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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.
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.
Has it hit you? Like, really, hit you. Like, stop-and-sink hit you.
“Miles, turn on channel 9705.”
“What?”
“Turn on 9705. Watch the turf race at Belmont.”
Oh, what might have been. That’s the story of the Triple Crown for so many through the years. For all but 13, actually.
If only Alydar was born another year. If only Smarty Jones could have rated another few strides. If only Real Quiet hadn’t moved when he did. If only California Chrome could have…if only Funny Cide would have…if only…if only.
Darrel McHargue hit a sweet drive and was on his way to the green for a three-foot birdie putt on the 16th hole at Palm Desert Golf Course in California when his phone rang.
Found this in the archives of The Saratoga Special. 2008.
I catch myself saying it, thinking it, pondering it. We should be…
In the ongoing, never-ending, sarcastic, sensationalist, one-upmanship of the Internet, the comment has rung and stung from the beginning.
I can hear the pages turning, can see them in my friend’s trembling hands. One by one, six pages, front and back, printed pages, from a typewriter back when letters punched the paper, words laid out like bricks in a wall, offering permanency and finality.
