Sean Clancy

On May 16, 2006…

Saddam Hussein refused to enter a plea to formal charges of crimes against humanity.  Richard Hatch, the winner of the first Survivor Series, was sentenced to four years in prison for failing to pay taxes on his reality TV earnings. Barry Bonds chased Babe Ruth and Hank Aaron for the all-time home run title. President Bush said he would send 6,000 National Guard troops to help secure the Mexican border. Invasor approached his American debut. The Saratoga Special was three months away from beginning year six. And Jonathan Sheppard unveiled a first-time starter in the fourth race at Delaware Park.

Mike Luzzi stood outside George Weaver’s barn Monday morning. Wearing a helmet, flak jacket, stirrup-leather-worn jeans, Luzzi looked fit, healthy and ready. Nine months and a day from when it all nearly ended.

Luzzi broke his pelvis and his left leg when Tricky Zippy flipped over before the ninth race at Aqueduct in November. The filly has come back to win three times. Luzzi is working on his comeback.

The full-brothers stand four stalls apart. Big, long, tall. Bone, scope, brawn. Present, alert, regal. Sharp features, blazes like a thick brush to a thin line, white rims around wild eyes. 

Al Khali looks out over his screen in the second stall to the end of Bill Mott’s barn on the Oklahoma side. Five stalls to his left, past Benediction, Privet Hedge, My Miss Sophia and Seek Again stands his little brother, Japan, he looks out over his screen.

“Don’t be a maybe, be a definite. You can write a column about the 5-mile trail!”

Tom Law – The Special’s Quenton Cassidy – forces me to find my running shoes Monday morning. They hadn’t been used for months. Yes, months.

Texts. Calls. Yells. Facebook messages. Part requests, part suggestions, part demands, they came quickly and they came often after the last race Sunday. All from racetrackers. And I use the term endearingly.

Florent Geroux leaned on a wooden rail after breezing El Guapo for Dave Carroll Monday morning and was asked a simple question.

“How’d you sleep?”

“Not too good,” Geroux said.

“Paaaaaaaaaaaapppppppeeeeerrrrrrrr”

Every morning for 55 years, the call wafted through the trees, from behind a barn, from the other side of the horse path, at the other end of the shedrow, down the alley. A long, lilting announcement that the Paper Lady had hit your stop on her daily paper route.

I hand a robot-themed lunch box to the teenager who runs the front desk at day camp, turn and lean down to hug Miles. I pick him up, squeeze him tight and the long goodbye has finally come to a close. I set him down, wipe a tear out of my eye and look him in the eye. “I’ll see you in a few weeks, buddy.” The bravest 6-year-old (actually 6 ½-year-old as he reminds me most days) looks me in the eye and says, “Dad, it’s just few weeks. Don’t cry about it.”