The Washington times., 1936-04-02
BOuiie Aids
Springs
AdUent
Bv KIRK MILLER
Times Sports Editor

Spring, pecking away on the
shell of winter, like a baby
chick stepping out into a brand
new wonderous world, comes
to the sports sphere in an auspi-
cious opening at nearby Bowie
where the dainty thoroughbreds
prance spiritedly to the post, a
moment later to dig their
hooves into the soft, warm
track and thrill a multitude of
race-hungry guys and dolls.
If that sounds like going into
raptures over a commonplace in
augural that has been happening
at Bowie once a year since the
good Lord knows when, you may
charge it up to the enthusiasm
that an old coot can generate for
the first outdoor event OF the
verdant season, after long winter
of fretting around in a swivel
chair.
Springs Accompaniment
There Is something about the
miracle of spring that just natur-
ally gets under your hide, particu-
larly when it happens to the ca
dence of laundering feet and to
the mixed chorus Of cries Of par
tisans beSeeching a favored Steed
to poke an outstretched and vel
vety nose ahead of a field Of horse
flesh.
All, you couldn't be human and
not catch the feel Of the thing
the horses, the chatter, the jargon,
the budding trees, the ladies, the
odor of the hot dogs beneath the
grandstand, blue-grey smoke curl
ing upward as evening ap-
preached from the camp fires
which simmered the great kettles
Of mullagatawney for the hungry
stable hands.
And weren't there robbins
bravely hopping around on the
infield lawn in the midst of
changing it's dress from the drab
Of winter to the hopeful green of
spring.
A day for man and beast, you
would call it. One couldn't help
breath a sigh for those behind in
the stuffy indoors, shackled to
desks and chores and workaday
things.
There Was Sport for All
And Sport-my worthless, there
was sport for all.
There were nose finishes and
neck finishes and then there 5ere
lone finishes-like Singing Woods.
He was the best horse before the
Inaugural was run and he was still
the best after it was all over. Three
lengths in field like that is mar
gin enough for any thoroughbred.
The Whitney steed ran like a
Whitney, a great stable with more
great horses than otherwise.
Then there was that second
romp around the bend and down
the home lane between Eudes and
The Singer, first one having the
lead and then the other until they
split the air across the wire only
nostril apart.
And like the ending of Cinder
ella story, the favorite faltered just
q trice at the finish to let the
money-paying EudeS get the nod,
giving his partiSans a hat full Of
coin to reward them for their
finish
even for The Singers hackers, OF
whom we were one, but the goose
pimples don't rise and fade often
as they did in that Sea-saw finish,
and they were worth the losers
bet.
The Whole Town There
Our fellow townsmen were
abundant in their welcome to the
return north of the trim, sleek
bangtails. Why, half the Demo
cratic National Committee was on
hand, playing truant, no doubt,
while the Big Chief is fishing in
Southern ponds.
Smiling Jim Farley and ret
inue of administration big-wigs,
weren't exactly in hiding at that.
Their clubhouse box was the cen
ter of all eyes. camera and other
wise.
And Of course no racing renewal
would be orthodox hereaboutS
minus the majestic and booming
presence of Squire Andrew j. ICY"
Cummings, strolling the lawn in
peacock grandeur, with Dame
Cummings on one arm and his
walking staff on the other.
A man of stately bearing, ICY"
has the knack of being extremely
humble with the scores who be-
seech him for tips, as though he
knew any more than the next.
I missed my friend and mentor
Of turf things, Albert Rohrback,
the Broadmoor band box, who is
just coming out of a bad bump
ing at the turn by Old Man In
fluenZa.
And when came upon Col. Rob
ert I. Miller, and the Mrs. I found
myself bordering of Charley Cur
It's. whose race is run, but whose
memory fingers on. But then, it
was spring at Bowie, a time to be