I've been going through the entries for tomorrow's Kentucky Derby online and making some selections but for me it has been, Orb all along. However, there are a number of other good horses that I feel are coming together at just the right time. It will come down to their physical appearance on the day I'm afraid, and the camera doesn't always give me a good view but it's even harder in the crowd. I like the look of Itsmyluckyday. I will be cheering home winners from my couch this year unfortunately and betting via ipad.
I haven't been to the Derby in many years although I had a house in Lexington for about three years. The short story I am about to post was written along time ago after visiting the Kentucky Horse Park. It was inspired by John Henry, a turf hall of fame horse who died there in 2007. He never won the Kentucky Derby but he was old when I met him and knew the loss of him would be very sad.
Most of the names of people and horses in the story are fictional except for Secretariat, Bold Forbes, Ruffian and Rambling Willy and Canonero ll. Bold Forbes did actually win the 1976 Kentucky Derby and lived at the horse park with Rambling Willy. A horse called Dark Star won the 1953 Kentucky Derby but this story's character is not intended to represent him. Please enjoy my tribute to the memory of all the past racing heroes and memorial photo gallery.
Death of a Hero
By
Annie Wade (c) 1997
Dark Star was only twenty-two. I remembered when I was eight and he was two, my Uncle Max used to take me to early morning workouts at Churchill Downs to see him breeze. Soft hoof falls landed on the dressed dirt track, nostrils vibrated in rhythm, lead ponies passively ambled by with frisky colts on the toe at their sides. The ponies were so patient with the juveniles and never even kicked. I admired their steadiness, their tolerance, their shoulder that took the place of Mom's in the pasture for those new to the track. I took it all in, fringed chaps, helmets with pompoms, saddle cloths in stable colors, horses with bowed necks and wrapped legs. I'd sit in the bleachers on the backstretch, my sight fixed on the gap where the horses walked onto the track waiting for
him, Dark Star. You could tell him from a mile away--he had the
eagle's head hardboots (Kentucky horsemen) talked about as a feature of champions. Alert, with his ears pricked and bright eyes that always seemed to be staring into the distance.
I wanted to be a jockey when I grew up, I wanted to be Star's jockey. Ma and Pa let me ride hacks but they weren't into horse racing, not like Uncle Max, who used to hotwalk (walk the horses until they cooled down after they galloped). Uncle Max was six-foot-two and as sturdy as the grandstand. Trainers could trust him to lead any excitable colt--he's never let go.
I didn't have the figure for a jockey, or even an exercise rider. I used to hate those smart-ass skinny bitches who thought they were so cool because they exercised the racehorses. They pulled the horses around and smacked them about. I wanted to smack them. They never noticed the chubby kid clinging to the fence, watching as they rode by. Uncle Max would buy me breakfast at Wagner's Drug Store across from the track and I'd refuse to eat anything, but it didn't do me any good. My dad was German and I inherited his big bones.
Wagner's was an interesting place with a diner up front, and a pharmacy that you could walk through to a track store at the back. Upstairs they made saddlery and jockeys colors. In every booth of the diner hung a famous racing photo. I liked the one of the 1938 Derby when David Ransom, the rider of Outer Orbit, reached over in desperation and grabbed Nicky Davis by the leg to stop him passing Runaway. He sure did get in some trouble over that but nothing could prevent Runaway from winning. We used to see some top jockey's and their managers come into Warner's, Vince Skelly and Peter Brown, who always had two eggs sunny-side up and grits, and there were leading trainers too. Even, Juan Arias and Gustavo Avila from Caracas visited once. Arias, trained Canonero ll to win the 1971 Kentucky Derby and the Preakness, but he was beaten in the Belmont Stakes and missed out on the Triple Crown. There were none better than Dark Star's trainer Brian Donovan, although he said himself that Star would have won for any trainer, he was the best that ever ran. Star was one of only three horses to ever win both the Bluegrass Stakes and the Kentucky Derby, and I was there to see him take both. In the Bluegrass he sailed down the straight unannounced, as they did at Keeneland, but I didn't need a caller to tell me who was six lengths in front of the field. It was Dark Star and Vince Skelly all the way, and daylight second.
