Jai Alai: Handball with Daiquiris

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If Florida ever leaves a time capsule for future generations, it will probably be filled with losing pari-mutuel tick ets. SEE YOU AT TROPICAL PARK-EXCITING TWIN DOUBLE, read roadside billboards. DOG RACING HOLLYWOOD KENNEL CLUB TONIGHT. There is no state income tax and no funded debt; almost five percent of the annual state budget is financed by revenues from gambling. Florida boasts four horse tracks and more dog tracks (17) than any other state. What's more, it is the only place in the U.S. that permits pari-mutuel betting on human beings.

The game is jai alai, pronounced "hi lie" and meaning, roughly, "merry festival." It is a kind of jet-propelled handball that probably originated with the Aztecs, traveled to Spain with Cortes, and was reintroduced to the New World by the Basques, who claim it as their native sport. The object is simple enough: players wearing basketlike cestas heave a ball against a wall until someone misses. But ah, the details. The court is about 200 ft. long; the ball is so hard (rubber core wound with nylon string, covered with goatskin) and goes so fast (up to 175 m.p.h.) that the front wall has to made of 12-in.-thick granite block—concrete would crack from the impact. The ricocheting angles are infinite, requiring incredible feats of agility, timing and strength. And there are times when just staying alive amid the buzzing missiles can be a victory.

"Come On, Choo Choo!" Florida's six jai alai frontons tempt fans with drinks, dinners, dames—and enough pageantry to make Nero jealous. At the world's biggest (capacity: 6,000) and costliest ($4,500,000) fronton in suburban Miami, customers do not even have to leave their upholstered seats to get taken to the cleaners—pretty girls in green and gold uniforms prance up and down the aisles collecting bets.

Wagers can be made in any amount from $2 up, on single players or teams (win, place or show) or on combinations called quinielas and correctas. Betting is not on a par with the ponies, but a well-placed $3 on a long-shot combination can bring back more than $1,200. And each year 1,400,000 fans pour $41 million into the frontons' pari-mutuel machines (the state's cut: $2,300,000). Lounging behind a protective wire screen, the fans sip daiquiris and cheer wildly for players whose names they cannot pronounce. "Come on, Choo Choo!" they yell to Churruca, an acrobatic Basque whose specialty is running straight up a side wall to pick off a pelota 15 ft. above the floor. "Attababy, Orby!" they scream to Orbea, who can slam the ball into the front wall so accurately that it will hit a handkerchief halfway back down the court on the rebound.