Valet Parking

Ah… the Valet Parking Attendant. The unsung sentry of the racing experience. Before the bugle sounds, before the programs are unfolded, before the Turf Club hostess raises an eyebrow at your jacket—or lack thereof—you meet the valet. Always the valet.

And oh, what a figure they cut. Not just a holder of keys, my friend, but a connoisseur of conveyance. A man or woman who can distinguish a McLaren from a Maserati with the same ease you or I distinguish a front-runner from a closer. They are part doorman, part diplomat, part horse whisperer. And let’s be clear—they see everything.

They take your car, yes—but more importantly, they take your measure. They know who’s flush and who’s faking it. Who tips with twenties and who offers stories in place of cash. And oh, the stories… they’ve heard them all.

“My horse is live today.”

“Put a little something on the four in the third, I got the word.”

“She worked like a monster last week, I clocked it myself with another mans stopwatch.”

These whispered confidences are currency at the valet stand—exchanged for a smile, a handshake, a well-placed dollar bill. The valet listens, nods, files it all away in that mental Rolodex they keep between a Marlboro and a walkie-talkie.

They are the Turf Club’s first informant, a consigliere in a windbreaker. If you want to know who’s hot, who’s cold, and who just pulled up in a Rolls-Royce rented by the hour, ask the valet. They know. They always know.

Ah… Mr. Smitty. A legend, really. Not in the Racing Form, mind you—no, his name never graced a program or paddock board. But in the whispered lore of the valet circle, in that sacred fraternity of automotive guardians and side-street sages, Smitty is royalty, because he tips well, among other things.

Every track has one—a man who treats reality like an optional accessory. And at our fair racetrack, that man was Smitty.

He would arrive early, dressed like a gentleman from another decade. Tweed trousers pressed, button-down shirt with a collar starched so stiff it could cut glass. A man of routine. Methodical. Predictable, even. That is, until the final race was run, the bets were settled, and Smitty made his exit.

You see, for reasons known only to him—and perhaps a psychiatrist with a soft touch—Smitty refused to leave the premises with his pants on. Right there, in front of Pepe, our long-suffering valet and philosopher in disguise, Smitty would undo his trousers, step delicately out of them as if shedding the burden of a long day, and drive off in his undergarments.

Boxers, briefs, sometimes something in between. A man of spontaneity, if not decorum.

When asked why, Smitty would offer the same response every time, with a smile that could only be described as liberated:"I leave my luck in those pants. Tomorrow’s another day."

Pepe, who has seen more oddities than a Ringling Bros. tent, simply nods, folds the trousers neatly, and sets them on the passenger seat—as if this were the most natural thing in the world. And perhaps, at the track, it is.

Because you see, my dear friend, the racetrack isn’t just a venue. It’s a confessional. A sanctuary. A stage for characters too large, too strange, too utterly real for the outside world. People like Smitty don’t just come to wager—they come to shed something. Dignity, perhaps. Or maybe just disappointment.

The valets? They bear witness. To secrets, to breakdowns, to bravado and breakdowns of both man and machine. They’re the final line before re-entry into the world, the last checkpoint before the mask goes back on.

And Smitty? Well, Smitty just chose to take his off completely.

So the next time you hand your keys to a valet before entering the realm of the Turf Club or the asylum of the Clubhouse, offer a smile, a tip, maybe even a hot horse in the maiden race. But also remember—they’ve seen it all. The princes, the paupers, the liars, the lovers, the dreamers, the disheveled, and Smitty's undergarments.

And just as a trusted bookmaker knows how to read the eyes of his clients, so too does the valet know the language of the backstretch. A trainer who leaves early and flustered? Bad sign. An owner who exits his car with a drink already in hand before noon? Probably betting with his heart, not his head.

But what makes them truly dangerous… is their ability to disseminate. These men and women are walking Daily Gazettes, sharing “inside” info with anyone who asks—“Word is the seven is live,” they’ll mutter while parking a Prius next to a Phantom. And just like that, the odds shift.

It’s a kind of quiet power. They’re not on the program, but they’re part of the show. A kind of gatekeeper to the illusion. Because whether you’re arriving in a battered Buick or a brand-new Bentley, whether you’ve come to wager thousands or simply escape your reality for a few hours, the valet greets you with a smile and the unspoken promise: “We’ll keep your secrets safe. Alongside your keys.”

So tip them well, treat them kindly, and listen—just listen. Because somewhere between the steering wheels and the whispers, the valet may just hand you the most valuable pick of the day… without even charging for it.

After all, every kingdom has its front door, and in the grand empire of racing, it is the valet who holds the keys, And somewhere in the back of their minds… they’re still chuckling about the man who drove away in his underwear and left his luck behind in a pair of pleated pants.