Sports Fic: Triple Crown
Jun. 7th, 2008 08:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
namasteTitle: Triple Crown
Author: Namaste
Summary: Like House would let the Belmont sneak by without putting down some money -- and of course he convinces Wilson to join him. Fluff. About 1,200 words.
Sample: "Wait," Wilson said, "are you actually betting based on sentiment? You're putting money -- your own money -- down just because you want this horse to win?"
"I thought betting on a sure thing was boring."
"It is."
"So then why, exactly, are you putting a hundred bucks on Big Brown?"
Wilson saw three other people in line turn to look at him. House rolled his eyes, took a half-step away from him toward the betting window. "I can't take you anywhere," he said.
Wilson shook his head, but followed House toward the window. He had forty dollars in his pocket, but still wasn't sure whether to put the money down.
When House showed up at his door, he hadn't given Wilson a chance to say no. Just told him to grab his keys and his wallet. Ninety minutes later they pulled into the parking lot of the new off track betting parlor in Toms River. It wasn't exactly the kind of place Wilson had expected -- dingy lights and thick smoke. Instead there were polished floors and flat screen televisions on the walls showing odds that were changing minute by minute.
Big Brown had been a two-to-five favorite this morning. Now he was at even odds. "So how," Wilson said, pointing to the screen, "is Big Brown not a sure thing?"
"History," House said. "In thirty years, no horse has won the Triple Crown. Smarty Jones, Funny Cide, Real Quiet. They all came up empty." He pivoted on his cane, turning back toward Wilson. "The last time we had a Triple Crown winner, Skylab was still orbiting the earth. He pulls this off, and he beats three decades worth of karma."
"Wait," Wilson said, "are you actually betting based on sentiment? You're putting money -- your own money -- down just because you want this horse to win?"
"It's not ..." House turned, took another step toward the window, then turned back to Wilson again. "It's not sentiment. I can give you three very good reasons why it makes sense to bet on Big Brown."
Wilson raised his eyebrows, gestured toward House with one hand to continue.
"One," House said, "he won both the Kentucky Derby and the Preakness by more than four lengths, so he's strong enough for the distance."
"You bet against him in both the Derby and the Preakness," Wilson pointed out.
"Different races, different circumstances," House said. "Two: With Casino Drive out of the race, his biggest competition is gone."
"Only you would take joy in an animal's injury."
"Yeah. Me and every other person betting on Big Brown," House said. "And three: Just look at him." House waved at one of the TVs that was showing Big Brown's win at the Preakness, the animal moving with both grace and speed, barely seeming to work even as he tore down the track.
The person in front of House finished his bet and House stepped up, putting five twenty dollar bills on the counter. "A hundred on horse number one," he said, then pulled out his wallet. "Wait," he said, "make it two hundred."
House finished making his bet and stepped aside, waved Wilson up. Wilson sighed, then reached into his pocket. "Forty on Big Brown."
House managed to snag them a table in the sports bar in front of one of the TVs and ordered a beer and a burger. Wilson nodded and ordered the same. He looked up at the latest odds showing on the screen.
"Do you realize that even if Big Brown wins, we're only getting a quarter for every dollar we bet?" he asked. "That'll barely cover our gas money."
"It's not about the money," House said.
"Since when?"
On the TV, the jockeys were walking out to the paddock, the horses were led to each man, one by one, then made their way together at a walk through the grounds and out to the track.
Wilson let himself relax into the moment, smiling as House grinned while watching the horses parade in front of the stands, Big Brown calmly walking alongside his lead horse -- seeming as sure of his future as every person who had put a dollar on him.
"What if he doesn't win?" Wilson asked.
"He'll win," House said.
"But what if he doesn't?"
The waitress showed up with their beers, left them on the table and walked away.
"It's not about winning," House said. "It's about training for something -- and then training and training and training some more, and only getting one shot at getting it right." He took a drink, nodded at the screen as the horses headed toward the starting gate. "Those horses, the jockeys, their trainers -- they make one mistake, and it's over. Step on a stone and your horse gets scratched. Ease up on the final stretch, and you get passed. Stumble out of the starting gate, and you're nothing. You're no one. You're dog food."
Wilson studied him, the way House's smile faded as he spoke, the way he stared at the TV as if he wasn't even seeing it, as if he was seeing something beyond the picture in the screen -- beyond the track.
"It's just a horse race," Wilson said. "It's not life."
"It's their life," House said.
Big Brown stepped into the gate, the doors closing behind him. The other horses filed into their positions. They settled into place, then with a clatter, the gates sprang open and the horses ran out.
