The Canadian Sportsman
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Back To Last Call OnlineSeptember 22, 2009
You should know I missed the first 49, which makes it impossible for me to pine for the days of the orchard or revile the behemoth corporate hospitality tent that sprung up for the first time in the first turn the first year I came to the Delaware County Fairgrounds.
My history is forever entwined with the most obvious symbol that this is no longer your granddaddy’s Little Brown Jug. But it doesn’t make me love the Jug any less. Nor does it make me incapable of reveling in the way things were, even though I did not bear witness.
There are not too many moments in your life that leave an indelible mark. One of mine came late on a summer afternoon in 1995 when June Midden and her sister Mary Hackett led me up a set of wooden stairs rising from the bowels of the old grandstand. We surfaced into one of the most glorious locations in all of harness racing.
The perfectly manicured hedge spelling out Little Brown Jug.
The judges’ green-roofed gazebo standing sentinel at the finish line.
The log cabin rising above the backstretch.
The heavily-banked bullring that seemed to echo with the rumble of hooves from champions long since departed for celestial ovals and lush paddocks stretching toward eternity.
There was also the tent, of course, which struck me at the time as a newcomer to all this history with its perfect corners and the pristine sheen of hospital whites.
My tour guides were the daughters of Wayne “Curly” Smart, a Delaware legend who not only won the inaugural Jug in ‘46 driving Ensign Hanover, but also a second Jug six years later with Meadow Rice. The family lived right around the corner from the fairgrounds in the Jug’s nascent days. Such proximity afforded Curly the opportunity to spend countless evenings conditioning the track, honing the clay to make it as fast as possible, as much to his own advantage as anyone’s.
Fourteen years after seeing it spread out before me for the first time, it is as vivid a memory as the day as a young boy I emerged from a dark concourse tunnel at Tiger Stadium in Detroit for the first time, my father by my side. I can still hear the echo of the public address announcer and the electric chatter of the crowd; still smell the hot dogs and nachos drowned in cheese and jalapeños; still see the ballplayers warming up over a sea of emerald and gold wrapped in a two-tiered cocoon of steel pillars and plastic seats; still feel the ghost of Ty Cobb and the specters of scores of other legends who had played there.
I was only a couple of years out of journalism school when I found harness racing. Three months after my baptism, I drove five hours south to Delaware, Ohio to meet Curly’s girls to do a story for The Canadian Sportsman’s special publication celebrating the 50th anniversary of the Little Brown Jug. It was all new to me then. It’s as if it’s always been a part of my life ever since; like an old friend I visit once a year.
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September 22, 2009
12:31 PM
12:31 PM
I really identified with your comments about Tiger Stadium. I remember the first time my Dad took me to Maple Leaf Gardens to see........No, not the Leafs but Marlboro Seniors. And that was a big deal.
Regards
Mike
Regards
Mike
~ Mike Horgan
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