“What’s your name?”
The question came from the clouds. Like Big Brother.
Walking through the front gate Thursday afternoon, a retired agent stopped, a retired jockey stopped, a writer stopped. The agent and the writer backed up quietly, sliding out of the conversation.
The question came booming down again. More like a demand.
“What. Is. Your. Name?”
The 71-year-old retired jockey, who looked like he was on his way to play an easy 18 at Sagamore, had just been talking about how he wished he had spent one summer riding in Saratoga. He hesitated the first time he heard the question. The second time, there wasn’t a choice. He answered, slowly, tentatively, fearfully.
“Chris…McCarron.”
The woman shrieked.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” she said. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
McCarron fielded a hug from a racetrack lifer that lasted minutes and wound up in a conversation that was still going as Bob Frieze and I walked toward the paddock for the seventh. For all we know, the Hall of Fame jockey and his singular fan club are still talking. John Henry, Flawlessly, Alysheba, Sunday Silence, Tiznow, Paseana, Came Home…
“You’ve got to love the racetrack,” Frieze said.
“You’ve got to love this racetrack,” I said.
Saratoga. Whether it’s the Belmont Festival at Saratoga or the August Place to Be Saratoga, it’s always the same. The fans’ festival. The purist’s place. Racing’s rock.
As the allowance turf horses warmed up for the seventh, Alison McGaughey walked up to the TV in the clubhouse. You know the one, the horsemen’s spot, smack in the middle of the walk from the paddock to the winner’s circle. I still call it the big screen from days gone by. There were no questions, no hugs, but the same theme.
“Look at what some guy just gave me,” she said, turning her hand and showing me a sticker or a magnet or something that could have come out of a gumball machine.
There was a photo of her Hall of Fame husband with a cursive message. “We Heart Shug.” The picture looked like it was from the Vanlandingham days. Maybe Easy Goer.
We laughed. Surely it was going on the fridge at home.
“You’ve got to love the racetrack,” she said.
“You’ve got to love this racetrack,” I said.
Eight horses banged from the gate in the seventh, McGaughey’s Likeness showed speed, before backing up. Right To Vote rallied to overhaul Operation Overlord by a hard-earned half length. Fair Hill’s Bruce Jackson, standing next to me, felt good about that one, uttering a just-audible note of satisfaction. Three teenagers leapt in the air, high fived and fist bumped, and rushed to the windows. Second choice over the favorite never felt so good. I still like the ricochet of sound, from the winners and losers, from my favorite TV. Like the kitchen at your favorite restaurant. Watching the Travers between Jimmy and Shirley Jerkens, the sweet sound of Wicked Strong and the sudden silence of V. E. Day. Rachel Alexandra staving off Macho Again in the Woodward, the loudest it’s ever been, the speed of sound stamped into your soul. Christophe Clement thumping leather-soled loafers off the concrete floor, boy, I miss that. Dave and Lara Duggan yelling so loudly for a winner that their children cried. All those shared moments of watching races at Saratoga. The rough trips, the tough beats, the bad breaks, the lost photos and the ever so elusive win. The one thing that keeps us coming back for more, every summer of every year.
They say nobody watches the jumpers. Trust me, they watch the jumpers. When Rocket One got passed in the final strides of the Beverly R. Steinman Wednesday, people were watching.
Trainer Dave Donk commiserated in front of the big screen a few races later. “Oh buddy, that was rough.”
Valet Nick Santagata was nearly as gutted as I was, “That was a helmet thrower. A helmet thrower.”
Agent Ron Anderson watched it. “If you could have bet 10 strides before the wire, you would have bet your life.”
Yeah, I know.
That’s Saratoga, that’s the racetrack, one man’s pain is everyone’s pain. Because we’ve all felt it. The final strides of the Steinman wasn’t a jump race, it was a race. For Paul Willis, Keri Brion, Stephen Mulqueen and the rest of the Jimmy P team, the winners, it was joyous. We felt that, too. Well, I have to admit it, I didn’t feel it this time, but the rest of the world did. Just like they felt my pain.
That’s the racetrack. This racetrack.
After watching Roja provide that perfect moment for Graham Motion, Aron Wellman and their teams in the Intercontinental, I walked toward Union Avenue, back to the office to somehow put words onto pages about her win and my mood. A man walking into the track looked up and nodded.
“Welcome back.”
I thanked him.
I didn’t see McCarron. But in a way I did.
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