The Linemakers
Published By John Scheinman
Published May 10, 2010
Published May 10, 2010
However Mike Battaglia and Eric Donovan set odds on Triple Crown days at Churchill Downs and Belmont Park, it’s a safe bet they have a different style than Frank Carulli at Pimlico.
The Maryland Jockey Club handicapper and linemaker addresses his Preakness Week task with the same approach he has to life: More is better.
Beginning nine years ago, when he replaced the legendary Clem Florio after an incubation period at Charles Town, Carulli, 47, has evolved into one of racing’s singular characters. While not national in stature yet, a smart television executive would be wise to have a Carulli reality show deep into development.
Few people appear to inhabit their work as completely as Carulli. It is not hard to visualize him as a youth, nurturing then monopolizing nascent playground betting action.
Carulli never could be accused of sleeping on the job, but he often sleeps at the job. His office closet at Pimlico bears witness to this, storing a shaving kit, mouthwash and other assorted manly toiletries.
His physique could be described as comfortably stout, which is to say portly. This shape traces to family genes and a predisposition to rich food, but Carulli is in solid health. The worn belt of the treadmill in his Laurel Park office will attest to that. Many evenings after live racing ends, he works up a terrific sweat behind closed doors, the machine’s engine grinding beneath the simulcast sounds from a South American track or Penn National.
This diligent bodywork is offset within hours by a sprawling meal, preferably eaten somewhere skilled in pasta, meatballs and homemade desserts. Vegetables, in Carulli’s world, are rumored to exist.
It is no secret the man gambles with gusto, a word that derives from the Latin gustus, or tasting. Carulli is all appetite and, like the bear he resembles, doesn’t like to be disturbed while concentrating.
“Get out,” is a favored term greeting visitors to his office, but his enthusiasm for the racehorses of Maryland is infectious. When a hopeless creature from some godforsaken barn lights up the tote board, Carulli howls with laughter recounting the tale. At these times, he is, dare I say, lovable.
This is all very good news for race fans and his employer; Carulli is by no means profligate. His pride shines through his actions. He often will emerge from his office minutes before appearing on the in-house telecast to dissect the day’s race card and ask, “Does this tie match?” He wants to look right, and that extends to his linemaking.
Work hours, supplemented by two-fisted horseplaying, are long. Carulli knows the ever-shifting horse populations at Laurel Park, the Bowie Training Center and Fair Hill as if they were extended family. This takes time and attention, and, for most of the year, lining them up in a pecking order Carulli believes will accurately reflect the public’s opinion is a solitary pursuit.
Yet, for the Black-Eyed Susan and Preakness day race cards, Carulli assembles a cadre of handicappers whose skills rival his own. It shows a worthy quality he rarely gets to display — the willingness to share and involve others for the greater good.
“I always have felt the more opinions, the better. I still have the final say,” Carulli said of the ad hoc committee that haggles for hours before setting odds for each race. “I’ve always thought my strength was disseminating information, and that’s what this is.”
The three Carulli adjuncts are no pikers; they each put in more time at Laurel Park and Pimlico than most Maryland Jockey Club employees. They are the men for whom simulcasting was invented, and each has developed a near-encyclopedic knowledge of runners at racetracks across the country.
“Action Andy” Andrews, an exterminator by day, announced after the Kentucky Derby he was taking six weeks off from wagering and through sheer willpower completed the sabbatical in seven days.
After graduating high school, J.R. Ackerman sat his parents down in the kitchen and told them he would be skipping college because he knew what he would be doing with the rest of his life — playing horses.
Brandon McFarlane, the youngest of the lot, is obtaining a degree at Towson University but considers it a minor to his major, which is devising winning tickets with J.R.
This august assemblage convened in the Pimlico press box this past Sunday at 5:30 p.m. after the final live race to begin work on the Black-Eyed Susan Day card. Besides Mike Gathagan, the vice president of communications, only the sage 92-year-old historian of the track, Joe Kelly, remained, picking off two-dollar winners of simulcast races as casually as Minnesota Fats running a pool table.
