Last stop Wonderland, continued

by Chris Wright

When a similar dispute erupted a little over a year ago, the state legislature granted a one-year extension on simulcasting until disagreements were sorted out. In 1999, simulcasting accounted for 89 percent of Suffolk's handle, 78 percent of Wonderland's handle, 65 percent of Taunton's handle, and a whopping 94 percent of Plainridge's handle.

Dog days "Greyhounds love to run," says Libby Frattaroli. "But they need to run free." Then she starts crying. "It's like the song goes," she says. " `Born free, as free as the wind blows. . . . ' " For 10 years, Frattaroli, 49, has devoted her life to the organization she helped found: Mass Citizens Against Greyhound Racing. She and other activists charge that racing dogs are routinely abused and put to death. Although no one can deny Frattaroli's devotion to the cause, it's only recently that her emotional pleas have made headway. In November, Massachusetts voters will face a ballot question on whether to ban dog racing, as 34 other states already do. The initiative was drafted by Grey2K, an offshoot of Mass Citizens Against Greyhound Racing. The Grey2K campaign is headed by David Vaughn and Carey Theil, a pair of young activists who, although less passionate than Frattaroli, are far more politically savvy. "We collected 150,000 signatures," says Theil -- twice the number they needed to put the question on the state ballot. "This is democracy at its best." No, says Wonderland owner Charles Sarkis, this is deception at its worst. "The only abuse going on here is the abuse of the truth," he says. "They're abusing the truth with their lies." Sarkis claims that Grey2K activists, desperate to drum up support and lacking any solid proof of their charges, resorted to showing photographs of abused greyhounds from Spain. "There isn't one verifiable case of abuse at a track in Massachusetts, ever," he says. Indeed, Massachusetts does go further to prevent greyhound abuse than many states, where conditions at kennels are regulated only by the National Greyhound Association (NGA). "We're the only state in the US that uses the state police," says the state racing commission's Robert Hutchinson. "We're hard-asses." Theil, while admitting that some of Grey2K's publicity shots depicted Spanish dogs, points out that dead and dying greyhounds were recently discovered at a kennel in Taunton. "It happens," he says. Sure, it happens, says Bill O'Donnell, owner of the largest of Wonderland's kennels, but not as often as the Grey2K people claim. "There's always that percentage who give the rest of us a bad name," he says. And he insists that there is absolutely no mistreatment at any of the 15 kennels that serve Wonderland. A recent visit to Wonderland's kennels did not reveal any. But even if abuse at kennels were nonexistent, says Theil, the sport is inherently cruel. He cites the "estimated" 20,000 dogs per year that are put to death as a result of overbreeding within the industry. Greyhound-racing supporters say this figure is much lower, thanks to breeding cutbacks and programs that allow dogs to be adopted as pets when they finish racing. "There are hundreds of organizations out there working in dog adoption," says Tim Horan, an NGA spokesman. "And the number of dogs whelped every year is falling. I think it's working." Those adoption programs owe their existence in large part to pressure from people like Libby Frattaroli. But, like many people who enjoy the sport or make their living from it, Horan dismisses the activists behind Grey2K as extremists. "There's a difference between animal-rights people and animal-welfare people," he says. "The animal-rights people are not mainstream America. They want to take away your right to wear fur or eat meat. They want to treat animals the same as people." Carey Theil, meanwhile, takes such criticism in his stride. As far as he's concerned, he's fighting the good fight. "I think this is a historic point in time," he says. "I think this is our Gettysburg." "We're gonna win this," says Libby Frattaroli. "I feel it in my heart, I feel it in my soul, I feel it in my bones." But then, Frattaroli has never really gone head-to-head with Charlie Sarkis before. Recently, Sarkis and Taunton dog-track owner George Carney announced a plan to pool their considerable resources. In the months leading up to the vote, the pair will sink millions of dollars into an ad campaign to defeat Grey2K. "It'll be a hard campaign and it'll be a dirty campaign," Sarkis says, "We'll have to spend a lot of money to fight it. But I'll fight to the very end." -- CW

On January 1, 2001, the current extension on simulcasting will expire. If the mood in the State House is any indicator, another extension will not be granted. "People in the legislature are very frustrated with all this," says Bosley. "There were legislators who were literally in tears because they know that if we don't do something there will be people put out of work. Not passing this bill was crazy."

Exactly who was responsible for killing the bill depends on whom you ask. It was Hall, says Sarkis. It was Sarkis, says Hall.

When Charlie Sarkis talks about Suffolk Downs, the Tony Bennett charm recedes and Joe Pesci emerges. "They've got this thing about Wonderland," he says. "We're beneath them. They're the high-and-mighty horse track. Now they're coming down trying to crush us. They've got it in for me, whatever the reason might be."

"Charlie gets very emotional," John Hall says. "This isn't personal. It's a business situation. He loves to paint Suffolk as the villain. It isn't true. We don't spend that much time thinking about Charlie. We've got problems of our own. I don't think we have to participate in his going out of business."

"There is way too much personal animosity between these guys," says Robert Hutchinson, chairman of the state racing commission. "There's too much at stake to let these petty egos get in the way."

In fairness, there's nothing petty about these egos. Indeed, legislators working on the racing bill found themselves in the middle of a bunch of characters who are not only tough, wily, and connected, but absolutely terrifying.

