The Basketball Expatriate

by C. Bradford Eastland

  "Daddy, you promised...."

  "Hells bells, 'ow the devil was I s'posed t'know who 'e was!"

  "Thanks for the racecard, though," I said with a straight face.

  "Oh....quite welcome, chief."

  "Bloody men!"

  "We gotta stick together---it's our only chance," I said for his benefit. And I did like the old guy right from the start. But his breath was too much. Sweet and sour, just like my damn father's....so I just had to maneuver Jane between us. And that's the way we walked, with Jane in the middle, down the main path to the Tattersalls Gate. He was sure a cute little guy. His hair wasn't gray or anything, little tufts of light brown were sticking out all over from under the blue stocking cap, but the little red veins in his face looked like my map of suburban London. There seemed to be bunches of fat around the eyes, and for that reason I usually couldn't see them. And his cheeks were fat, too. That was the funny part; his face was the only fat thing about him. Otherwise, he was just like coiled wire. The huge, tattered, charcoal sport jacket covered him like a tablecloth. But it was funny how, of all things, the sleeves were too short. Another funny thing was that every time he would smile (a smile that's missing teeth clearly betrayed a nation of poor dental care) I would experience a bizarre, instantaneous urge to set him up with Frieda.

  I bet we looked some sight walking up to that gate. He was shorter than she was, and I was over a foot taller than both of them. A Jeff and two Mutts. A sign next to the word TATTERSALLS (never did learn exactly what that word meant) said L10. Ten pounds just to get in. That was about 16 dollars. I couldn't believe it. Blame it on England's famous "rampant socialism", I guess. I looked at Nigel, who was pretending to fumble for a ten-pound note I was sure he didn't own, and so for Jane's sake I instantly pulled out thirty pounds and paid for all three. Her "no, you can't do that---" was cut off at the wrist by his "-- -roight good of you, chief, roight good indeed!", and that was that.

  Inside the Tattersalls gate Nigel led us immediately (and I mean immediately) into a little pub tucked neatly under the rear of the grandstand, called "The Harroways Bar". It was dark, wood-paneled, crowded, laugh-filled, in other words typical of the country, and doing a land-office business. It was just like a regular London-style pub, except there were no dart boards or pool tables. And there weren't any pictures of horses on the walls either, or anything like that. It was just a regular pub. And so, the end result was that you wouldn't've known there was this huge sports complex right outside the door. Nigel ordered up three pints of lager, and we made camp at a table off in the corner, under the television (that's right, god forbid a man could find a place in this world without a goddam T.V.). Nigel made like he didn't have the right change, I think he said he didn't have anything "small enough", and Jane just smiled and paid before I could get my wallet out.

  "Drink up, children! They's more where tha' come from, what!"

  "Daddy, you promised to try'n curb your drinking...."

  "A man's gotta be able to have a drink," I said.

  "Here-here!"

  "Oh, Daddy!"

  "Up 'the rebels!" He kept slamming his glass into mine and spilling everything.

  "I think Daddy likes you."

  "So 'ows 'bout it, chief, you takin' good care 'me lit'l girl fore me?"

  "I barely know her," I said. Jane just smiled that smile of hers, which for me was

  usually enough.

  "She's oll oi've 'ad, y'know, since my bonnie Louisa....passed on."

  "Nigel, exactly what do you call, you know, what it is you do out there?"

  "Coll it? Well chief, I s'pose y'might coll it---"

  "Daddy...."

  "I said I s'poses I coll me-self a 'turf consultant', fore lack of a better name."

  "Tout. The word is tout."

  "Aw, leave me be, y'ol cow...."

  "Tout, I say, t-o-u-t tout! At least have the piss to call it by its proper name."

  They were great together.

  "And this touting," I cut back in, "it's illegal isn't it? I mean you looked like you were sort've goin' outa yer way not to get caught!"

