If you’ve been to Preakness before, you know them — or someone like them.
Behold, the Lady of the grandstand, her neck strained under the weight of her enormous hat, gently sipping a Black-Eyed Susan, trying to catch a glimpse of Kevin Spacey. The Infield party animal, mug of beer in hand, ever comfortable in those rubbery flip-flops. Or the gambler, nervously clutching a handful of ticket stubs, shouting as the horses rush past. The jockey, always smaller than you think he’ll be. And, of course, the Pitbull groupie, her pumps sinking into the soft grass, sweating off her layers and layers of makeup.