Three weeks later at Churchill Downs they were playing
My Old Kentucky Home as the horses came onto the track for the running of the 1976 Kentucky Derby. The biggest field ever to line up, twenty-four runners stretched across the track in two sets of starting gates. Uncle Max and I were down by the gates and he hoisted me on his shoulders so I could see. Star was the twelve horse. I can still hear the bell ring and the gates spring open as they jumped. The thirteen horse came out crooked and bumped Star so hard he fell to his knees. A crowd of 150,000 people gasped all at once. I lunged at the fence and hung on the wire. Uncle Max ducked out from under me. The mounted veterinarian shot out from behind the gates and the out-riders moved down the track, but Skelly kept Star's head up and it was a miracle he stayed on. Star climbed to his feet with his head in the air, he wrenched the reins in Skelly's hands, Skelly fell back in the saddle and Star chased the field like a warrior. He was fifteen lengths behind the fastest three-year-olds in the land coming into the clubhouse turn the first time down the straight. A mile and a quarter on heavy dirt, he couldn't possibly do it, but the crowd yelled for Star. It didn't matter who they had bet on, everyone was pulling for the brave-heart Star who struggled on, but out of the backstretch turn he was still seven lengths behind. The massive crowd roared as he started to gain ground in the backstretch. Star laid his ears flat against his head and pushed harder, lengthening his stride. A big hearted horse, he was always a crowd pleaser and he wasn't going to let his fans down. The gap was closing. At the half-mile pole he was trailing by three lengths and gaining. He caught them on the turn with the wind under his tail. The field started to tire and one by one they came back to meet him. But Star didn't tire, he just kept mowing them down. He was mid-field as they came into the home turn, Skelly didn't even use his whip but I could see him talking to Star and encouraging him at the top of the straight when they flashed by us.
The longest home run stretch in America, 1,234 feet. I knew once Star hit the lead no one would take it from him, he was a true competitor and a furlong from the wire they were running in his mud. The caller was drowned out by the shouting of the crowd but Skelly hunted Star home hands and heels. I was crying that day and so was Uncle Max. I broke my diet and we celebrated with Derby pie smothered in whipped cream--it's a weakness of mine.
Star went on to win the Preakness and the Belmont Stakes, giving him the Triple Crown. He was awarded Eclipse Horse of the Year. I still have my gate ticket from that Derby Day and every time I go to the races in Louisville, I go into the Derby Museum and watch the video of Dark Star's Derby, 1976. I couldn't believe my luck when I got the job at the Kentucky Horse Park. I'd been hot-walking horses at the track in the mornings and I did some night shift foal watching at Eagle Farm Stud in Versailles every year. I cleaned stalls and washed out feeders at the veterinary hospital on weekends but mostly I waitressed at Denny's for a living. Uncle Max knows Phil, the park manager and put in a good word for me. The worst thing was I knew
that day would come. That's the only bad thing about horses, you usually outlive them.
Five feet back from the barn, I stepped out of the warm morning sun and into the shadow of the aisle, first to arrive. I was shaking but didn't know why. I'd worked in the Hall of Champions at the park for two years and nothing filled me with the excitement of an exploding meteor more than Dark Star. I was his groom. I hadn't had a hard night but my stomach felt like it was being shaken in a cocktail mixer with beer and Rumpleminze. Something unexpected always happened when I got that feeling; we would have a V.I.P. come by to look at the horses, or I would win a two dollar bet on a rank outsider at the Downs.
The brass plate that read Dark Star on his polished wooden door jumped out and kissed my heart as it did every morning, and my lips sprung back to my ears forming dimples. A dampness crept over my skin as I realized there was no soft little nickering from behind the stall door. Bold Forbes, on the other side of the aisle, screamed out; greedy pig that he was--wanted his breakfast the minute he heard anyone in the barn--but there was no welcoming whinny from my Star. I touched the brass bolt that felt like winter ice and my breath caught in my throat as I slid it thinking, [this could be the day I'd always dreaded].
Oh please God, no! Not today. Not now, not yet. That fear and I were old friends. Many nights I'd cried myself to sleep thinking of that day. You know your ears fill with tears when you cry laying down.
