JOCKEYS think the rider is always crucial to race. But Dick DeStasio, a trainer, disagrees. "Most of the time it's the trainer who counts," he said. "He rides the horses all the time and knows how they run. But there's that time when only a good rider can win. That kind of rider has good communication with the horse. That's the one intangible thing that you can't give him. We call it 'hands.' It means horse run for you, and they like to run for you."

I met George Handy, twice winner of the leading trainer award, in his section of box seats, Handy is grey and fiftyish. His bright red shirt and red-and-white tie contrasted sharply with his grey jacket and tan face. He seemed uncomfortable in a suit.

Handy began talking about girl jockeys. "I call 'em jockettes," he said laughingly. "They lend color to the races. I don't mind if they compete, but I don't think they're too much competition. It's a boy's game. I don't think they're strong enough to handle a rogue who lugs in and out. They get along okay with easy riders, though." Handy waved to a woman in the next section of box seats. "Hi, honey," he called to her.

Handy thinks a horse has got to have "heart" to win. "Some horses are 'morning glories,'" he said. "They break watches in the morning, but you can't find 'em in the afternoon. They're chicken. When they're hurting they don't put out. Others are different. I had a horse once who couldn't walk for three days after a race. I'd poultice him, and bathe his feet in Epsom salts, and let him stand in ice, and then in hot water. And then in about four or five days he'd be like a tiger. He had so much class, that horse," he sighed. "Iron Band was his name. He was named good. And he was tough, too."

"Racing is a dog-eat-dog business," he continued. "You have to be careful what you say. Everybody's trying to outsmart everybody else. There are people you say 'hello' to, but you wouldn't tell them your business. Of course with friends it's different," he added hastily.

Handy bets on his own horses-a little. "It's a tough way to make a living," he said. "The guy who tells you that he makes a living betting doesn't live too long. Betting'll break you."

"Come on Rene," he yelled suddenly, cheering the jockey who was riding Pescado Rey. "I like the old horses," he said, sitting down quietly.

Before I left he showed me the gold bracelet and gold ring he won as leading trainer several years ago. Pescado Rey lost.

Most of the spectators were elderly people. Many of them were limping or hobbling. The men smoked cigars and exchanged tips; the women talked about their children and going to Florida. On the whole it was a nice crowd.

Two girls walked by. The blonde one wore a pair of bell-bottoms with one red leg and one blue leg. When they got close I saw they were really about 40. They were both heavily made up.

"I once knew a guy whose mother could really pick 'em," a middle-aged man in a brown corduroy jacket was telling his friend. "The old lady would go down to the stables before the races and pick the winner. She didn't know nothing about horses, and she was always right."

"Hell, I'm here to have fun. I ain't here to make money," his friend said. "You can't go by odds; you gotta pick 'em. Go on, take a long shot. Carrozzella ran a good race last time."

A snatch of Spanish floated over. Two men gesticulated wildly.

"I should be sending this money home to my mother," the man next to me told his wife. "But if I win I'll send some home. I love my mother!"

I asked a policeman standing next to me if there was much trouble at the track. "Not since 20 years ago," he answered. "They sold beer in bottles here then. The people didn't like the way a race went, and started throwing bottles. They sell it in paper cups now."