In that time frame, at least 40 tracks either closed or ended racing, including one in Key West and another in Miami. Between 19, the total amount of money gambled on races across the nation fell from $3.5 billion to $500 million, according to a report by the Association of Racing Commissioners International. That greyhound racing is a dying industry has been widely known for years. An American pastime that dates back a century will enter what many predict to be its last stretch. Eight thousand greyhounds will need homes. Soon an estimated 3,000 people will find themselves out of work, some whose families have been in racing for generations. But opponents argue that allegations of mistreatment are outdated and overblown and that the abrupt end of the racing industry, not the industry itself, is what put greyhounds in harm's way. Supporters of the ban say it will free thousands of greyhounds that are regularly put at risk of injury or death, all for an archaic sport with a long record of cruelty to the oldest known breed of dog. So the Election Day decision is a big deal, both to the racing fans, trainers, and tracks that keep dogs running ovals and to the animal activists, rescue groups, and politicians who fought to make them stop. The first state to legalize dog racing, Florida is today home to 11 of the nation's 17 remaining tracks. The Sunshine State has long been the heart of the so-called sport of queens, even after decades of dwindling popularity and profits. This past November, Floridians decisively voted to phase out the controversial practice by the end of 2020. Now, almost a hundred years after the Palm Beach Kennel Club opened, the only dog track still operating in the onetime racing hub of South Florida is in its final days of running dogs. The trackside restaurant was a private club with a dress code. Guests had to call ahead to make a reservation. Famous athletes and movie stars could be spotted here. There was a time when the grandstand brimmed with enthusiastic fans, when the results made the local papers. When the announcer calls out the results of Race 12 - Reds Gaga came in eighth - the stands are even lonelier than before. As always, they began the day by pooling $200, piling into a car, and paying $5 for valet parking.īy the time the eight greyhounds spring from the gate and storm around the oval in a flash of fur and numbered jerseys, the four old friends are already gone, headed back down Interstate 95 to their Delray Beach neighborhood for a bridge game. Frank, carrying the $55 they have left, walks over to the teller. "Or is it your friend Gaga?" jokes Frank, another one of the men, and the foursome decides to bet on the 3-year-old dog with a tiger-striped coat. "My friend Red," Norm says, a smile cracking beneath his mustache. Turning to an observer, he explains, "That's his best friend. "Race what?" the 90-something Norm asks, wheeling around and cupping his hand to his ear. "Did you look at Number Eight? In Race 12?" "Norman! Norm!" one of the men, a bespectacled, long-ago teacher named J.R., hollers at another. The youngest among them is approaching 80 the oldest is 92. Wearing hearing aids and World War II veterans' hats, a group of four long-timers holds court near the top of the stands. Except for a scattering of white-haired regulars, the grandstand overlooking the old dog track at the Palm Beach Kennel Club is almost empty on a cold-for-Florida December day.
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