Pigeon racing is not a sport played for glamour, but for love.

Pigeon racers - a rank of characters almost exclusively made up of elderly, aging men - often wait for days on rooftops, straining their eyes against the horizon. They’re on the lookout, stopwatch in hand, for the precious pets that they have often bred, raised, tended, and trained. In order to start a race, the pigeons are trucked out en masse to some far-flung point, and released. With luck, they come home.

Homing pigeons are considered the Lamborghinis of the pigeon world. Common pigeons - the ones that snack on trash on city streets, that mob unwary children with a loaf of bread - are derided by breeders as ’street rats.’ During both world wars, pigeons were decorated with medals for heroism and gallantry: the French had their Cher Ami, the Americans their GI Joe.

Pigeon racing is an echo of New York City’s past, and it’s fading. Pigeon coops are being written out of local zoning laws. At the local racing clubs, few members are younger than seventy years old: there are no young racers waiting to take their place. Says one old-timer: “‘Nobody comes in off the street and says, ‘I’m interested in pigeons; how do I get started?’ Now, when youngsters do keep birds, as soon as they discover girls, it’s over.’”