Baptism
It was embarrassing – for both of us.
20 Years
It was a mad undertaking. Two brothers, an outof-work college roommate, a couple of future racetrack degenerates, a gaggle of Skidmore English Lit majors, an empty yoga studio and a vision of a daily newspaper at Saratoga. Daily, as in six days a week. We were going after The Pink Sheet. Competing with the Daily Racing Form. Making our mark.
No Toner
Nine rows high. Three rows wide. And maybe five rows long. Leaning. A few have fallen like shards of glaciers into the sea. Shrink-wrapped, in stark white plastic bags, the tower of wood shavings delivered, an order with a slip and a bill. They lie in wait outside an empty barn, ready to be dispensed into empty stalls. Anywhere else, you’d walk past them and never notice.
Tom’s Moment
When Tom’s d’Etat crossed the finish line in the Stephen Foster last week, jockey Miguel Mena stood up in the irons and brought his finger to his lips in the universal signal to “Shhhh.” There were no fans in attendance at Churchill Downs, but Mena was speaking for his horse who silenced everybody with the Grade 2 stakes win.
Hit Me
Has it hit you? Like, really, hit you. Like, stop-and-sink hit you.
Weird World
Think back to high school or college. No, no, no, not the fun part. The part when you’re sitting in a warm classroom at the end of the spring semester and about to start an exam you feel fairly well prepared to take.
Now, imagine taking that same test and knowing you’re not going to pass after the first question.
Saluter
Hang around horse racing long enough and you will hear old-timers say, after some inspirational on-track performance or another, “They don’t make horses like that anymore.” The statement is a cliché, hyperbole, exaggeration and wrong – nobody really “makes” horses. They’re born. Nature is in charge, not man.
Home Office
“Miles, turn on channel 9705.”
“What?”
“Turn on 9705. Watch the turf race at Belmont.”
Guest Column: Asterisks
“The Last Shall Be First.”
Matthew 20:16
Paddock Schooling
In 1984, my dad sent me (and a van driver) to run a weird, gawky horse named Family at Laurel Park while my dad went somewhere else to run a different (probably less weird and gawky) horse. Dad said he’d get somebody to saddle Family, since back then you needed an assistant trainer’s or trainer’s license to tack up a runner in the paddock. No problem. The van driver drove, I did the rest – including my first application of rundown bandages for a race. In the paddock with Family, I looked for our would-be saddler and saw no one I knew. There was a valet, me, the van driver, the horse and an annoyed paddock judge.
