Even in the paddock, the mousy little man in the gold and white silks seemed out of place. He flicked his whip in the dust and scuffled his boots like an embarrassed kid. Beyond him New York's Saratoga Raceway came alive with rural vigor; floodlights brightened over the hayseed atmosphere of a country carnival. Grandstand and clubhouse bulged with bettors, lines lengthened at pari-mutuel windows, tip-sheet hustlers hawked their wares. Joseph Cyril O'Brien, 38, looked just a little overawed by all the excitement.
Horseplayers who turned up at the half-mile harness track one evening...
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