Here Comes Fluffy!

His name was Fred Hill. When I met him as a reporter for the Arizona Daily Star in Tucson, Az., he was in his late 70s, a big man wearing a western cut suit, Larry Mahan boots and a big black Stetson that covered his silver hair.

'Howdy,' he said in powerful Texas drawl. 'Name is Fred Hill. Ahm a cousin to Dizzy and Paul Dean, the famous baseball players. And ahm building a greyhound dog track near Benson. How'd yew like to write a yarn about it?'

Well, that approach grabbed me and we were off and running. We had lunch and Fred gave me an interview. He had made his fortune by leasing land where shopping centers would later be built and selling the land to the developers after buying it from farmers and ranchers in New Mexico and Arizona.

Although he had only a limited education, Fred Hill was an intelligent individual who understood economics. He emphasized the fact that he was a businessman, not a gambler. I scrawled down notes as fast as he talked. When the interview ended, I walked across the street to the newspaper office and talked my editor Vic Thornton into letting me write the story about the new greyhound dog racing track that was under construction.

Greyhound dog racing was not new to me. My younger brother John and I had gone to the dog track in Tucson to bet on the greyhounds. It was a fast sport that was fun, exciting and rewarding if you could come up with an effective strategy to pick the winning dogs.

A greyhound can run up to 60 miles per hour for short distances. Along with salukis and cheetahs, they rank among the fastest animals in the world.

The key to picking a winning greyhound is and always has been early speed and post position.

I began driving out to Benson and meeting with Hill and his two business partners. The grand opening of the greyhound track was scheduled for a Saturday. I showed up at noon and was greeted by a host of dignitaries, including the mayor and members of the city council; a country western band; and a good-sized crowd that had turned out for the festivities and the greyhound races.

Fred had hired an announcer with a gravel voice who would start every race the same way. Greyhounds are trained to run after the fresh scent of the blood of a jackrabbit, which were prominent in those days in Arizona. When the fake rabbit with the blood smell came near the starting gate, the announcer would intone, 'Here comes Fluffy' and the race was on.

I did my best to handicap the races from the program, but couldn't pick a winner. Finally in the fifth race, I was down to my last $20.

I walked up to Fred.

'Partner, it's been a wonderful day,' I said. 'Congratulations on getting your new dog track finished. I'm out of here. I've got just about enough cash to buy some beans and bacon to last me until I get paid next Friday.'

I turned to leave, but the cousin to Dizzy Dean stopped me.

His face turned into a big Texas grin. 'Son,' he said, 'you've done me a lot of favors with your stories. I can't let you leave here in an unhappy frame of mine. Now I'm not a gambler like I told you. I'm a businessman. But if I was a gambling man and I needed to make some quick cush (he called money 'cush' instead of 'cash'), I just might take a flier on that number eight dog and wheel him in a quinela.'

I looked at the odds board. The eight dog was listed at 20-1 odds.

Uncertainly I said 'Are you sure --'

'Better hurry, Son', said Fred, lighting a big cigar. 'Race starts in about a minute.'

I hurried to a seller's window and wheeled the eight dog with every other greyhound in the race. It cost me $14. The eight shot out of the chute like a Chinese rocket and won the race by eight lengths hooking up with a 10-1 shot. The quinela paid $340.

As I was counting out my winnings with a foolish grin on my face, Fred came by and puffed deeply on his cigar.

'Now, Son,' he said in that Dizzy Dean twang, 'I'm not a betting man, but if I was I just might put a bet on that number three dog in the next race.' He winked. The three won at long odds and the quinela returned over $80.

I'll leave you with this piece of advice. If a Texas gambler wants to bet you that a frog can jump over a two-story building and gives you odds, I'd bet on the frog.

Author: Geno Lawrenzi Jr.

(Geno Lawrenzi Jr. is an international journalist, magazine author and ghostwriter. If you have a unique gambling story to share with him, you may qualify for a cash award. Send your story with all the details to glawrenzi@gmail.com ).