The track is a mile-and-an-eighth long. The area it encloses is sparsely landscaped with thin leafless trees and neatly-clipped evergreens. A small artificial pond glitters behind the big board. Constantly changing lights on the board's surface indicate the odds on each horse, the amount of money bet to win, place, or show; the time of day, post time, the condition of the track, and the numbers of the first four horses to cross the finish line.

Upstairs in the grandstand the straw-hatted ushers wearing candycane coats check the tickets of people going into the box-seat section. Most of the trainers and owners reserve box seats in the first few rows. I wandered towards the upper tiers of seats, which are reserved for plebcians and tight-wads.

Suspended over the grandstand seats is a red iron walkway leading to a structure that looks like a red caboose. Inside are the press box, the stewards' box, the photo-finish darkroom, and the announcer's box.

THE announcer, Jimmy Hannon, is one of those fat, jolly people who make you want to laugh when they laugh.He was singing as he came into the box. "Oh. the horses have no tails, have no tails. Oh. the horses have no tails, have no tails. "He stopped singing and began grinning. Then he stopped grinning and began talking. He had just finished a poker game and was planning to shoot crap after the races.

I asked Hannon's sound engineer if people around the track bet much on the races. "When I first started working here, it was both pockets out, you know?" he said, pulling out the insides of his pockets as though he were dropping money on the ground. "But you can't afford to bet all the time."

The announcer must give a running description of the race because without binoculars most of the people in the grandstand can't determine the order of the horses. "To be able to identify the horses is a bit of a knack." Hannon said. He identifies them by the colors of the jockey and the color and build of the horses. A good announcer can glance at the colors listed in the program before a race and be able to distinguish the horses five minutes later. Hannon is a good announcer.

His face tensed as the horses approached the gate, and I watched him do the routine. "They are approaching the gate.... They're in the gate.... They're off!" ... His voice droned out the places and started over again with the new order. As the horses came into the stretch, the rumble of the crowd grew louder. Isolated cries drifted up to the announcer's box, and then all was lost in a general confusion of voices.

"At the eighth pole it's Blinking Excuse... Home Chat is taking the lead.... And it's Home Chat!"

He was studying the next field of horses with his binoculars as I went out.

Charlie Maffeo isn't even five feet tall, but he's a big man at the Downs. He has more wins than any other jockey at Suffolk this year. And he's not even a full-fledged jockey; he's a bugboy, an apprentice. When a bugboy wins 40 races, he becomes a regular jockey.

Maffeo had never been on a horse until two-and-a-half years ago. A friend of his got him a job down at the stables, and he worked his way up.

I asked if he was superstitious. "No." he said; and then his small, sharp face broke into a grin. "Well, I don't like the number 17," he said. "It's a bad-luck number in Italy." He smiled sheepishly and toyed with the cross and religious medal which hung from his neck.

We talked about running a race. Maffeo has no fixed strategy when he shoots out of the gate. "You gotta run a race the way it comes up and the way the horse rides," he said.

He prefers long races. "In the one-and-a-half you have time to think; you just sit there. In the half-mile you kill yourself."

Maffeo also prefers not to race younger horses. "You can expect all kinds of tricks from those crazy bastards," he said, shaking his head.