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Sean Clancy Sitting on a couch, an ocean away, it all unfolded slowly, you could actually see it happening. I might have been the only American watching the white silks, the white cheek pieces, the bay horse slicing and dicing, cutting and diving through the far pack, clearly in front of the near pack. I don’t use surreal very often. This was surreal.
Two down, three to go. Wednesday provided another six-race spectacle at Royal Ascot as Al Kazeem nailed Mukhadram, a thief in the night until strides before the wire, in the Prince of Wales’s Stakes.
Deflation. It was not the start to Royal Ascot we had conjured up. Derby winner Animal Kingdom pulling hard and flattening out, we didn’t even get a chance to yell.
Turn off the phone. Call in sick. Lock the door. Whatever it takes, just get in front of your computer and/or television and watch Opening Day at Royal Ascot.
Dave Carroll pulls the phone away from his ear and yells down the hall. “Aisling, you know the bridle Mom got for Abstraction? What’s that called? How do you spell that…?”
“Where did he go for all those years?” Somebody asked me that question Saturday after Mike Smith won another classic, the Belmont Stakes on Palace Malice. Where did Smith go? Where did he go for those years between Holy Bull and Zenyatta? Well, there was Azeri and some others, but he did seem to go somewhere. Across the country, to the sidelines…wherever he went, he’s back. Somehow, the Hall of Famer has become one of the sport’s go-to riders – again. Zenyatta, Royal Delta, Drosselmeyer, Mizdirection, Princess Of Sylmar, Game On Dude, Palace Malice…
Sir Henry Cecil, trainer of Frankel and all the rest, has died. I’ve read about him, seen him from afar, watched his exploits, respected his style, cherished his legacy. Oh, I wish I had a story, an anecdote, a moment with the man. The closest I ever came to the legendary trainer was getting Cecil to personalize three Frankel books – one for a friend who searches for a Frankel, one for my sister-in-law who fell in love with Frankel from afar and one for my father who ingrained the notion of Frankel when I was a kid. Cecil’s signature curls across the page. I guess, I should have gotten one for myself.
Belmont Stakes Day. A bucket sits in the hallway, still catching part of yesterday’s deluge, Styrofoam coffee cups and Friday’s programs suspended in the detritus. The track dries, tractors scraping and squeezing, surfaces director Glen Kozak hoping/expecting a fast track by evening. No doubt, this year’s Triple Crown will be played on three completely different surfaces. Think the beach and the difference between first step off the boardwalk and last step before the waves. The Derby, closer to the ocean. The Preakness, closer to the boardwalk. Today, there are hours still to go.
Down to hours. Another roiling Triple Crown tour comes to an end. The stories, the sorrows, the dreams, the nightmares. Shug won his first Derby. Gary Stevens won his first classic since returning from a seven-year hiatus.
Funny old stable. Riverdee. Eclectic, at least. The majority in Virginia, a few in Maryland, one in South Carolina, one in England. Some turned out. Some need to be turned out. Some dappled and thriving, others making hard work of it. Some cause fights – er, discussions – at home. Others, high tide and smooth sailing. A few around the world don’t even know they’re coming this way.