“All the horses are bums except for one,” J.R. announced, referring to his latest obsession, the champion mare Zenyatta. “People who know the game know she’s the best they’ve ever seen.”
No one took the bait to argue the subject yet again. Carulli put down his cell phone at 5:52 p.m. “They just drew, but we don’t know if we’re getting the Form yet.”
As talented as the team is, Carulli would prefer to have the Beyer Speed Figures inside the Daily Racing Form available when the odds are made.
“If I was handicapping a race or a Pick 3 and Andy Beyer liked some horses a lot, they’d be on my ticket,” Carulli said. “I want to be right. If you look at the last nine years, I’d rate the work we do as an ‘A,’ and I’m not one to tout my own horn.”
He doesn’t say “toot.”
The group began making odds from the back of Friday’s card to the front, beginning with the more difficult turf races. To make the lines accurate, Carulli employs the Betting Percentage Table found on page 1077 of some dusty edition or another of the American Racing Manual.
“Every odds value has a point total attached to it,” Carulli explained. “No matter how many horses are in the race, the points have to add up to 124.”
In the racing manual’s table, 2-1 odds take 33.33 percent of the available 124 total; a 50-1 shot is worth 1.96 percent.
Carulli never has consulted with his counterparts, Battaglia and Donovan, in making lines for the big days, preferring to rely on the talent of his own team.
“Their strengths are knowing the strength of graded fields for out-of-towners, and that’s a big piece of the puzzle,” Carulli said.
At 6:20 p.m., the past performances with the speed figures posted on the Daily Racing Form website; they were downloaded, copied and distributed.
Twenty minutes later, the serious handicapping began, but distractions arose: A rescue mission developed when track announcer Dave Rodman called, trapped inside the balky Pimlico elevator. Then, J.R. and Brandon briefly adjourned to satisfy their interest in the first race at Mountaineer Park.
Carulli, struggling with the puzzling 13th race, barked, “What are you guys doing here? One race, that’s it!”
J.R.’s horse opened up by three lengths on the turn.
“Flee the scene!” he cried at the horse on the monitor then returned to his seat a winner.
Carulli, too, displayed wandering focus when he noticed horses galloping out after a race at La Plata, a track simulcasting from Argentina.
“How’d it come here?” Carulli asked, and it was impossible to discern whether he had a stake in the outcome.
“Two-nine,” said Action Andy.
Carulli’s cell phone rang, and the caller wanted to talk about the La Plata race.
The handicapping of the 13th race dragged on forever.
Of the consensus choice for favoritism, Smart Seattle, Carulli asked, “Can we squeeze him down to 3-1?”
He then wanted to know who would be favored if the race came off the turf.
“Kawiye?” he ventured.
J.R. looked disgusted. The horse, trained by Michael Matz had two wins on his three-race record, both achieved in dirt-cheap heats at Monterrico, a mystery track in Peru.
“It’s a $2,600 maiden. It’s Fonner Park,” J.R. said.
Carulli discounted the importance of the purse size .”It’s Peru,” he said. “It’s a torn country.”
This banter stretched on until 2 a.m. It will be repeated Wednesday evening after the Preakness draw, and that day is even more demanding of Carulli.
“I have to turn around the program notes for the Preakness program by Thursday morning, and we race Thursday afternoon and draw entries for next Thursday, and those have to be in by Friday morning,” he lamented. “That’s what no one realizes — it’s not fun. I don’t enjoy the festivities. That’s why you never see me at the Alibi Breakfast on Thursday. I have an alibi.”
Here, Carulli has exaggerated; it is fun, and the odds fans see in the programs they buy at the track will appear uncanny in their accuracy.
By 9:15 p.m., Sunday, the handicappers had only reached the $70,000 The Very One turf sprint stakes and had not made a line on a single dirt race.
“One more race and we’ll go eat,” Carulli said.
“Where are we going?” J.R. asked.
