On the train to the track. Conversation seems to be going well. Then Belmont. Placing bets, having laughs, handicapping by the names, losing mostly but one win. Then, on the train home, an icy depression sets in and I start to sense things have not worked out. I’m so exhausted from being charming, it’s like I ran the marathon. Now, a waxing panic steals over me and as the silences between comments grow longer I am drowning in the conviction I’ve blown it. Flop sweat. My life is passing before my eyes like a movie and I am being played by Franklin Pangborn. It’s six thirty and I suggest dinner, expecting to be dusted. Ink in the blow-off. But wait. What’s this? She’s up for it. Suddenly, we’re over candlelight and I’m ordering a bottle of Bordeaux. I know as much about wine as I know about ...