Turned out it wasn’t all roses in Louisville. I found the horse crowd a wee bit stuffy. I was distinctly underdressed for the occasion and made painfully aware of it. And I was mystified by why anyone would clog up a perfectly good glass of bourbon with sugar and leaves. But the good far outweighed the bad. Derby week had a laisser les bon temps rouler feel, a cross between New Orleans North and Woodstock South. I adored the smells, the sounds and the sights of the track, reveled in surrender to the frenzy that a $2 ticket could deliver. And I even met a woman who took me home and taught me the joy of … artichokes. To this day I feel indebted to her for that introduction.
The Derby turned out far better for me than our family friend. Poor Impecunious was forced to scratch with a balky leg and his once-in-a-lifetime shot went by the wayside. But freed from that moral obligation to back his long shot, I actually cashed the first winning ticket of my life. I can still recall that horse’s name, a red colt who went by the uninspiring, bureaucratic-sounding handle of Secretariat.
Like many in this country that spring of 1973, I fell madly in love with “Big Red.” His stirring Kentucky Derby duel with Sham was followed by an equally stirring Preakness duel with Sham. By the time the Belmont arrived this nation was Secretariat crazy. Those who puzzled or even protested last year when ESPN ranked Secretariat high among the 20th century’s top 100 athletes couldn’t possibly have seen the 1973 Belmont Stakes. Those who witnessed that race might even argue that Secretariat, by any standard, would have been as worthy a choice as Michael Jordan for that very top spot.
I remember it all like it was yesterday. (Easily done cause there’s no competition; I can’t remember yesterday at all.) Having been a racing fan for all of a month, I was by then, of course, a full-fledged expert. (Not to mention a skilled tout: “Psst, I like Secretariat.”) So when Secretariat blasted out of the gate and tore off at a blistering pace, leaving the field in his wake, I began to panic. I started shrieking sage counsel to the jockey, to the horse, to anyone within the sound of my voice who might appreciate my sagacity. “You’re going out too quick,” I bellowed. “Don’t burn yourself out. Save something for the stretch.” And on and on, idiocy after idiocy. When Secretariat finally romped across the finish line, winning in a record-smashing time by a mind-boggling 31 lengths, I was a limp noodle-not just weeping, but wracked by sobs. Not many winning tickets were cashed that day. Who’d trade a piece of history for the payoff on a 1-10 favorite?
Today the sport of horse racing desperately needs another Secretariat or even a faint approximation of one. The Triple Crown races may be given the network glamour treatment. But America today is profoundly indifferent to the sport of kings. A recent ESPN poll revealed that only 31 percent of sports fans regarded themselves as horse-racing fans-lower numbers than for the WNBA or even Arena Football. Only 8 percent said they were very interested in this year’s Derby, while 65 percent claimed no interest whatsoever. I suspect most young fans see horse racing as just another videogame-and a primitive one at that. Few have actually witnessed it live. Why bother to venture out when there are racing simulcasts in every betting parlor in the country? Or lottery tickets at your local drug store.
Sure horse racing was always largely about the gambling. But there was once a mystique surrounding the sport. And the great horses were more than numbers on a tote board. Man of War, Seabiscuit, Secretariat were national heroes. The nation wept when the great filly Ruffian broke down and had to be put to sleep.
The racing industry has contributed greatly to its own precipitous decline. Owners and trainers now view races as the briefest possible encounter with the betting public on the way to gargantuan stud fees. As a result, even the Derby field is largely anonymous. So your average sports fan catches the race on a channel surf between pitches and putts.
Secretariat’s reign in 1973 broke a 25-year stretch, back to Citation, without a Triple Crown winner. A couple more Triple Crown winners, Seattle Slew and Affirmed, followed soon after, giving the false impression that somehow this racing parlay had gotten a little easier. It hadn’t. To win two grinding races, then have to tackle the 11/2-mile distance for the very first time at Belmont, remains a monumental challenge. Since Affirmed’s ‘78 triumph, six stellar horses-Spectacular Bid, Alysheba, Sunday Silence, Silver Charm, Real Quiet and Charismatic-have won the both the Derby and the Preakness only to fall short at the Belmont in their bid for equine immortality.
Trainer Bob Baffert knows that disappointment better than almost anyone. He saddled two of those colts, Silver Charm and Real Quiet in 1997 and 1998. And each time he had to settle for second at the Belmont.
Now Baffert is back with another solid Derby favorite, a horse good enough to stoke the dream machine. Point Given, a gigantic son of ‘95 Derby champion Thunder Gulch, stirred up racing’s juices last year with a memorable second-place finish. His last-to-almost-first stretch run in the Breeder’s Cup Juvenile was a flash of championship mettle that has been further demonstrated in two stakes wins this year.
Of course, Point Given’s legend is far greater than his real achievements. He is lightly raced and largely unproven against what will be a very solid Derby field. To boot, Point Given drew the outside starting gate, number 17, a bit of a handicap even for a closer. But it’s nice to have a horse that is good enough to make folks dream. Whenever the dream is alive, so too is Secretariat.
