I told time by the Derby. I wish I could say I was born the year Man ‘O War won, but since he didn’t start in the big race, I couldn’t. A horse called Paul Jones won. I’d tried hard not to be bitter, but being born in the year of Paul Jones got my goat. I made up for it a little bit by my first escape from the Staten Island Home for Hopeless Kiddies. That was the year Reigh Count came home with ease. Lino and me, we got dragged back when the Count took the Saratoga Cup. We spent those few months on the streets of New York City with some newsies, sleeping in alleys under cardboard, eating out of trash cans, learning how to choose the right mark and boost a wallet or two. We learned how to roll a drunk. But nicely. I’ve always had a nice way about me. Lino wasn’t so nice, but being a cop at heart, he felt guilty. Sometimes he’d take the money but find a way to get the wallet and all its pictures and cards and stuff back to its owner. I discovered girls the year Brokers Tip took home the roses. What a race. The two leading jockeys, Meade on Brokers Tip and Fisher on Head Play, punched each other all the way down the backstretch and across the finish line. As a kid, I loved it. Hey. I loved it now. I also loved Rosemarie for about three months.