“Little Italy,” came the answer, and in that moment, as his life’s passions converged yet again, it was hard to visualize Frank Carulli as anything other than the greatest linemaker in the world.
The Maryland Jockey Club handicapper and linemaker addresses his Preakness Week task with the same approach he has to life: More is better.
Beginning nine years ago, when he replaced the legendary Clem Florio after an incubation period at Charles Town, Carulli, 47, has evolved into one of racing’s singular characters. While not national in stature yet, a smart television executive would be wise to have a Carulli reality show deep into development.
Few people appear to inhabit their work as completely as Carulli. It is not hard to visualize him as a youth, nurturing then monopolizing nascent playground betting action.
Carulli never could be accused of sleeping on the job, but he often sleeps at the job. His office closet at Pimlico bears witness to this, storing a shaving kit, mouthwash and other assorted manly toiletries.
His physique could be described as comfortably stout, which is to say portly. This shape traces to family genes and a predisposition to rich food, but Carulli is in solid health. The worn belt of the treadmill in his Laurel Park office will attest to that. Many evenings after live racing ends, he works up a terrific sweat behind closed doors, the machine’s engine grinding beneath the simulcast sounds from a South American track or Penn National.
This diligent bodywork is offset within hours by a sprawling meal, preferably eaten somewhere skilled in pasta, meatballs and homemade desserts. Vegetables, in Carulli’s world, are rumored to exist.
It is no secret the man gambles with gusto, a word that derives from the Latin gustus, or tasting. Carulli is all appetite and, like the bear he resembles, doesn’t like to be disturbed while concentrating.
“Get out,” is a favored term greeting visitors to his office, but his enthusiasm for the racehorses of Maryland is infectious. When a hopeless creature from some godforsaken barn lights up the tote board, Carulli howls with laughter recounting the tale. At these times, he is, dare I say, lovable.
This is all very good news for race fans and his employer; Carulli is by no means profligate. His pride shines through his actions. He often will emerge from his office minutes before appearing on the in-house telecast to dissect the day’s race card and ask, “Does this tie match?” He wants to look right, and that extends to his linemaking.
Work hours, supplemented by two-fisted horseplaying, are long. Carulli knows the ever-shifting horse populations at Laurel Park, the Bowie Training Center and Fair Hill as if they were extended family. This takes time and attention, and, for most of the year, lining them up in a pecking order Carulli believes will accurately reflect the public’s opinion is a solitary pursuit.
Yet, for the Black-Eyed Susan and Preakness day race cards, Carulli assembles a cadre of handicappers whose skills rival his own. It shows a worthy quality he rarely gets to display — the willingness to share and involve others for the greater good.
“I always have felt the more opinions, the better. I still have the final say,” Carulli said of the ad hoc committee that haggles for hours before setting odds for each race. “I’ve always thought my strength was disseminating information, and that’s what this is.”
The three Carulli adjuncts are no pikers; they each put in more time at Laurel Park and Pimlico than most Maryland Jockey Club employees. They are the men for whom simulcasting was invented, and each has developed a near-encyclopedic knowledge of runners at racetracks across the country.
“Action Andy” Andrews, an exterminator by day, announced after the Kentucky Derby he was taking six weeks off from wagering and through sheer willpower completed the sabbatical in seven days.
After graduating high school, J.R. Ackerman sat his parents down in the kitchen and told them he would be skipping college because he knew what he would be doing with the rest of his life — playing horses.
Brandon McFarlane, the youngest of the lot, is obtaining a degree at Towson University but considers it a minor to his major, which is devising winning tickets with J.R.
This august assemblage convened in the Pimlico press box this past Sunday at 5:30 p.m. after the final live race to begin work on the Black-Eyed Susan Day card. Besides Mike Gathagan, the vice president of communications, only the sage 92-year-old historian of the track, Joe Kelly, remained, picking off two-dollar winners of simulcast races as casually as Minnesota Fats running a pool table.
