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Pimlico's Oddsmaker -- Bred for the Races
_____From The Post_____
By Paul Schwartzman
Washington Post Staff Writer
Sunday, May 20, 2001; Page C04
BALTIMORE -- Clem Florio was in his seat at Pimlico by 7:30 a.m., nearly 11 hours before yesterday's main event. Between sips of hot tea, he squinted at the racing form. A diamond ring in the shape of a horseshoe sparkled on his thick right pinky finger.
Florio spends nearly every day of the year at the racetrack. Not because he has an unhealthy predilection for gambling, though he admits dropping a dollar or two over the course of his 70 years. And not because he can't get a real job -- he spent a decade as a boxer, after all.
Florio is Pimlico's in-house oddsmaker, the guy who decided that Monarchos was a 2-1 favorite to win the Preakness and that Percy Hope was a 50-1 long shot. His wisdom is captured for posterity in Pimlico's racing program, which serves as a kind of bible for the uninitiated stepping up to the betting window.
"Nobody knows this game like I do. I know it all," Florio said, his husky voice evoking a touch of Queens, N.Y.
The Preakness is a thunderclap moment for Maryland racing fans, the chance to celebrate a tradition that dates to 1873. But the race is also about the crowd, an incongruous panorama that yesterday included drunken, shirtless men who turned the infield into a kind of equestrian Woodstock, whooping and hollering while women lifted their halter tops.
"What horse race?" asked Scott Griffin, 25, wearing hoops in both ears and cackling as he drank a beer and watched a bikini contest.
There were the gamblers who studied their racing forms as if trying to break a code. There were the business types wearing their "Black Eyed Susan" buttons and sipping white wine at corporate parties separated by chain-link fences.
And there were the racing professionals, men such as Florio, whose side-of-the-mouth preference for phrases such as "What's up Pop?" evoked a time when the track was as much a stage for colorful characters as it was for magnificent thoroughbreds.
"I've spent my whole life at the track," said Florio, square-jawed and thick-shouldered, wearing a blue blazer and black shirt, his mix of brown and gray hair combed back. "It took up a lot of time and cost me a marriage. But I never had a bad day."
He was sitting in Pimlico's battered press box, beneath a photo of former vice president and Maryland governor Spiro T. Agnew that he taped to the wall for some laughs. His small desk was piled high with old newspapers filled with agate-size statistics detailing dozens of horses, each of their races and how they finished. On top of all that was a thick book titled, "The Stallion Register for 1984."
"What a mess," Florio said with a shrug.
A pal from another desk called out, "Hey Clem, I'll be happy to help you dump it off the porch."
Florio, who worked as The Washington Post's oddsmaker in the 1980s, compares himself to a stock analyst who studies a slew of performance statistics to appraise a company.
"Clem has a lot of influence over what the public does," said Joe Challmes, a former Baltimore area sportswriter and the author of "The Preakness: A History." "On a day like the Preakness, 90 percent of them don't have a clue on what betting is about. When they look in the program, they're going to bet based on his odds."
Florio traces his interest in horses to his childhood in Ozone Park, Queens, where he grew up down the street from Aqueduct Raceway.
The neighborhood's most prominent residents included a moon-faced fellow known as "Paddy the Book," a bookie who served as a high-ranking member of Vito Genovese's mob organization. "Every corner of the neighborhood belonged to Paddy the Book," said Florio, who won and lost more than a few bucks on wagers as a youth.
Florio dropped out of school before he was 14 and spent the next 10 years as a professional boxer, traveling under the nickname "The Ozone Park Assassin."
"I was so big, everyone thought I was at least 18," he said.
His 80-odd bouts included 20 defeats. He gave up the ring once he realized that his taste for smoking in the dressing room before his fights made it difficult to excel.
Florio found his true passion among horses, working as a groom in the early 1950s before becoming an oddsmaker. He's dismayed that horse racing has suffered from competition from casinos and the lottery and that, on many days, Pimlico resembles a ghost town.
But after nearly 50 years at the track, his eyes lighted up at the mere mention of Secretariat, the Triple Crown winner he calls the greatest stallion he ever saw.
"Pure beauty," he said.
He stood on a press box balcony as he awaited the start of another Preakness.
"It's the greatest two minutes in sport," Florio said. "You tell me, what could be better than this?"