  "Well chief, I wouldn't go so far's t'say illeegal," he explained thoughtfully, both hands caressing the glass holding his precious beer. He was staring into the beer itself, I remember, as if deep beneath the surface he might suddenly find the answer to a great philosophical question: "No, illegal's no' the roight word. Oi've sold....advice, right keen advice, to many a good copper, chief. At a reduced rate, o'course. Let's just say they'd....officially prefer it, 'fi dint do it on the premises."

  "And people actually pay you to tell 'em whose gonna win? or should I say who you say

  you think is gonna win?"

  "Be s'prised, chief. Good day, I clears fiddy, sixdy quid easy. Even a bad day's wages

  good 'nough t'pay fore a whole noight's ale!"

  "Oh Daddy, really!"

  And here I was paying his admission. I had to laugh. The old guy made his ten quid off

  me after all.

  We instinctively paused to take in the first race. But without a bet down there was no need to get up, as conveniently as the T.V. happened to be placed. The first (which, it should be noted, was called "the two-thirty" because it went off at 2:30; that's how they refer to the individual races, not first, second, third etc.) was a just quick wind-sprint of a race, just over a half mile. Pretty boring. They didn't have the volume turned up, and since this particular track happens to be shaped just like a giant reverse "L" they didn't even have to go around any turns. The whole thing was one long, straight, silent cavalry charge along the bottom of the L, ten tiny horses on a video screen, unusually tiny because they started so far away you couldn't see them that well until they got closer to the cameras. The winner was something called Singing Steven.

  "Singin' Steven. I knowed it. Knowed it oll the time."

  "Sure...." I said.

  "I swear it!" he smiled back. Then he and his daughter got into this half-serious argument about whether or not he was trifling with me or confusing me or something. I couldn't understand all of it, because they were talking so fast; like without me to slow them down they could go back to speaking their regular foreign language. It was interesting to me how different their speech was. While Jane went out of he way not to drop even a single letter---unless she was mad---Nigel seemed to take a fiendish delight in doing away with as many unnecessary words as he could in each sentence; like nouns, verbs, adjectives, things like that.

  "My apologies, chief---dint mean to 'extract the Michael' oll the way 'out you! I did fancy Singin' Steven a wee bit, though."

  "Must be tough makin' a living touting."

  "Well it's no' me-only job."

  "It's not?"

  "Daddy's a joiner!"

  "So? Who isn't?"

  "No! A joiner! Like....well, like a carpenter, but indoors. Doorways, moldings, stairways. Like that."

  "Oh."

  "I do roight good work, too. I truly does. Trouble is theys no' much work fore man 'moy skills 'round Chichester way."

  "But the government must kick in some," I said.

  "I beg y'pardon, guv!"

  "Daddy's got his pride, poppet!"

  "Huh? What'd I say, what'd I say?"

  "Whoy in blazes you assumes I need the dole? Bloody Yankee sod....I'm a roight respectable chap, I am. Whoy y'think I comes out 'ere an' consults? I earn my way. Ain't no bloody man alive 'can say ol' Nigel don' earn 'e's way."

  "Honestly, me-own new man sayin' me-own father's on the dole...."

  "Hey, I'm sorry, I friggin' apologize!" I said. I could tell they weren't really that upset, but I wanted to make sure they knew I was sensitive to whatever the hell it was they were talking about. "But what about this, this touting thing. You wouldn't exactly call it respectable, would'ja?"

  Jane started laughing, with her hands over her mouth like she was trying not to.

  "An' whoy not? A fair rate 'fore 'fair product, idn't it? Well, idn't it chief?"


  As usual, I didn't exactly know what to say.

  "What I mean is....I mean you can't say you're doing a service to these people by misleading them into thinking you actually have information on who is actually gonna win one've these things!....uh, can you?"

  This time Nigel leaned forward in his wooden chair, reached out one of those shovels masquerading as human hands, smiled cheekily, grabbed me conversationally, you might say, around my right forearm, and squeezed. Now remember, I'm a professional athlete, with the arm muscles to go with the title, but when those thick fingers of his dug right through flesh and into bone it hurt like hell! But it was obvious he wasn't putting out any real effort. I'm convinced he didn't even know he was doing it. Scary.

