud: “Aye saw Keefer at Derby Lane.”
Wales was closest to her and paused, standing slightly to her side and in front. Out of the side of his mouth he hissed: “Psst.” Then again: “Psst.” She smiled beautifully, revealing the strangely seductive gap in her teeth, but paid Wales no more mind.
As we moved along, I asked: “Who the hell is Keefer?”
Wales seemed to be somewhere else, but Little answered: “I don’t know, but she’s got some big tits.”
When we got inside, Derby Lane was a madhouse. We jostled for a place in line. Warm beer was served in flimsy translucent plastic cups at a cost that was agreeable unless you wanted to fork over an extra $2.50 for a solid 20oz ‘Keefer Kup’. We were among the most willing patrons, but we opted for the translucent containers in order to maximize our gambling money. Smart.
Luckily, we were able to carve out a home base pretty close to the rail, and we settled in for some heavy drinking and reckless gambling on underfed animals. It should be noted that, in addition to the curvy concessionaire, the people of Tampa Bay were wonderful. We heard things like:
“That fivers from the same litter as Keefer, jump on it, sonny.’
“Wow boy, are you some kind of imbecile?” Apparently ‘imbecile’ was a slang term that Floridians used in the same way that we used ‘badass’ at JMU, just a little more frequently.
“Is that poor man okay?” This was a very considerate question from a matronly woman. She had observed the irascible second son of Picky Keehan during one of the races, a close loss. His vicious grip on the crumpled racing form had caused the veins in his neck and forehead to bulge unnaturally, which of course we are all familiar and comfortable with, but she didn’t know him very well.
Anyway, we quickly settled into a routine. In between races we would take turns going to the window for our own bets, so as not to lose our bulkhead. Whoever went last would place our team trifecta bet and fetch a handful of translucent cups. Conveniently, I was never required to go last, as I was still underage at the time. This system worked out very well, although up until the feature race, nary a ticket had been cashed.
Then it was time. Keefer came next. In consideration of the media throng surrounding the phenomenal Greyhound, the event organizers had allowed additional time prior to Race 10, so we had an opportunity to dig deep into the racing form. After some careful study, Little Man and I sent Wales to the window with the two biggest longshots in the field for our trifecta, the 5 was Johnny Run and the 8, Son of Sam. Wales, of course, would complete it with the great Keefer.
As the race drew nearer, Little Man and I wedged ourselves towards the rail, our remaining beer sloshing precariously near the edge of our flimsy cups. We secured a place and then chugged the rest of our beer.
“Where is Wales?” I asked.
“Who gives a shit.”
The murmur of the crowd rose to a crescendo, then stone silence. Keefer was escorted onto the track. Suddenly, we understood. Keefer was regal. His color belied the breed’s name, it was a very light brown or tan, the breeders call it red fawn. His lean musculature rippled through his perfectly groomed coat. He wore the number 1 on his silk. None of the other dogs’ heads even reached his shoulder, but he held his head high anyway. Keefer was nothing short of magnificent. Possibly the influence of our revelry misled me, but he cocked his head, and I swear the animal was about to speak to me. But then the handler took him to his box.
We leaned against the outside rail as a mechanical rabbit whirred along the inside rail of the track. The P.A. announcer timed the start perfectly with his call: “Heeeere’s Rusty!” Keefer bolted from his box in the lead and never looked back. He almost caught the rabbit. The race was no longer a contest on the backstretch as Keefer cruised to a 15-length victory. Little’s veins bulged anxiously as we waited for the rest of the field to finish. Finally, the 5, then the 8.
The elusive trifecta was ours! We high fived. We hugged. My mind raced uncontrollably at the gravity of it. Maybe dinner at the Outback Steakhouse? Maybe a round of golf somewhere? Light the ‘lotto victory bone.’ Finally, Big Ern is above the law.
At just that moment, as the ‘official’ sign lit up underneath the 1-5-8 trifecta, Wales appeared.
“What’s up boys?”
He was grinning his typical grin and was holding a solitary beer cup, solid green souvenir variety, 20 ounces. In our excitement we did not even notice the slight.
“Did you get it?!” This was more exclamation than question.
Little added, “Our trifecta ticket dumbass.”
“Oh, I didn’t like that one dog, the odds sucked.”
Little Man’s veins popped dangerously close to an aneurysm as he stomped Frankenstein-style towards Wales and growled, “Gimme your neck!”
It is difficult for me to remember the remainder of that altercation. It was as if I had been knocked out cold emotionally. I was crestfallen, in fact, utterly defeated. Maybe I did something to diffuse a brawl, but that is doubtful. Maybe the matronly woman stepped in, or maybe the hottie with a disdain for orthodontia. I just don’t know. I can only recall pieces of the rest of that trip. Wales survived somehow. Pretty sure Leonard dropped 26 on Pepperdine.
But in the larger sense, I was slapped in the face with a stark realization that I will never forget. Some of the oldest maxims are also the truest: Never send a boy to do a Little Man’s job.