The racing gods were amused as they looked upon the mere mortals milling around below them like so many sheep bleating about the chances of having a Triple Crown winner once again. It was like this each year once the cloaks of winter had been tossed aside and the smell of spring made them forget the stark days of winter past.
After much deliberation, many of the gods wished to allow the chance for a horse and its imperfect connections to experience the thrill of approaching immortality with that most sacred of equine experiences – a Triple Crown winner. Those who were most persuasive pointed out that the hard times in the past had been given equine heroes to brighten the darkest of days. The mortals had even made movies of these instances and indeed it was perhaps time again with a nation struggling in the throes of economic famine.
Still, some of the gods were skeptical and said that 34 years was not long enough. They decided to ask some of the mortals who had left the earth and were allowed to wander the heavens with them. One who had trained many a great horse and five Belmont winners said that the sport needed it because it was in dire need of a hero and times were hard for those still on those grassy, dusty farms and back stretches.
Another who had their ear was a jockey who had experienced more than one classic win and had come so close to riding a Triple Crown winner himself only to have it snatched from his fingers on that Big Sandy track.
Others also came forward and begged on behalf of those below them and even the gods that dissented, relented, and agreed, even though they thought that it was not what they wished to do. “They will not appreciate it,” said some. “They are greedy,” said others and, “They are getting what they deserve,” said another group.
“You can always change your minds,” said Pegasus, “so let’s see what they do with the opportunity.” ”Where will it come from?” asked one. One of the gods suggested Florida, another suggested California, another lobbied for Kentucky. “Let’s make it a unifying winner. It can be bred in Kentucky, started in Florida, and based in California.” “Well, I don’t know,” mused one, “that will be difficult to do.”
Further debating brought the gods together on hammering out a worthy candidate. Some wanted to make the horse come from the hands of those who had experience. So they began to look at the candidates. After more debating, it was agreed that Baffert was out because he had chances before and they had been taken away for reasons, not for mortal knowledge.
Lukas was tossed out because they felt he also had many chances. When another deity wanted a trainer with little Triple Crown experience and a jockey to match, cries of impossible echoed throughout the clouds.
Weeks went by and the task at hand was daunting. Then a young Mexican guided a horse to a Grade One victory and the gods noted that the horse seemed to fit and the connections did as well. “They will get rid of the boy,” said one venerable god, “and if they do, I am out of it.” The trainer and owner, however, announced that they would fail or flourish with the jockey that they had and the gods went to the next stage.
The horse won on that first Saturday in May and the gods were befuddled by what took place. Instead of rallying around the chance to have a Triple Crown winner, the mortals began to try to destroy it. They attacked the trainer with disturbing statements. They attacked the owner because of the line of business he was in. The jockey remained untouched by either success or the horrible remarks being made. The gods that argued against having a Triple Crown winner were chortling over the goings-on. “I told you what they would do and they are doing it,” said one.
Veteran trainers were pointing fingers at the new trainer in the limelight and even one owner who had her Triple Crown winner, cast selfish and classless remarks. “They are but a bunch of ingrates,” said another of the gods. “Why do we waste our time?”
Despite the commotion, the gods continued their support and the fleet steed went to Pimlico in quest of victory and succeeded. Instead of rallying, the cries grew louder on earth and the cries were not cheers. ”See,” said one of the gods, “they don’t know what to do with the gifts we give them.”
Another pointed out that the quest was worth continuing because, despite, the trainer had maintained his class, the jockey was still the same innocent boy that started the journey, and the owner had been classy as well. One of the gods pointed out that these facts alone made it different than the year there was a Big Brown stain left in New York.
Now came the three weeks in between the Preakness and the Belmont and once again the mortals could not leave well enough alone. A special “holding barn” was instituted to make sure all things were pure. The sport continued to wash its laundry for all to see and even the ticket sellers escalated the price in anticipation of the crowd that was in the making.
The gods were incensed more than ever and their final meeting was one of much frustration. They did agree that the horse was like no other of recent times; the connections were worthy of that final jewel. But the rest were just sheep…a group of ingrates who did not deserve to taste the elixir that comes with a Triple Crown winner.
So when the tendon was tweaked, it was done ever so gently and in bitter-sweet fashion on the eve of what could have been a wonderful time in that kingdom known as horse racing. After the shadow was cast, the trainer, the jockey, and the owner showed the same class that they showed in their brightest moments. “Next year,” said some of the gods, and “Maybe not,” said others. In what was a unique combination for a Triple Crown winner, one that might never be emulated, the recipe was lost perhaps forever.