  "Tree-top, me-boy, listen. Listen to me. The tout's the most important person in racing. I means it. You say we don' know who bloody's gonna win. Maybe so. But they don' know either! That's the secret! You think the bloody people care to pick their own winners? Rubbish. Lissen---you go' oll those 'orses runnin' like the devil fore the same brass ring, anythin' can 'appen, the people bloody-well know it, an' chief, they just don' want the bloody responsibility of makin' that choice! I provide a valuable service, moy friend. If they win, they don' care 'ow. If they lose, they 'ave some poor bloke t'blame it on! I takes the pressure off, when I recommend them a 'orse. Secret a'loife, chief. Takin' off the pressure. An' that's whoy it don' matter 'toll if the 'orse bloody wins or 'e bloody loses."

  I just sat there. I didn't totally understand it, but I knew it was something.

  "You see, poppet? They need Daddy."

  "Sir, I humbly apologize for doubting your integrity."

  "It's alroight, chief. Honest mistake."

  "Three lager over here!" I yelled to the bar.

  The second race only had six horses in it, and again we didn't bet. Frankly, we were having too damn much fun just talking. Nigel talked passionately of his childhood, of moving from Ireland to Scotland and finally down to The South of England. The Scotland part explained, I found later, his occasional slip of a word like "wee" or "lass" or "aye", which I had always mistakenly thought were just as much English as anything else. When I told him I planned to go to Scotland at some point during my stay he got very excited, and made me promise to go to about a dozen of his favorite places up there. I drank, Jane got hold of my abused right arm, we listened, he talked. Mostly he talked of a place called the "Isle of Skye", where his father used to take him on holiday. I told him my father never took me anywhere. He laughed, and then sort've made me promise to go to the Isle as a favor to him. Sure, I said. Jane and I drank slowly and leisurely, Nigel left us far behind by literally sucking the ale right up out of the glass. He drank his ale with a vengeance, an anger. I've never seen anything like it before. I tried my best to get him to talk a little more about his childhood, Ireland, Scotland, his folks, his dead wife even....but all he wanted to talk about was the track. So I obliged him.

  "All I know is I gotta get a bet down on this horse called Waajib," I said at some point. "What race is he in?"

  We all opened our racecards. Waajib was in the upcoming third race, the three-thirty. Twenty horses. I couldn't believe it.

  "On second thought---"

  "Don' swallow yer hunch, chief, just because theys a big field."

  "It's no big deal. I don't have hunches. I just hafta make a bet for this guy in the pub."

  "Which pub?"

  "Badger. It's for Delby," Jane contributed.

  "Delby? Delby?" His face bunched up like somebody had mentioned The Prince or something. "Hmmm....'ow much'd 'e bloody wager?"

  "Just ten."

  "Ten! Delby Basingstoke? Ten bloody quid?" Again he leaned forward in his seat, and he tugged me closer by my sleeve. I was getting a little sick of him grabbing me. "If I knows Delby Basingstoke, 'e don' bet ten anything 'thout knowin' something! So what'd 'e bloody say? What! What!"

  The whole thing was sort of hysterical.

  "Say? He didn't say anything! Relax, Nigel. All he said was he heard something."

  "Heard something! Delby? Why, why---"

  I thought he was going to gag, so I made him take a sip of his beer. He was pretty excited to actually use an h like that.

  "So then do you think he's actually worth us betting on?" I asked.

  "Oh Daddy, let's bet him!"

  "Bet him? I should bloody-say we bet 'im! Whose ridin'....Mike! Ol' Mikey! Crackers! It's a winner, I can feel it---out to the books!" he declared, downed his beer, we did the same, and followed him out of The Harroways Bar, doing our level best to keep up.

  (Man, that was one heck of a bar. Right in the middle of a goddam sporting event! They sure don't have anything like that back home....)

  Nigel led us around the grandstand to where the crazed crowds of people seemed to be throwing themselves at men in little booths with cardboard signs. They couldn't wait to part with their money. Losers. It was disgusting. The guys in the booth were continually calling out dollar amounts, names of horses, and of course the ever-changing odds. Sort of like auctioneers. These other guys next to them were making frantic hand and arm signals to guys in other booths, and sometimes in the direction of the box seats in the upper grandstand.

