Selin in DRF and an old column
Sunday's Pete Selin Memorial Happy Minute got a mention in Thursday's Daily Racing Form...
Daily Racing Form "Etc." 2/27/07
See previous posts for more details on the event, and check back here next week for a recap and photos.
Here's a column I wrote following Pete's death for the North Adams Transcript, the daily paper where I was living at the time in Western Massachusetts...
Back when I was at the University of Arizona studying the business of horseracing, one of my friends was “non-traditional” student Pete Selin, who died of complications from leukemia last Friday in Venice, Fla. at the age of 52. He was a club owner, musicologist, racetrack publicist and a memorable writer who fell somewhere between Damon Runyon and Hunter Thompson.
On the topic of slot machines at tracks, Pete, a lovable curmudgeon if ever there was one, wrote: “All this extra gaming jibba jabba only makes it sort of pathetic, like some Nora Desmond dowager, eager for the limelight once again, careening into the camera all rouged and smeared lipstick proclaiming, ‘I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.’ Racing’s gone cat daddy; people have just moved past it no matter what the jibba jabba offered.”
When I was in my early 20s, Pete was in his late 40s; that’s why Arizona referred to him as “non-traditional.” I took to calling him “Old Pete,” a response to his penchant for addressing me as “Young Jim.” He would bust out this patronizing moniker when exasperated by my ignorance, usually to something obscure like some Jets linebacker from the 70s or the appropriate strategy for defending a narrow lead in shuffleboard.
“Great jabberin Jaysus!” he’d bellow incredulously while shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re from Louisiana and you don’t know who Boozoo Chavis is? Oh, Young Jim, you have so much to learn.”
When something sparked Pete’s interest, he attacked it and absorbed everything there was to know. He had hundreds of CDs and tapes of musicians from Texas and Louisiana. He also kept a three-inch green binder jammed with clippings and notes on race fixing. If you ever wanted to know about Sylvester Carmouche, an infamous Cajun jockey who once hid his mount in a roux-thick fog at the top of the stretch before jumping out to win by 21 lengths, Pete had a file on him more detailed than any at the Louisiana Racing Commission.
Pete’s contagious joie de vivre never faded with age. Especially vivid in my mind is the night he tried to get me to drive from Tucson to Las Vegas at 4 a.m. At the time this was the stupidest idea I’d ever heard. It would take more than seven hours. I was tired. I had no money. We had class that morning. I made a bet with Pete and two other friends that they wouldn’t even make it to Casa Grande, let alone Phoenix.
After class the next day I listened in disbelief to a jubilant voicemail from my buddies, laughing the elated laughter of people drunk on audacity as they held the cell phone up to a bank of chiming slot machines. Pete was kind enough not to start the message with a pitying “Oh, Young Jim…” In this case, I already knew I missed out.
Before Pete fell in love with racing—“when I didn’t know the difference between a stakes race and a steak sandwich,” he’d say—he was a successful club owner and manager in Texas. In Houston, he ran joints called Club Hey Hey and The Bon Ton Room. He booked hundreds of shows and hung around accordion players like Boozoo.
But once he had enough of the nightlife, he had no problem following his muse. Just a couple of years after seeing his first live horse race, he moved west to go back to school and learn all he could about a complex and unpopular sport. He wasn’t scared to leave behind his friends and a secure life back in Texas. He wasn’t scared of being the oldest man in his class. He wasn’t scared of the prospect of an entry-level job after graduation at 47. He just wanted to be part of something new and exciting to him, so he did it.
There won’t be another opportunity to drive all night to Vegas with Old Pete, but there will be other chances for me to heed his lessons and live for the moment. If and when I should meet St. Peter by the pearly starting gate, I don’t want him to shake his head and say, “Oh, Young Jim, you have so much to learn.”
Daily Racing Form "Etc." 2/27/07
See previous posts for more details on the event, and check back here next week for a recap and photos.
Here's a column I wrote following Pete's death for the North Adams Transcript, the daily paper where I was living at the time in Western Massachusetts...
Back when I was at the University of Arizona studying the business of horseracing, one of my friends was “non-traditional” student Pete Selin, who died of complications from leukemia last Friday in Venice, Fla. at the age of 52. He was a club owner, musicologist, racetrack publicist and a memorable writer who fell somewhere between Damon Runyon and Hunter Thompson.
On the topic of slot machines at tracks, Pete, a lovable curmudgeon if ever there was one, wrote: “All this extra gaming jibba jabba only makes it sort of pathetic, like some Nora Desmond dowager, eager for the limelight once again, careening into the camera all rouged and smeared lipstick proclaiming, ‘I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.’ Racing’s gone cat daddy; people have just moved past it no matter what the jibba jabba offered.”
When I was in my early 20s, Pete was in his late 40s; that’s why Arizona referred to him as “non-traditional.” I took to calling him “Old Pete,” a response to his penchant for addressing me as “Young Jim.” He would bust out this patronizing moniker when exasperated by my ignorance, usually to something obscure like some Jets linebacker from the 70s or the appropriate strategy for defending a narrow lead in shuffleboard.
“Great jabberin Jaysus!” he’d bellow incredulously while shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re from Louisiana and you don’t know who Boozoo Chavis is? Oh, Young Jim, you have so much to learn.”
When something sparked Pete’s interest, he attacked it and absorbed everything there was to know. He had hundreds of CDs and tapes of musicians from Texas and Louisiana. He also kept a three-inch green binder jammed with clippings and notes on race fixing. If you ever wanted to know about Sylvester Carmouche, an infamous Cajun jockey who once hid his mount in a roux-thick fog at the top of the stretch before jumping out to win by 21 lengths, Pete had a file on him more detailed than any at the Louisiana Racing Commission.
Pete’s contagious joie de vivre never faded with age. Especially vivid in my mind is the night he tried to get me to drive from Tucson to Las Vegas at 4 a.m. At the time this was the stupidest idea I’d ever heard. It would take more than seven hours. I was tired. I had no money. We had class that morning. I made a bet with Pete and two other friends that they wouldn’t even make it to Casa Grande, let alone Phoenix.
After class the next day I listened in disbelief to a jubilant voicemail from my buddies, laughing the elated laughter of people drunk on audacity as they held the cell phone up to a bank of chiming slot machines. Pete was kind enough not to start the message with a pitying “Oh, Young Jim…” In this case, I already knew I missed out.
Before Pete fell in love with racing—“when I didn’t know the difference between a stakes race and a steak sandwich,” he’d say—he was a successful club owner and manager in Texas. In Houston, he ran joints called Club Hey Hey and The Bon Ton Room. He booked hundreds of shows and hung around accordion players like Boozoo.
But once he had enough of the nightlife, he had no problem following his muse. Just a couple of years after seeing his first live horse race, he moved west to go back to school and learn all he could about a complex and unpopular sport. He wasn’t scared to leave behind his friends and a secure life back in Texas. He wasn’t scared of being the oldest man in his class. He wasn’t scared of the prospect of an entry-level job after graduation at 47. He just wanted to be part of something new and exciting to him, so he did it.
There won’t be another opportunity to drive all night to Vegas with Old Pete, but there will be other chances for me to heed his lessons and live for the moment. If and when I should meet St. Peter by the pearly starting gate, I don’t want him to shake his head and say, “Oh, Young Jim, you have so much to learn.”
posted by Jimbo @ 2/28/2007 05:53:00 PM
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