It's called going to the dogs.  You get on the MBTA and jerk and
chug through Boston's murky underground and the swamps of Revere
Beach. After 35 minutes and two changes you emerge at Wonderland
Park, a latterday Babylon that is one of about 50 greyhound race
tracks in the country.  You pass the Wonderland Ballroom and a
mean sub shop on your way to the grandstand. In the backround
are the wooden hills and valleys of an amusement park where
thrillseekers of a tamer sort celebrate. You follow the sports
through a huge parking lot, jammed with Pontiacs, Caddies and
Ramblers. You pay your 50 cents, mumble "Yes, I'm 21," and pass
through the fateful portals.  Inside are 10,000 followers of
Mammon: unworking men, grandpas, stiletto-heeled tooties,
indescribables, a sprinkling of M.I.T. professors. They mill
around the closed-circuit TVs. The long rows of betting windows,
the hot dog and beer stands. They spill out to the open-air
section by the track, concentrating most heavily by the finish
wire. They wander back