There's George Carney, owner of the Taunton dog track since 1963, who recently showed up at a committee meeting with a cast on his hand, having decked a man who made an offhand comment to his daughter at the track. Carney is an old-school dog man, a high-school dropout who got his start in racing while in his teens. He's Machiavellian in his political dealings, ruthless in his business dealings, and with that cast on his hand -- who would want to fuck with George?

Well, Plainridge owner Gary Piontowski might. A
former racing commissioner, Piontowski is no stranger to the State House himself. But he's no sissy, either. One legislator likens him to a character from The Sopranos. In early August, Piontowski faced allegations that Plainridge illegally accepted phone bets. The charge was made by Louis Giuliano, whom Piontowski defeated in a bitter legal battle to gain control of the track last year.

Then there's John Hall, the "400-pound gorilla" of local track owners. A millionaire real-estate developer from old Yankee stock, Hall is not quite as charming as Sarkis, not quite as connected as Carney, not quite as hard-nosed as Piontowski. But he has a grip on thoroughbred racing, and that fact alone makes him one of the most fearsome players in the game.

And Sarkis himself is not averse to rolling up the sleeves of his designer shirts and slugging it out if the mood takes him. By many accounts, the mood takes him quite often. One story has Sarkis storming into the Boston Herald offices waving an unflattering obituary of his father in the air. Another has him squaring up to George Carney in a parking lot. Five years ago, Sarkis and Robert Kraft fought a vicious, rock-'em-sock-'em legal battle over an ill-fated harness-racing venture at Foxboro.

"This is almost a blood sport between these guys," says Bosley. "There's almost a gamesmanship in trying to one-up each other. Everyone is looking for something that hurts the other tracks, and that hurts everyone's chances."

Even if a new simulcasting deal goes through, the Massachusetts racing industry might not make it. The bottom line is, dogs and horses simply cannot compete with slot machines. Indeed, the only thing Piontowski, Carney, Sarkis, and Hall can agree on is the importance of slot-machine wagering to their survival. For years, local track owners have awaited the legalization of slots in much the same way that the Israelites waited for Moses. Slots will lead them out of the wilderness, they believe, and into the Promised Land.

And it may very well be true that they could. The Lincoln Park dog track in Rhode Island, where slot machines have generated $170 million in the seven years since their arrival, is thriving as never before.

"This is the frustration we face," says Richard Dalton, president of Wonderland. "Why can't we have slots? We see buses leaving for Foxwoods and Mohegan Sun and Lincoln, and I can't give anyone a good answer. Leadership doesn't want to address the issue of slots until the Indian issue is resolved."

The so-called Indian issue centers on the Martha's Vineyard-based Wampanoag tribe. So far, legislators have blocked the tribe's efforts to open a casino in the state. Allowing the tracks to have slots will effectively open the floodgates to casino gambling in Massachusetts -- a prospect state lawmakers are not particularly keen on.

The issue is further complicated by Massachusetts's own stake in the gambling industry. "Of course the state is another player," says Bosley. "We have the most successful lottery in the country. There's a self-interest in this. We're sending back $800 million to the cities and towns. That is severely injured if we allow slots."

And so, as one legislator puts it, "Slots aren't even on the table."

MEANWHILE, THE 8000 people employed by the Massachusetts racing industry -- 500 of them at Wonderland -- anxiously await the outcome of the slot question and the simulcasting question and the Grey2K referendum and the bitter infighting that is putting their livelihoods at risk. It is these people, insists Sarkis -- not his ego or his reputation or his bank balance -- that are at the root of his fight for Wonderland.

"I'm a very competitive person," he says. "I don't like to throw in the towel. But the fact is, I believe in what I'm doing. I like the fact that there are these people who have been at Wonderland for two generations. Do I want this aggravation? Do I want at my age to keep fighting like this? No, I don't. I want to live a peaceful, happy life. But what can I do with my employees, throw them out? I can't do that. Charlie Sarkis doesn't want to do that."

He may not have any choice. Daniel Bosley estimates that, barring a last-gasp miracle, the tracks -- Wonderland included -- will have to start laying people off some time around Christmas.

The real calamity here is not so much that people are going to be laid off; it's that many have worked in the racing industry for so long that making the transition to other kinds of employment will be next to impossible. On a visit to Wonderland, I speak with seven employees who have racked up a total of 192 years at the track among them. The veteran of Wonderland's many veterans is "Uncle Herb" Brenner, who has been a racing judge at Wonderland for 47 years.

Sitting in the judges' booth -- a tiny room located high above the track -- Herb says he's not sure what will become of him should the track ever close. In fact, he seems unwilling to entertain the possibility, and quickly changes the subject. "Look at that," he says, gesturing out of the window at the track below. "This is the finest view of any track in the country."

It's not just the people who work at the track that would feel the loss; the people who bet there would too. As one track employee says, "Some of our customers are upset when we close for Christmas and Thanksgiving. If this place closed, these guys would fall off the face of the earth."

The only person to have put in more time at Wonderland than Herb Brenner is Jack Johnson. A 65-year-old self-employed home-repair worker, Johnson has been handicapping at Wonderland since he was 17. Like many of the Wonderland faithful, Johnson cannot imagine life without his beloved greyhounds. "I just love to try to beat the dog," he says. "I love betting the dogs."

Nobody loves betting the dogs right now more than Gary Dascoli, still high after his $533 hit. "What I'd like to know," he says moving towards the payout window, "is what people who don't go to the track do."

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Chris Wright can be reached at cwright[a]phx.com.