"The quest for the Triple Crown is on," the announcer said, as the dark brown horse wearing Number Six took the lead and Big Brown settled into third position, the jockey waiting for his move.
"Too far back," House muttered. Wilson could barely hear him over the roars from the crowd in the bar, and those blasting out through the TV.
"The opening half-mile, in a sensible forty-eight point three seconds," the announcer called.
Wilson felt himself swept up with the emotion in the bar, cheering as Big Brown seemed to move up a little closer, the first three horses in a tight bunch as they raced along the back stretch.
"Now!" Wilson heard House's shout above the noise as the horses headed into the final curve. "Go!"
The Number Six horse opened his lead at the front, and the sound from the TV was lost in the shouts from the crowd. Wilson found himself standing, yelling along with everyone else.
The horses began the final turn and Big Brown fell back, to fourth place, to fifth, to sixth.
"Big Brown is plummeting as the field turns toward home," the announcer said. The TV suddenly seemed loud in the room.
Wilson looked over at House. He was shaking his head.
"Here is a shocking wire-to-wire win in the Belmont Stakes at 38-to-one, it is Da' Tara winning in four lengths, and the Triple Crown will remain vacant, again," the announcer said.
Wilson sat again, took a drink as Big Brown's jockey slowed the horse, dismounted.
A guy in a red shirt stood in front of the TV, pointing at the horse, insisting that he must have gone lame out on the track, and a woman in a cowboy hat mumbled something about Big Brown's cracked hoof. Someone at a table behind them sounded like he was crying.
House didn't say anything. Wilson leaned back into his seat, listened as the announcers talked about the race, watched again and again from different angles.
The waitress made her way through with their burgers, put the plates in front of them. Wilson thanked her, and House dumped ketchup on the side of his plate. Wilson picked up one of his fries, looked over at House.
"So what, exactly, just happened?" he asked.
House shrugged. "History," he said.
Author: Namaste
Summary: Like House would let the Belmont sneak by without putting down some money -- and of course he convinces Wilson to join him. Fluff. About 1,200 words.
Sample: "Wait," Wilson said, "are you actually betting based on sentiment? You're putting money -- your own money -- down just because you want this horse to win?"
"I thought betting on a sure thing was boring."
"It is."
"So then why, exactly, are you putting a hundred bucks on Big Brown?"
Wilson saw three other people in line turn to look at him. House rolled his eyes, took a half-step away from him toward the betting window. "I can't take you anywhere," he said.
Wilson shook his head, but followed House toward the window. He had forty dollars in his pocket, but still wasn't sure whether to put the money down.
When House showed up at his door, he hadn't given Wilson a chance to say no. Just told him to grab his keys and his wallet. Ninety minutes later they pulled into the parking lot of the new off track betting parlor in Toms River. It wasn't exactly the kind of place Wilson had expected -- dingy lights and thick smoke. Instead there were polished floors and flat screen televisions on the walls showing odds that were changing minute by minute.
Big Brown had been a two-to-five favorite this morning. Now he was at even odds. "So how," Wilson said, pointing to the screen, "is Big Brown not a sure thing?"
"History," House said. "In thirty years, no horse has won the Triple Crown. Smarty Jones, Funny Cide, Real Quiet. They all came up empty." He pivoted on his cane, turning back toward Wilson. "The last time we had a Triple Crown winner, Skylab was still orbiting the earth. He pulls this off, and he beats three decades worth of karma."
"Wait," Wilson said, "are you actually betting based on sentiment? You're putting money -- your own money -- down just because you want this horse to win?"
"It's not ..." House turned, took another step toward the window, then turned back to Wilson again. "It's not sentiment. I can give you three very good reasons why it makes sense to bet on Big Brown."
Wilson raised his eyebrows, gestured toward House with one hand to continue.
"One," House said, "he won both the Kentucky Derby and the Preakness by more than four lengths, so he's strong enough for the distance."
"You bet against him in both the Derby and the Preakness," Wilson pointed out.
"Different races, different circumstances," House said. "Two: With Casino Drive out of the race, his biggest competition is gone."
"Only you would take joy in an animal's injury."
"Yeah. Me and every other person betting on Big Brown," House said. "And three: Just look at him." House waved at one of the TVs that was showing Big Brown's win at the Preakness, the animal moving with both grace and speed, barely seeming to work even as he tore down the track.
The person in front of House finished his bet and House stepped up, putting five twenty dollar bills on the counter. "A hundred on horse number one," he said, then pulled out his wallet. "Wait," he said, "make it two hundred."