Goosebumps rose on my arm. I heard Rambling Willy rattle his feeder in the next stall. The top and bottom halves of the door were bolted together at night and I opened them both at once. I swallowed and took sharp, shallow breaths; my heartbeat pulsated in my head until my vision blurred. Star lay in the pale yellow straw like and angel hardly bending it, the sun streamed in in amber rays and dust particles floated in the light. He weighed 1,185 pounds but he never messed up his bed--not like Bold Forbes who shit in his feeder when he felt the urge. Star's body looked limp and I knew he had already left it, but I didn't want to believe so. His head was towards the door and he was stretched out at an angle with his rump in the far corner and his shinny black tail resting gracefully against the wall. Star was a brown horse, not black or bay but brown. A dark brown coat, with a black mane and tail, and a fawn colored muzzle. Some people would call him plain, but he was treated like a king at the park. He was given the best food money could buy, rich in oils to make his coat shine, and hours of brushing had brought out his dapples.
I dropped to my knees in the straw by his head and extended a shaking hand to feel his cold cheek. There was no pulse under his jaw. Star's famous heart had creased to beat and the blood flowed no more. My nose started to run from one nostril but I caught it with the back of my hand before if fell on his head. Finally my eyes gave way to a teary flood like a river bursting its banks. I tried to catch the tears in my hands but some escaped and splattered dark spots on his ears, one landed in his forelock, and one in the crease above his still open eye that was milky and glazed. I wiped it away with my sleeve and gently tried to close the lid. It was spongy cupped in my palm and refused to shut all the way. In my effort more tears marked his silky face and I stripped off my sweater to mop them up.
Bold Forbes was pawing at his door for food but I didn't care, he was Judy's charge and she would arrive soon. Whoever arrived first in the morning fed all the horses. Dark Star had been one of thoroughbred racing's most famous racehorses. He was a gelding therefore didn't go to stud when his career ended, but he was welcomed at the Hall of Champions and his owners allowed him to stay on condition that he was pampered. Rambling Willy, also a gelding, was a pacing champion, and he and Star were my responsibility. Junior's Image, a hackney I never really believed belonged with the racers, and Bold Forbes, another thoroughbred who had won the Kentucky Derby, were Judy's charges. Forbes was a stallion that had gone sterile at stud, hence he had all the bad manners of a horny old bull.
I leaned back against the stall wall staring at Star's sagging neck and lifeless body. I felt a warm breath I knew to be friendly on the back of my neck. Willy, who was patiently waiting on his breakfast, peered through a crack at me.
"Quit! Forbes," I heard Judy yell as she entered the barn.
"God damn, Karen ain't..." She was standing at Star's open door.
"Oh Lord...Karen. Is he dead?" I nodded.
"I'll call Phil." She backed away and I heard her on the barn phone to the main office asking if Phil had arrived yet. Her voice was wavering, she too was crying. Judy came back to the door, her face streaked wet must have looked the same as mine but she gave me space with Star and said, "I'll...I'll feed, don't you worry about the others."
"Just shut that dog gone Forbes u...up."
"Phil 'll be here any time now...you want anything?" she asked.
I wanted my star back but I couldn't answer, I only shook my head. I wiped my eyes with the sweater I'd never wash and for a moment I thought I saw Star's face, hovering in a misty image above his body--he seemed to wink at me and then he faded.
"Are you all right, Karen?" I hadn't noticed Phil's tall skinny frame in the stall until he touched me on the shoulder. He knelt down staring at Star and I threw my arms around his neck--he helped me up--he was fighting back tears too but tiny droplets formed in the corners of his eyes.
"I called the vet's hospital, Dr. Stone is going to come down himself with the ambulance and crew... they'll take Star to the clinic to embalm him...everything's ready. We won't open the barn today."
