By my kind face, modest dress, and gentle demeanor, you may not take me for a betting man, but in fact, I’m a gambler of the most sordid sort, a squalid, wormy little man who will stop at nothing to beat the house.

My first dalliance in the shady trade came one summer day in Central Texas, at a shanty of a track called Manor Downs. I was there on a lark, but I was nobody’s fool. I studied the forms and strolled the paddock, looking deep into the eyes of the squat and sturdy quarter-horses resting there. With a crisp, creased 10-dollar bill burning a hole in my pocket, I placed a series of two-dollar bets. Four races in, I had lost them all. On the day’s final race, I put my last two dollars on a frisky young filly — a noble steed whose name is now lost to history — to win it all. She stumbled out of the gate but charged hard down the stretch to win by a head. The two-dollar bet won me 12, and I left Manor Downs two bucks in the black. We dined on champagne and oysters that night. (Or was it enchiladas?)

Despite my resounding success and obvious track savvy, I didn’t return to Manor Downs for more than six years. When I did, it was late on a Friday night. The lights were low and the parking lot was almost empty. The only action that night was off-track betting on the greyhound races down in Florida. I picked up a racing form and joined a few stragglers on the dented picnic tables scattered under fluorescent lights. I picked my dog and placed my bet - I was living the high life now, fat on a schoolteacher’s income, and as such had graduated to the $3 wager — and turned to watch the race on the live feed from the Sunshine State. Despite the long layoff, my instincts proved as sharp as ever: my hound crossed the line in first, making the other dogs look downright pitiful, netting me close to 10 bucks in the process. Never one to press my luck, I pocketed the cash and headed back to Austin. We dined on prime rib and foie gras that night, or perhaps nachos.

And so it stands in my wagering life: a two-time winner who knows how to sidle up to Lady Luck and give her a little slap on the ass. I’ve won on horses. I’ve won on dogs. What’s next for a man of my betting pedigree?

Albatross. Naturally. Stay tuned.

Next week, my betting advice on the Big Bird Race, a charitable book which handicaps an albatross migration across the Indian Ocean.

(Jay Hardwig is a writer and teacher. He can be reached at smardwig@charter.net)