House finished making his bet and stepped aside, waved Wilson up. Wilson sighed, then reached into his pocket. "Forty on Big Brown."
House managed to snag them a table in the sports bar in front of one of the TVs and ordered a beer and a burger. Wilson nodded and ordered the same. He looked up at the latest odds showing on the screen.
"Do you realize that even if Big Brown wins, we're only getting a quarter for every dollar we bet?" he asked. "That'll barely cover our gas money."
"It's not about the money," House said.
"Since when?"
On the TV, the jockeys were walking out to the paddock, the horses were led to each man, one by one, then made their way together at a walk through the grounds and out to the track.
Wilson let himself relax into the moment, smiling as House grinned while watching the horses parade in front of the stands, Big Brown calmly walking alongside his lead horse -- seeming as sure of his future as every person who had put a dollar on him.
"What if he doesn't win?" Wilson asked.
"He'll win," House said.
"But what if he doesn't?"
The waitress showed up with their beers, left them on the table and walked away.
"It's not about winning," House said. "It's about training for something -- and then training and training and training some more, and only getting one shot at getting it right." He took a drink, nodded at the screen as the horses headed toward the starting gate. "Those horses, the jockeys, their trainers -- they make one mistake, and it's over. Step on a stone and your horse gets scratched. Ease up on the final stretch, and you get passed. Stumble out of the starting gate, and you're nothing. You're no one. You're dog food."
Wilson studied him, the way House's smile faded as he spoke, the way he stared at the TV as if he wasn't even seeing it, as if he was seeing something beyond the picture in the screen -- beyond the track.
"It's just a horse race," Wilson said. "It's not life."
"It's their life," House said.
Big Brown stepped into the gate, the doors closing behind him. The other horses filed into their positions. They settled into place, then with a clatter, the gates sprang open and the horses ran out.
"The quest for the Triple Crown is on," the announcer said, as the dark brown horse wearing Number Six took the lead and Big Brown settled into third position, the jockey waiting for his move.
"Too far back," House muttered. Wilson could barely hear him over the roars from the crowd in the bar, and those blasting out through the TV.
"The opening half-mile, in a sensible forty-eight point three seconds," the announcer called.
Wilson felt himself swept up with the emotion in the bar, cheering as Big Brown seemed to move up a little closer, the first three horses in a tight bunch as they raced along the back stretch.
"Now!" Wilson heard House's shout above the noise as the horses headed into the final curve. "Go!"
The Number Six horse opened his lead at the front, and the sound from the TV was lost in the shouts from the crowd. Wilson found himself standing, yelling along with everyone else.
The horses began the final turn and Big Brown fell back, to fourth place, to fifth, to sixth.
"Big Brown is plummeting as the field turns toward home," the announcer said. The TV suddenly seemed loud in the room.
Wilson looked over at House. He was shaking his head.
"Here is a shocking wire-to-wire win in the Belmont Stakes at 38-to-one, it is Da' Tara winning in four lengths, and the Triple Crown will remain vacant, again," the announcer said.
Wilson sat again, took a drink as Big Brown's jockey slowed the horse, dismounted.
A guy in a red shirt stood in front of the TV, pointing at the horse, insisting that he must have gone lame out on the track, and a woman in a cowboy hat mumbled something about Big Brown's cracked hoof. Someone at a table behind them sounded like he was crying.
House didn't say anything. Wilson leaned back into his seat, listened as the announcers talked about the race, watched again and again from different angles.
The waitress made her way through with their burgers, put the plates in front of them. Wilson thanked her, and House dumped ketchup on the side of his plate. Wilson picked up one of his fries, looked over at House.
"So what, exactly, just happened?" he asked.
House shrugged. "History," he said.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-08 02:00 am (UTC)I bet on Denis of Cork and it continued my uncanny streak of correctly guessing second place.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-08 12:10 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-08 03:08 am (UTC)I got goosebumps when I read that line. House really does understand what matters.
It's House's history, too, that he chooses badly when he bets on horses, and I like how he takes the loss.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-08 12:11 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-08 12:35 pm (UTC)House needs to get out of my head now. :)
That line, absolutely brilliant, as was the entire story of course. :)
(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-08 01:40 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-08 01:31 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-08 01:43 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-08 02:07 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-09 02:09 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-08 05:27 pm (UTC)Taiga
(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-09 02:10 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-08 08:41 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-09 02:10 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-09 01:12 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-09 02:11 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-25 06:40 am (UTC)You know just how to end a story...
The gambling is a really cool bit of House's character, so it's great to see a fic about it.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-25 08:53 pm (UTC)