  "Who're those guys?"

  "Oh---those 'the tic-tac men. They relay the odds to the other books an' to the high-rollers in the stands waitin' fore the roight odds t'make their wagers."

  "Where I come from, tic tac is a breath mint," I said, as if someone were paying me any attention.

  "What odds, Daddy?"

  "Well child, I sees sixes an' sevens. One bloke's go' fifteen-to-two."

  "Is that good?"

  "Let's 'old out f'er eights," the tout said. We both nodded.

  The first thing I noticed in looking over the race, after the twenty horses thing, was that this "Golden Mile" was officially the "Schweppes Golden Mile", the inaugural running. Schweppes, the cocktail mixer people, were sponsoring it. And since the second race was called the "Champagne Vintage" Stakes, I was beginning to get the idea that the English named all their races after types of booze. Waajib was owned by some Arabian sheikh, which I sort of liked. I figured those guys didn't get rich by getting disappointed. But I became a little concerned when I noticed that our horse would have to carry the most weight of any of them....

  "What's this 'stone' stuff?"

  "Stone is fourteen pounds."

  "Lassie's roight, chief. Waajib packs nine stone plus ten. One hundred thirty-six pounds. Top-weight 'e is!"

  "You sound happy about it."

  "Hell, it stands to reason, in a 'andicap, that the top-weight's the top 'orse."

  "But he'll get tired."

  "Nah! Big strappin' colt, 'e is. Oi've always liked Waajib."

  Jane laughed, which didn't do much for my confidence.

  "So how much do we---"

  "Eights!" the little guy suddenly blurted out. It scared me half to death: "Eight-to-one! Quick, quick now---let's pool our resources. Jane lass, 'ow much y'ave, love?"

  "I'll bet a quid."

  "One?"

  "She always bets one," Nigel said. "I f'got. Bu' I go' fiddy, chief. Happy t'part wi'thit. I can feel this one! You?---come on, give-give---the bloody odds moight drop any minute!"

  I got to admit, I didn't expect the old guy to come up with fifty friggin' pounds cash like that. I felt like apologizing to him.

  "Okay, I'm in for fifty. Plus Delby's ten."

  "That's the ticket! Good show, Yank!" The old man's fingers swiftly sorted the money into a neat pile. I was surprised at how those gnarled hands could display such lightning-quick dexterity. You find talent in the funniest places. It made me want to see if I could teach him to dribble: "See....we go' one hundred 'leven pounds....wunde'ful! One one one! Couldn' be luckier. Now wait here, kidlets, ol' Nigel'll make the blinkin' investment!"

  As he crawled off to one of the many bookie booths all I could think of, looking at that

  stocking cap an
d coat, was the goddam Salvation Army.

  Jane had other things on her mind. I was standing there with my arm around her, looking around the grounds, soaking in the various fascinating sights. All classes were in attendance; from the tattered legions paying only three pounds to swarm the “Silver Ring” to the artistocratic peacocks who paid six times that much to strut around like faggy idiots within the restricted “Richmond Enclosure.” Beyond the finish line there was a hill, called Trundle Hill, peppered with barely-discernable human shapes on the side of the hill that faced the action. I found out later from Nigel that it didn't cost anything to sit on the hill and watch the races, and it reminded me of the trips me and my buddies on my college basketball team used to take, during football season, up to Berkeley, to watch our beloved Bruins of UCLA line up against the hated Golden Bears of Cal. We called it Dual Of The Bears. And they had this hill up there called "Tightwad Hill", and the idea was the same; a viewing outpost where you could watch the action for free, and just lay back and enjoy the sunshine. I was just thinking about sophomore year, Sam and I went up for the Cal game with a few guys from the team and their chicks, and I was remembering lying there on Tightwad Hill---and picturing us lying there on Trundle Hill like it was Tightwad Hill---just lying there not watching the game, and it was the first time I ever told Sam that I--------