Hard Case

Northfield Park is all dolled up for a big Saturday night. The infield shrubs are manicured just so. A necklace of red, white, and blue bunting rings the grandstand. Track officials glitter in tuxedos and evening gowns.

Not that fans care. Their eyes fix on the dirt -- the half-mile oval where the Battle of Lake Erie is being waged. Among the harness track's richest events, the $150,000 race has drawn seven of the country's top pacers.

The horses hit the stretch doing 35 mph, their drivers whipping them toward home. A few fans mimic the move, thwacking thighs with rolled-up programs.

A horse named Peruvian Hanover flashes first across the finish line by a half-length. Scattered cheers go up among lucky gamblers. The rest let their betting slips flutter to the ground, the confetti of losers. The buzz dies. Driver Jim Pantaleano does nothing to revive it in a winner's circle interview.

"The horse was just tremendous," he says, his voice dull as a dial tone.

Pantaleano still has three races ahead of him -- juicy sound bites rank low among his concerns. Yet his bland manner seems to fit the crowd's mood. If in recent years the Battle surged with electricity, tonight it suffers a brownout. There's pomp, there's circumstance -- but something's missing.

So says Claude Starks, a track regular since the late '60s. Gray of hair and wise in the ways of the harness game, he's the professor of Northfield. What's missing, he says, is one man.

"Walter Case ain't here."

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The driver some consider the most gifted ever to sit in a harness sulky is staying at a Red Roof Inn in Salem, New Hampshire.

"I'd rather be there," says Walter Case Jr. "It's not fun to pack up and move 600 miles away."

Even less so when you're resigned to racing at Rockingham Park, about two miles from the motel -- and a good 15 lengths from fame.

Over a 26-year career, Case has won 11,027 races, second all-time to Herve Filion's 14,890. A three-time driver of the year, he has set dozens of world and national records while earning $43 million in purses. He's the fizz in a club-soda sport, a guy who stirs interest by donating his night's winnings to fans, giving away whips to youngsters, cracking jokes in the winner's circle.

Which only makes racing in Nowheresville that much more depressing. Case wound up there after ending a four-year run at Northfield Park, his exit falling somewhere between forced march and self-imposed exile.

Facing a possible six-month suspension from the state's racing commission for his habit of kicking horses, he chose instead to forfeit his Ohio harness license. In exchange, the commission wiped his record clean and agreed to refrain from advertising his misbehavior to other states.

But as Case concedes, his reputation for wandering feet precedes him, regardless of where he races. The violation occurs when a driver slips his foot out of a stirrup to brush a horse's leg, contact that can startle the animal into quickening its pace. Most often, it's seen as a minor sin -- unless the driver has amassed 11,027 wins and keeps getting busted. Then the stubborn habit becomes a millstone, no matter how much he swears it happens without his realizing it.

Case, in fact, may be the most frequently penalized driver in harness history, drawing hundreds of fines and suspensions. He's also a recovering alcoholic and cokehead -- addictions that got him banned from racing in New York and New Jersey. He's a leper to fellow drivers, who accuse the industry of favoring him even when he runs afoul of the law. The latest incident occurred last month, when Streetsboro police arrested him after his wife alleged that he threatened her. He faces charges of domestic violence and violation of a temporary protection order.

Says John Mossbarger of the Ohio Harness Horsemen's Association: "He is this sport's Dennis Rodman."

If it weren't for his losing about four years of track time to suspensions -- and going AWOL on race night hundreds of times -- it's likely that Case would own the career record for wins. Then again, given that he has burned more bridges than napalm, the fact that he's racing at all suggests the depth of his sport's malaise.

Truth is, were harness racing in better financial health, Case might be out of a job. But the sport has seen its popularity nosedive over the last two decades, done in by race-fixing scandals, an inability to attract new fans, and a Roaring '20s image in the age of extreme sports. If the word "sulky" pops up on SportsCenter, the topic is apt to be Ken Griffey Jr., not horses.

Across this barren terrain, Case remains a rolling dollar sign, able to deliver for owners and trainers while putting butts in seats. Northfield officials claim Case's presence boosted betting totals by $100,000 to $150,000 a night. Handles exceeding $1 million, once uncommon, became routine after his 1999 debut.