The Foxfield Races are Decadent and Depraved
Photo Credits: Kelly Wu
First—I must concede—I’m a hack. This title isn’t original. It’s an outright ripoff of Hunter S. Thompson’s seminal piece of Gonzo journalism, “The Kentucky Derby Is Decadent and Depraved.” Not only that, but the parody isn’t even novel. I’ve found two prior treatments of “The Foxfield Races Are Decadent and Depraved,” including one by the Law Weekly. I suspect there may be more. The way I see it, there are two reasons why this little bit of rhyming history keeps popping up. One, there are only so many lenses with which you can critically examine a fancy, booze-soaked, Southern-style, horse race. And two, that it’s the truth. The question remains: are the Foxfield Races actually decadent? Or depraved?
Drinking starts at 7:00 a.m. At least, that’s the time suggested in the informational email by Foxfield ringleaders. Boozing at this ungodly hour on a Sunday morning cannot even be called hair of the dog. It’s more like inviting the dog into your house, and saying, “Yes, please, go on—bite me again! Why don’t you take a big chunk outta me this time, good girl Lassie!” As such, pretty much nobody at the 8:00 a.m. pre-game is drinking, but there is a host of assorted baked goods and autumnal beverages for sampling. And everyone looks very nice, in seersucker jackets and collared shirts, or with summery-fall-ish dresses and fascinators. On the whole, it seems not terribly depraved, but slightly decadent.
Bus line-up is 9:00 a.m. sharp, but it really gets rolling at 9:30. Four huge coach buses file into the faculty lot, fill up, and then depart. The law students are a rowdy bunch, jostling and convivially greeting each other with loud whoops in a large blob-like mass on the steps. SBA members and the Foxfield organizers are standing around, directing traffic and keeping the peace. There is a megaphone in play, but it doesn’t seem to be working. Other party officials busy themselves negotiating via phone with some mulish bus drivers refusing to make a second trip. The drivers are politely informed that they are contractually obligated to make such a trip, and they come around. In the meantime, one or two people (and organizers) have already started to light up cigars in the parking lot, too eager to start the morning off right, regardless of the delay. A buddy of mine pulls a nip out of his pocket to top off his morning bourbon. In another thirty minutes, the buses return, and most of the crowd piles in nicely buzzed. Still squarely in decadent territory.
We arrive at a dotting of tents in the rolling hills and unload into a mass of people and a seemingly unlimited supply of canned beverages. Very fun. Everyone is taking photos, chatting, and catching up. I wander over to the vendor area and snag a baseball cap and half a hamburger before the races begin. There are, initially, some problems with the sound system. An iPhone charger is required, for some reason. An iPhone charger is then found. And then the venue informs the students that we are not allowed to play music. Presumably per contract. But everyone cheers up and has a good time regardless. Then there are some concerning texts warning us not to run onto the track, which is such a plainly idiotic idea that it boggles the mind to imagine even a piss drunk student vaulting the barrier. Visions of being kicked in the head by a speeding horse flash before my eyes. Depraved.
The races begin. Though there is no formal betting at Foxfield, everyone “has a guy.” Somebody is running pots in the tents. I weave through the crowd trying to find “the guy.” It turns out there are multiple guys. Then it turns out there are different guys. People point their guy out to me, I look for him, and somehow he gets lost in the crowd. So I never meet the guy, and I never place a bet. But everyone I talk to has placed their bet on one horse: number nine, Love Shaq. The trumpet sounds, and the riders come around the corner in an elegant arc, the pack led by two free, riderless horses who skip the obstacles entirely. The jockeyed horses leap over in a pack-like formation, thundering past the throng of law students lolling while they hang over the fence. We are feet, if not inches, from some of the horses. Their coats are glossy, like lacquer, beneath the hot noon sun. Decadent.
I don’t know who wins. It’s totally unclear. The sound system can’t reach us out here. All the way across the track, the tower looks like a postcard of Foxfield. We are insulated from the more abstract parts of the race, but exposed to the very real riding activity as the jump jockeys loop again and again. I assume there are more bets.
In the second race, a rider goes down. Number ten, a horse by the name of Red Tone, trips on the second jump right in front of the Law School tent, and lands hard on his jockey before running away, free. Medical crews descend on the track. First, a golf buggy outfitted with a stretcher convenes to the scene, then a proper ambulance. Personnel hold up a big gray tarp so nobody can see the action. As far as I can tell, the rider isn’t grievously hurt. But the race is suspended. Some of the crowd starts to depart, ordering Ubers and Lyfts. Surge pricing drives the fares up to sixty dollars, and my group strategically moves away from the crowd, trying to disassociate our digital signals and score lower prices. All of this is powered by a remote cell-service tower on a trailer, where a big white ball emblazoned with the Verizon logo is hovering in the sky. As an AT&T man, I am out of luck. On a non-race day, I suspect there would be no service here at all. A half hour later, the races resume as normal. Lightly depraved.
Everything considered, this was a far more tame event than I had been led to believe. Nobody was riotously drunk. Everyone actually watched and enjoyed the horse races. Nobody (to my knowledge) left a porta potty looking like King Solomon had just tried to split their flour baby. All-in-all, people were on better behavior than they would have been at an average bar review. Notable proponents of the “days that end in Y” school of drinking were even encouraging people to pick up after themselves. It’s likely that the real depravity is in the spring, when the undergrads have their main event. Fall Foxfield is family-friendly, and law students, guided by the admirable hand of the organizers, did a decent job keeping it that way.
I’m standing beneath a tree in an open field, about half a mile from the track, waiting in the shade for a Lyft to cart me back to North Grounds. I’m two and a half Miller Lites deep, sans cigar, holding my jacket in my arms to escape the heat. Bow tie still remarkably intact. One friend is more lump than man, squeezed into a pink seersucker suit, lying on the ground. A straw hat shades his eyes. Another, his shirt now totally untucked, is busy looking into the middle distance of the rolling hills, contemplating a scenery that looks startlingly like the landscape painting in Caplin Pavilion. A third friend is barefoot, taking a rest from her painful heels, toes in the grass, all while keeping a wary eye out for critters like the now ever-present Lantern Fly. Thirty minutes till the driver arrives.
Verdict: Decently decadent; a hint of depravity; deeply in keeping with the Law School’s ethos. Foxfield is a fine tradition, and whether this is its second act or merely an encore, it was great to have it back this year.
