The Kentucky Derby has been a primary obsession of mine for 30 years now. Ever since, on a May afternoon in 1989, every bit as wet and dreary as yesterday, I agonized before betting my remaining $58 on a single exacta box of Sunday Silence and Easy Goer, Derby glory has taken up way too much space in my closet of ambitions. Every year it begins as a dull ache in February with an initial set of prep races meant to identify candidates with the potential to shine in May, perhaps a prodigy to get on early with a future bet at big odds. By early April the field has been winnowed to perhaps 30-35 horses; a final series of 1 1/8 mile races eliminates the remaining pretenders.
A week out from the first Saturday in May true Louisville zealots can think of little else, as final workouts are scrutinized to identify “now” horses with a fondness for Churchill Downs. Friday night before the race is always more exciting and anticipatory than any Christmas Eve I ever experienced. Derby day is a frenzy of gambling, with one of the best undercards of the year. Few things can equate with a major score before the main event, bestowing “house” money to play with for Derby bets, relieving the pressure of losing mortgage funds and freeing one to swing for the fences. As “My Old Kentucky Home” plays at the Twin Spires, the post parade provides a final chance to assess one’s selections. Are their ears pricked? On their toes? Washed out? The anticipation becomes almost unbearable.
When the gates spring open it is electric, a cavalry charge to the first turn, a critical phase that may not determine the winner, but always sweeps away at least several losers. Watching the Derby in a crowded public forum is a chaotic and confusing experience. The din of the crowd makes hearing the race call impossible, and with 20 horses, it’s more the norm to lose track of your candidates than the exception. Turning for home usually identifies the eventual winner as invigorated contenders separate from struggling pretenders. Running the classic distance of a mile and a quarter for 3-year old colts is like climbing above 28,000 feet on Mt. Everest, either the physiology is there or it isn’t. Genetics surge to the fore with cruel abruptness. Yet and still, few things compare to confirmation that, as they pass the final pole, your horse or, better yet, horses, are prospering and will factor in the decision. The adrenaline such a realization produces can lift a truck, or more aptly, deafen those around you. In just a couple clicks more than two minutes it is all over, sometimes producing ecstasy beyond measure, far more often quiet disappointment and recrimination that, despite all the study, all the analysis, you missed what now seems so patently obvious. And then, like every real horse player knows, it’s time to move on to the “get out” race, the next card, the next meet, the next year. Life can indeed orbit around the Kentucky sun.
Few people in the world know more about the Kentucky Derby since 1988 than I do. That’s not braggadocio; it’s simply the truth. A favorite parlor trick of mine is to ask who I seek to impress to name any year between 1988 and the present. When they do so I quickly rattle off every relevant fact about that Derby renewal like a savant, plus a special personal anecdote to accentuate the experience. It’s not hyperbole to say I could talk all day about my Derby highs and lows. Is there a book in there? I suppose. But really it’s simply the life and times of a breed heading toward extinction… the hardcore handicapper.
Anybody serious about the Kentucky Derby hates rain. It renders the most rigorous of analysis near worthless, tossing the outcome to fuzzy intangibles like hoof sizes and niche pedigrees, freaky race flows and lucky paths that form in the mire. For the last three years the heavens have been penal toward those of us transfixed by the greatest two-minutes in life. Yesterday was particularly harsh as reports of certain and near continuous rain like last year proved inaccurate until about an hour before race time. At just the moment it appeared disaster had been skirted, the skies opened up and made up for the delay with a deluge that transformed a fast track to a bog within minutes.
In 2009 I loved a horse called Dunkirk, and was very confident he would pay off handsomely. Trained by Todd Pletcher, a preeminent force in the sport, Dunkirk was coming into the race the right way, with a pedigree and versatile running style that would serve him well at the classic distance. But rain intervened. As the minutes ticked closer to post time my confidence ebbed, along with my enthusiasm. He seemed disinterested in the post parade, appearing disdainful of the gloppy footing. As I stood in line to bet, already certain it would be far less than I budgeted for, I made a decision I am still exceedingly proud of… I stepped out of line and went to get another beer. If Dunkirk won, more power to him, but nothing felt right and, except for a couple exactas bet earlier, I was just going to enjoy the race. Of course, had Dunkirk jogged and paid near $20 to win, I’m sure I would have looked for a stool and short rope…. but that’s not what happened.
If a poll had been taken that week of which entrant could be thrown out with no second thoughts, Mine That Bird would have prevailed in a landslide. New Mexico-based, he got into the field only because of a brave finish at monster odds in a graded two-year old race. In fact, he was the perfect example of what eventually motivated an overhaul of the entire Derby qualification process. He didn’t belong and shouldn’t have been there. But there he was, and after the first call was so far detached from the field you simply had to take race caller Tom Durkin’s word he was actually still running. His jockey, Calvin Borel, a Churchill Downs fixture, who had won the roses on Street Sense in 2007, was aptly nicknamed Calvin Bo-Rail for his penchant of saving ground with his mounts. At the second call it seemed he could save all of Kentucky and still not win, so hopelessly behind was Mine That Bird.
At the halfway point it was anybody’s race, except it seemed Mine That Bird’s. But then Calvin got busy! Hugging the rail like paint, he began to pass tired ones on the far turn, building momentum on a path improbably free of pedestrians. Up front, as they turned for home, Pioneer Of The Nile, the betting favorite, seemingly took control of the race. Yet suddenly, along the Churchill fence, a mystery horse swept by everybody into the clear, fully separating himself from the field. Durkin, a Hall of Fame race caller, stuttered and fumbled trying to identify the animal now drawing away by widening lengths. By the time Durkin figured it out, the race was a rout, Mine That Bird winning by almost seven lengths at more than 50-1. A flustered Durkin called it an “impossible result.” Dunkirk checked in toward the rear, confirming my wisdom, and reinforcing my belief that rain changes everything and creates lottery conditions.
Ten years to the hour after Mine That Bird’s shocker, Hall of Fame trainer Bill Mott struggled for the right words when asked how his first Derby win felt. After all, Country House, elevated to victory after Maximum Security suffered the first disqualification in 145 run for the roses, wasn’t even his first stringer; Tacitus, the second choice at post time, was who Mott’s binoculars were surely fixed on. Country House was parked out at post 20, and at 65-1 was near every bit the throw out Mine That Bird had been a decade earlier. Mott was gracious as he could be, appreciating the victory, but understandably offering reticence for “backing in” to the winner’s circle. One can imagine him later, alone with his emotions, perhaps weeping a bit that his sport’s holy grail finally fell to him for all the wrong reasons. Great men don’t settle for technicalities, nor appreciate an asterisk.
There is no doubt Maximum Security deserved to come down, his transgression was severe, surely distorting the race’s outcome. Upon video review, it seems near miraculous he didn’t clip heels with War of Will and cause a catastrophic incident that would have further wounded a sport already reeling from too many tragedies. One can only imagine the carnage caused if the lead group of horses had gone down in a field of that size. Disqualifying him was the only call to make. However, that doesn’t make it any easier to digest for those who were winners and ready to cash….. until they weren’t. Of course, I have plenty of tales to tell about being “brought down” while in possession of a previously winning ticket. The pain is excruciating, the frustration extreme. Now it’s part of Derby lore. Another running. Another tale to tell. And of course there’s always next year. BC