At Hialeah Park, ‘20s elegance, like an old horse, may be put out to pasture by ‘90s economics.

The famed flamingoes of Hialeah Park still fly in the late afternoon, soaring in a fluid figure eight like poems in the air, then landing in the shallows of the infield lake, their pinkness blending into a palette of begonias and petunias.

Bettors at the horse racing track have come to depend on this serene ritual, a consolation for the $2 optimism that inevitably gives way to muttering about should’ves, would’ves and could’ves. Luck is a tease here, but beauty is as dependable as the shape of the mile and an eighth oval.

This may be the world’s most winsome place to lose money. The 220 acres are sheltered within a girdle of Australian pines. Purple bougainvillea vines climb the trellises of the French Mediterranean buildings. Spacious terraces empty into winding staircases, like those of a nobleman’s country estate.

But there is trouble in this sportsman’s paradise, for horse racing is the sport of kings and kings are inclined to fight among themselves. Hialeah, like a castle under siege, may soon be forced into surrender.

This is only one of three horse racing tracks near Miami, and while it is the fairest of them all, beauty is no match for convenience. The other two are closer to expressways. Easier access means easier wagering. And wagering, after all, is the whip that makes the horses go ‘round.

Every year, regular as a great stakes race, the tracks have vied in the state capital for the best chunk of the racing calendar. Especially prized are dates in January through March, when the weather is balmy and the tourists come to shed extra layers from their wardrobes and billfolds.

Next year will be different. The Legislature has deregulated horse racing, leaving the tracks to set their own dates--a risky idea akin to telling bettors to divvy up the winnings instead of leaving it to the tote board.

Predictably, there is chaos. Managers of the three tracks--Hialeah, Gulfstream and Calder--had reached no compromise by a March 31 deadline and submitted overlapping dates for the upcoming 1989-90 season.

Barring rescue by state officials, Hialeah will find itself meeting in direct competition with the other tracks, and there aren’t enough horseplayers to go around, to say nothing of good horses and jockeys. Even the parimutuel tellers will have to choose one track over the others. “It’s going to be a mess,” trainer Manny Tortora said.

Hialeah--distant from the area’s biggest population centers--is in danger of becoming an old mare put out to pasture. If only it were 1925 again, when the track first opened and location did not seem so important.

Almost everything was swampland back then. Coolidge was President. Valentino was starring in his final film. “The Great Gatsby” was a best-seller.

Over time, Hialeah, too, came to seem the setting for a Fitzgerald novel. The gentry arrived from Palm Beach in elegant railroad cars. Ladies in drop-waist dresses strolled arm in arm with men in white linen suits.

But grandeur is no longer such an attraction. Nowadays, patrons complement their plaids with stripes. Many spend the afternoon in lawn chairs, staring at the paddock tote board, never even venturing into the clubhouse to cheer a stretch run.

Hialeah has become slow at the gate. In 1977, real estate developer John Brunetti Sr. stepped in to try and turn things around. The deal he made was sweeter than anything to be found at a parimutuel window.

To save its beloved centerpiece, the City of Hialeah purchased the track with a $9-million note. Brunetti then leased it in exchange for servicing the debt. After 30 years, he assumes ownership--or sooner if he chooses to pay off the note.

In recent years, he often has threatened to do just that and then plow the whole thing under, convert the land into an industrial park. “I’ve been told the property is worth $75 to $100 million,” he says ominously.

With the tracks set to compete head-to-head, that profitable option looks better all the time, though Brunetti--sometimes a cryptic, volatile man--says he hopes things will never come to that.

He remembers.

As a college student, he used to scramble to Hialeah after classes. In the late afternoons he would watch as a man in a canoe rowed, almost unnoticed, across the infield lake toward the island rookery.

The skittish flamingoes always sensed his coming. This began their marvelous loop of flight, the blue sky suddenly alive with pink, the birds’ webbed feet tucked away and their crooked necks straightened against the wind.