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Its opening is irresistible: "For me it did not begin with the horses. They came later, after a phone call and a simple statement of fact: Your mother has cancer." Barich copes with that horrible reality as best he can, losing his pain in the drama of the track, and finding himself in a pilgrimage through Renaissance literature and the memories of an earlier part of his life lived in Florence, Italy. If the combination seems a longshot at best, remember: the greater the odds, the better the pay-off, and Laughing in the Hills pays off staggeringly. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
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This is one of those books where every page brings insights so painful, or so beautiful, I shake my head in amazement. I'm reading it slowly, lovingly, and I'll tell all my friends about it.
I'm a writer, and have written a novel about horse racing. I've explored this same territory. I almost wish I'd written this book. It is filled with truth and sadness and many, many fine portraits of the people that hang around on the backside of the track.
The book tells the story of the author's attempt to make a go of professional handicapping, but he spends a lot of time on the backstretch getting to know the people and the horses.
There is the backstretch as your trainer describes it to you ("well-oiled machine operating at peak efficiency"), and the backstretch as Barich paints it (loosely collected ragtag assortment of people and horses trying to stay afloat). Even though luck is hard to come by for many of the characters in the book, they have an earnest dignity as Bill Barich depicts them, and love and respect for the animals is predominant.
If you like racing you will like this book; if you don't like racing or are indifferent to it, you will probably like the book anyway.