There were fifty-three horses in the park of all breeds and sizes. The Hall of Champions was the smallest barn and over looked the others from a hill top. Further down was an all-breeds barn, and beyond that was a carriage-horse barn with a blacksmith's shop attached. The tourists came every day to honor the heroes they once bet on. They'd ask me what Star's favorite treat was and I'd tell them "Little Caesar's pizza, he won't eat any other kind." I was so proud of him when I led him into the ring for visitors to snap shots. I almost felt like my chest would burst, and never got tired of hearing Judy rattle off his racing victories over the microphone on the podium. Star waddled out of his stall three times a day for that routine. He'd gotten a little sway-backed and pot-bellied with age, but he was always a gentleman. People would sometimes say, "He's smaller than they expected," but heroes often are.
I was with Star the day the famous artist George Alexander came to take reference pictures of him running free in the pasture and I watched over his shoulder while he sat making study sketches. Star was inquisitive and came over to see what he was doing. I remember Star stealing Mr. Alexander's hat and running off with it--I had to get it back for him. I desperately wanted Star's memorial sculpture to be even better than the magnificent galloping attitude of Secretariat's. Secretariat's grave is at Claiborne Farm where he stood at stud and I've been to visit many times.
Dark Star would be buried whole, the way all horses should. No dog food can for him. At the height of his career he was insured for three million dollars. Had he been a stallion that figure would have risen to thirty million, but he was not insured when he died and that meant there didn't have to be an autopsy. When the filly Ruffian broke her leg in the match race of the century at Belmont Park, she was buried whole with her nose towards the finish line at Belmont Park, not just head, heart and hooves like they did in the old days because they believed that was the essence of a horse.
Now the heroes in the Hall of Champions all have satin-lined coffins waiting on them in the basement of the park's museum. I'd seen Star's, I'd walked around and touched it, I'd visualized him resting peacefully in it for all eternity. Sometimes during my lunch break I'd go over to the museum and look at pictures of Man O' War in his coffin. Star's plot was marked out well before the end, down in the Row of Champions. He's in good company.
I heard the diesel engine of the ominous equine ambulance backing up to the barn. Steven and Peter, Doctor Stone's assistance who were veterinary students, let the electronic door down. It's whirring irritated me--the beast was going to cart my Star away--from the veterinary clinic he would travel in the huge box to his final resting place among immortal steeds. Dr. Stone's hazel eyes, pale skin and wiry grey hair made him look as distressed as we all were, but his professional composure prevented him from weeping. "I'm sorry Karen," he said and went in to check the corpse. Judy came and stood by my side chewing her finger nails. The other horses were all quietly grinding grain as she had fed them but left their top doors closed so they couldn't see what was happening. Dr. Stone said it was probably his heart. I was relieved he it wasn't colic and he hadn't died in excruciating pain from a twisted bowel.
Steven and Peter dragged a sling out and laid it on the floor beside Star. It took Steven, Peter, Phil and Dr. Stone to roll Star's dead weight onto the sling. Peter wiped his eyes and quickly jumped in the back of the ambulance to start up the motorized winch that pulled Star in with him. Steven followed Dr. Stone's model and controlled his feelings. Star's back leg scraped against the truck door and I motioned forward to protect him before I realized he couldn't feel it. I caught my maternal speech in flight and silenced it as I watched whispers of his hair blow away on the breeze. The door was closed on the worst day of my life.
The legend will live on in racing history: his portrait hangs in the board room at Churchill Downs and his Derby photo took it's place among the winners in the corridor. A shoes is on display in a glass cabinet of the library at Keeneland (I have a whole set), and a replica of his sculpture in Keeneland's paddock is a captivating memorial to the best. But he gallops by the moonlight under the famous twin spires with his buddy Big Red (Secretariat), and a field of heroes past where no one ever runs last.
JOHN HENRY
MAN O' WAR'S GRAVE AT THE KENTUCKY HORSE PARK
BOLD FORBES' GRAVE
RUFFIAN'S MEMORIAL MARKER IN KENTUCKY
SEATTLE SLEW--TRIPLE CROWN WINNER
SLEW'S GRAVE AT HILL'N' DALE WHERE HE PAST AWAY
GAINSWAY STUD'S CEMETERY AND MEMORIAL FOUNTAIN
CALUMET FARM CEMETERY
CLAIBORNE FARM'S CEMETERIES
UNBRIDLED AT GAINSWAY FARM
AND IN MEMORY OF BARBARO
May they all get safely to the wire tomorrow.