“All the horses are bums except for one,” J.R. announced, referring to his latest obsession, the champion mare Zenyatta. “People who know the game know she’s the best they’ve ever seen.”
No one took the bait to argue the subject yet again. Carulli put down his cell phone at 5:52 p.m. “They just drew, but we don’t know if we’re getting the Form yet.”
As talented as the team is, Carulli would prefer to have the Beyer Speed Figures inside the Daily Racing Form available when the odds are made.
“If I was handicapping a race or a Pick 3 and Andy Beyer liked some horses a lot, they’d be on my ticket,” Carulli said. “I want to be right. If you look at the last nine years, I’d rate the work we do as an ‘A,’ and I’m not one to tout my own horn.”
He doesn’t say “toot.”
The group began making odds from the back of Friday’s card to the front, beginning with the more difficult turf races. To make the lines accurate, Carulli employs the Betting Percentage Table found on page 1077 of some dusty edition or another of the American Racing Manual.
“Every odds value has a point total attached to it,” Carulli explained. “No matter how many horses are in the race, the points have to add up to 124.”
In the racing manual’s table, 2-1 odds take 33.33 percent of the available 124 total; a 50-1 shot is worth 1.96 percent.
Carulli never has consulted with his counterparts, Battaglia and Donovan, in making lines for the big days, preferring to rely on the talent of his own team.
“Their strengths are knowing the strength of graded fields for out-of-towners, and that’s a big piece of the puzzle,” Carulli said.
At 6:20 p.m., the past performances with the speed figures posted on the Daily Racing Form website; they were downloaded, copied and distributed.
Twenty minutes later, the serious handicapping began, but distractions arose: A rescue mission developed when track announcer Dave Rodman called, trapped inside the balky Pimlico elevator. Then, J.R. and Brandon briefly adjourned to satisfy their interest in the first race at Mountaineer Park.
Carulli, struggling with the puzzling 13th race, barked, “What are you guys doing here? One race, that’s it!”
J.R.’s horse opened up by three lengths on the turn.
“Flee the scene!” he cried at the horse on the monitor then returned to his seat a winner.
Carulli, too, displayed wandering focus when he noticed horses galloping out after a race at La Plata, a track simulcasting from Argentina.
“How’d it come here?” Carulli asked, and it was impossible to discern whether he had a stake in the outcome.
“Two-nine,” said Action Andy.
Carulli’s cell phone rang, and the caller wanted to talk about the La Plata race.
The handicapping of the 13th race dragged on forever.
Of the consensus choice for favoritism, Smart Seattle, Carulli asked, “Can we squeeze him down to 3-1?”
He then wanted to know who would be favored if the race came off the turf.
“Kawiye?” he ventured.
J.R. looked disgusted. The horse, trained by Michael Matz had two wins on his three-race record, both achieved in dirt-cheap heats at Monterrico, a mystery track in Peru.
“It’s a $2,600 maiden. It’s Fonner Park,” J.R. said.
Carulli discounted the importance of the purse size .”It’s Peru,” he said. “It’s a torn country.”
This banter stretched on until 2 a.m. It will be repeated Wednesday evening after the Preakness draw, and that day is even more demanding of Carulli.
“I have to turn around the program notes for the Preakness program by Thursday morning, and we race Thursday afternoon and draw entries for next Thursday, and those have to be in by Friday morning,” he lamented. “That’s what no one realizes — it’s not fun. I don’t enjoy the festivities. That’s why you never see me at the Alibi Breakfast on Thursday. I have an alibi.”
Here, Carulli has exaggerated; it is fun, and the odds fans see in the programs they buy at the track will appear uncanny in their accuracy.
By 9:15 p.m., Sunday, the handicappers had only reached the $70,000 The Very One turf sprint stakes and had not made a line on a single dirt race.
“One more race and we’ll go eat,” Carulli said.
“Where are we going?” J.R. asked.
“Little Italy,” came the answer, and in that moment, as his life’s passions converged yet again, it was hard to visualize Frank Carulli as anything other than the greatest linemaker in the world.
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