This past week was the Kentucky Derby. I watched it with my parents in my apartment, having not watched it in years. It’s an interesting extravagance. People from all over the world dress in flamboyant costumes from years bygone and attend the Derby to get drunk.

It’s not about the race. The race takes about two minutes, and then it’s over. People either win or lose thousands of dollars over the horses and stay and party, I assume. My parents and I watched it to the finish, and it was a photo finish. I already forgot the name of the horse that won, but it didn’t have the best odds to win. And then we went to dinner.

My friends and I used to go to Hollywood Park before it became SoFi Stadium in Los Angeles. We would bet on the horses and usually walk away with money as opposed to losing money. We would drink beers, eat hot dogs, read the racing forms, and bullshit in the stands, spending an afternoon there on a clear Saturday—never when it rained, of course.

I can’t remember a time when I won big. I think the most was about sixty dollars. Nothing to write home about. But it was a lot of fun, sitting with my friends and betting on those horses, win or lose. It was an experience of its own. There was suspense after placing our bets and watching the horses enter the gates. We would wait a few seconds, and then they were off. The crowd began cheering. We began cheering. The horses galloped around and around the track until they met the finish line. I remember the first time I went to Hollywood Park. I won my first race ever. It was a trifecta for thirty-seven dollars. I thought, This is easy. I went on to lose for the rest of the afternoon.

That was well over a decade ago. I remember going there on my thirtieth birthday, depressed to be thirty.

“I’m officially old,” I told my friend.

And he said things are only going to change, and not for the better.

I thanked him for the vote of confidence.

We ate at a Russian restaurant that night in West Hollywood. I forget what I ate, but I remember all of us were sunburnt from sitting outside all day.

We would go to the races a few days out of the year before everyone moved away. Two friends moved to the east coast. I was left with two other good friends. And then one of them moved to the south. I burned bridges with the last one. The next thing I knew, I didn’t have anyone left in Los Angeles.

I never went to the track alone. That smelled like too much desperation. Nor have I ever gone to the casino alone. Too risky. I needed someone to tell me when to stop because I would’ve kept going until there was nothing left.

One of those friends was the last to admit he had a gambling problem. He would drive down to Commerce Casino by himself, about an hour’s drive outside of Los Angeles. No one stopped him. He would usually lose big—in the thousands. At least he had a good-paying job.

I miss Hollywood Park like I miss most things from my past. It seems that the older I get, the more things I lose.