© 2001 The Washington
_____From The Post_____
By Paul Schwartzman
Washington Post Staff Writer
Sunday, May 20, 2001; Page C04
BALTIMORE -- Clem Florio was in his seat at Pimlico by 7:30 a.m., nearly 11 hours before yesterday's main event. Between sips of hot tea, he squinted at the racing form. A diamond ring in the shape of a horseshoe sparkled on his thick right pinky finger.
Florio spends nearly every day of the year at the racetrack. Not because he has an unhealthy predilection for gambling, though he admits dropping a dollar or two over the course of his 70 years. And not because he can't get a real job -- he spent a decade as a boxer, after all.
Florio is Pimlico's in-house oddsmaker, the guy who decided that Monarchos was a 2-1 favorite to win the Preakness and that Percy Hope was a 50-1 long shot. His wisdom is captured for posterity in Pimlico's racing program, which serves as a kind of bible for the uninitiated stepping up to the betting window.
"Nobody knows this game like I do. I know it all," Florio said, his husky voice evoking a touch of Queens, N.Y.
The Preakness is a thunderclap moment for Maryland racing fans, the chance to celebrate a tradition that dates to 1873. But the race is also about the crowd, an incongruous panorama that yesterday included drunken, shirtless men who turned the infield into a kind of equestrian Woodstock, whooping and hollering while women lifted their halter tops.
"What horse race?" asked Scott Griffin, 25, wearing hoops in both ears and cackling as he drank a beer and watched a bikini contest.
There were the gamblers who studied their racing forms as if trying to break a code. There were the business types wearing their "Black Eyed Susan" buttons and sipping white wine at corporate parties separated by chain-link fences.
And there were the racing professionals, men such as Florio, whose side-of-the-mouth preference for phrases such as "What's up Pop?" evoked a time when the track was as much a stage for colorful characters as it was for magnificent thoroughbreds.
"I've spent my whole life at the track," said Florio, square-jawed and thick-shouldered, wearing a blue blazer and black shirt, his mix of brown and gray hair combed back. "It took up a lot of time and cost me a marriage. But I never had a bad day."
He was sitting in Pimlico's battered press box, beneath a photo of former vice president and Maryland governor Spiro T. Agnew that he taped to the wall for some laughs. His small desk was piled high with old newspapers filled with agate-size statistics detailing dozens of horses, each of their races and how they finished. On top of all that was a thick book titled, "The Stallion Register for 1984."
"What a mess," Florio said with a shrug.
A pal from another desk called out, "Hey Clem, I'll be happy to help you dump it off the porch."
Florio, who worked as The Washington Post's oddsmaker in the 1980s, compares himself to a stock analyst who studies a slew of performance statistics to appraise a company.
"Clem has a lot of influence over what the public does," said Joe Challmes, a former Baltimore area sportswriter and the author of "The Preakness: A History." "On a day like the Preakness, 90 percent of them don't have a clue on what betting is about. When they look in the program, they're going to bet based on his odds."
Florio traces his interest in horses to his childhood in Ozone Park, Queens, where he grew up down the street from Aqueduct Raceway.
The neighborhood's most prominent residents included a moon-faced fellow known as "Paddy the Book," a bookie who served as a high-ranking member of Vito Genovese's mob organization. "Every corner of the neighborhood belonged to Paddy the Book," said Florio, who won and lost more than a few bucks on wagers as a youth.
Florio dropped out of school before he was 14 and spent the next 10 years as a professional boxer, traveling under the nickname "The Ozone Park Assassin."
"I was so big, everyone thought I was at least 18," he said.
His 80-odd bouts included 20 defeats. He gave up the ring once he realized that his taste for smoking in the dressing room before his fights made it difficult to excel.
Florio found his true passion among horses, working as a groom in the early 1950s before becoming an oddsmaker. He's dismayed that horse racing has suffered from competition from casinos and the lottery and that, on many days, Pimlico resembles a ghost town.
But after nearly 50 years at the track, his eyes lighted up at the mere mention of Secretariat, the Triple Crown winner he calls the greatest stallion he ever saw.
"Pure beauty," he said.
He stood on a press box balcony as he awaited the start of another Preakness.
"It's the greatest two minutes in sport," Florio said. "You tell me, what could be better than this?"
© 2001 The Washington
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