By 1989
rumors began to resurface that Brandywine Raceway was
also on the verge of closing. In May, the BATTLE OF
THE BRANDYWINE was won by AU CROMBIE,
driven by Billy Haughton's son Tom. Bill
died 3 years before in a racing accident, and while it
seemed like a tragedy at the time, he probably picked
the perfect time to depart. It would have broke his
heart to see two of his favorite tracks close their
doors.
In
December of '89, the owners of Brandywine
Raceway announced that they would indeed close if
the Delaware state legislature did not override the
Governor's veto and approve slot machines at the
racetrack. The measure was defeated.......I had to
wonder if harness racing's attempts to modernize were
not misguided. All the exotic wagering, video replays,
simulcasting, and off-track betting seemed to obscure
its greatest charms: the peace, tranquility, and
nostalgic appeal of the sport. Somehow these virtues
had been lost in the shuffle.
The back roads to
Brandywine are still free of traffic and
stoplights. Although the suburbs of Philadelphia are
spreading steadily toward the Delaware border, there
are still small farms and wooded valleys along the
way, but the cornfields and the pastures are now fewer
and farther between. The racetrack stands on the
highest piece of ground in Delaware, about 400 feet
above sea level, and only a few hundred yards from the
Pennsylvania border. Beyond a ridge of hills across
the highway the Brandywine River flows south from
Chadds Ford,Pa where artist Andrew Wyeth makes his
home.
 For the first time in 37 years,
there is no racing at Brandywine. The parking lot is
deserted and the doors are locked, but I climb a fence
and make my way into the bleachers where I spent so
many nights in my youth. The paint is peeling and the
light bulbs are broken. Below the stands a few old
programs and losing tickets lie abandoned on the
ground. There are no horses training here this
morning, only a flock of Canada Geese swimming in the
infield pond. I climb out on the racetrack and examine
the stone dust surface, looking for hoof prints. But
there are none, only small gullies washed out by the
recent rains. I walk halfway around the track,
imagining what it must feel like to sit behind a
racehorse in action.
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