If nobody at the track will ever forget the 147th Belmont Stakes, neither will anyone there forget the sound, that din which arose from 90,000 throats as the horses left the starting gate, increased for the two-and-a-half minutes of the race, rising to a crescendo as American Pharoah pulled away down the stretch, and continued unabated as Jockey Victor Espinoza took the horse back to the head of the stretch and paraded him before the fans to the winner’s circle. It was an uncommon roar, an all-encompassing blast of sound equal to the occasion. People couldn’t be heard by their closest neighbors in the grandstand, drivers on nearby highways wondered what disaster had befallen. If it was not a seminal moment for racing, it was a spectacular one and maybe even a necessary one as pressure mounted annually to change the Triple Crown requirements.
Last year, Steve Coburn, one of the owners of Belmont also-ran California Chrome, famously remarked on the impossibility of any modern horse winning the Triple Crown, “I’ll be dead and in my grave before another horse does it!” Saturday, one of the television commentators advised that someone might want to check on Steve because, one year later, the deed had been done. We have been called the Impatient Generation, the Instant Gratification Mob, surly and demanding, ready to change the rules when they don’t suit our selfish requirements. Fortunately, cooler—and wiser—heads have prevailed. When Secretariat finally won the Triple Crown in 1973 after twenty-three years of fan waiting, another long dry spell was expected to follow. Curiously, Seattle Slew in 1977 and Affirmed in 1978 quickly annexed two more. Don’t be astonished if the same thing happens again. And don’t be surprised if it doesn’t.
The Race
Before the running of the Belmont, both the trainer (Todd Pletcher) and rider (John Velazquez) of Florida Derby winner Materiality made a point of announcing that their horse would go for the lead right out of the gate. Seemed like a good idea to us. Materiality seems more comfortable on the lead and American Pharoah was unlikely to engage in an early head-to-head battle in a race so long. Apparently, this was all some sort of ploy because when the gates opened Materiality was perfectly content to sit just off the favorite and apply only a modicum of pressure, allowing the leader to post pokey fractions of 24.06, 48.83 and 1:13.41 in the early going and pretty much guaranteeing nobody was going to catch him at the end. To call this plan lousy tactics would be a kind understatement—Materiality could never catch up. He collapsed and finished last. Frosted made a noble effort, closing to within two lengths at the head of the stretch before Pharoah opened up and won by 5 1/2; the runnerup picked up $280,000 for his trouble. If anyone else was in the race, we didn’t notice. The overtrained Mubtaahij managed to be fourth.
So, was all this a great boon for racing? Temporarily, sure. Will it have great enduring benefits? Probably not. Unlike other sports, horseracing heroes often don’t hang around for long. Most sports fans root for the home team or for particular players. In racing, there is no home team and the Most Valuable Players go to stud unless they are mares or geldings. Zenyatta was great for racing because she remained undefeated over an extended career, but Zenyattas are hard to come by. Imagine Babe Ruth whacking 60 home runs and then waving bye-bye to the multitudes. “Gotta grab a little beach time,” the Babe might say, waving his brown beer bottle as he fades off into the sunset. Or Jack Nicklaus, after winning his first Masters, helicoptering off to design golf courses for the rest of his life.
American Pharaoh is now probably worth in excess of thirty million dollars as a stallion, thus making him almost uninsurable as a racehorse. The price would be too high. If you think thirty million is a lot (and the final figure could be greater), consider that he would probably be bred to a minimum of 100 mares at a fee of $100,000 per mare for a cool ten million a year. That’s not soggy gingerbread. And the insurance figure for a stallion is immensely less than that of a racehorse. A lot of people feel that owner Ahmed Zayat should do the racing industry a big favor and race American Pharoah through his four-year-old season. A lot of people are not getting a thirty million dollar check waved under their noses.
The Triple Crown winner will probably run three more times, at most. Possibly in the Haskell Stakes at Monmouth Park in July, almost surely in the prestigious Travers at Saratoga in August and, finally, in the Breeders’ Cup Classic in November. The finale would pit Pharoah against older horses for the first time and would be no picnic, but three-year-olds have won before. He’s almost gone, so enjoy him while you can. Champions like American Pharoah don’t come along too often. Like, maybe, once every thirty-seven years.
Merritt Dives For Glory
The Girls Of Springtime
“HEY, BROOKSIE—YOU THROW LIKE A GIRL!”
When we were kids, this was about as unkind a cut as one could deliver to a fellow male ballplayer. Girls were physically uncoordinated, terrible at sports (although occasionally amazing at impossibilities like jump rope). When they reached back to throw a ball, the result was laughable—the arm would follow through at a clumsy arc and the ball would drop to earth about five feet from where it started. Occasionally, some female like Joycie Lavery, who grew up in a household of brothers, might come along and dispute the rule but it didn’t happen often. Girls were just hopeless. And if you thought they couldn’t throw, you should have seen them bat. As soon as the pitcher released the ball, they ran for cover, certain they would be struck down by the speeding missile. Girls were relegated to sitting on the sidelines, watching the boys play and chasing errant pitches.
Fast forward to 2015. The University of Florida fast-pitch softball team (girls) is making hash of opponents, rolling up a 60-7 record. They lose about as often as The King and His Court used to do in the early days of fast-pitch men’s ball. Shortstop Jackie Medina looks like Phil Rizzuto out there, scarfing up anything in her general vicinity, moving forward or back to perfectly anticipate the hop of the ball, delivering ropes to first base, never making an error. Center fielder Kirsti Merritt knows no bounds, covering two-thirds of the outfield, racing in like a panther to back up infielders on short flies, throwing runner after runner out at the plate. Catcher Aubree Monroe, a stick of a girl, is up on bunts like Siobhan on chocolate, throwing speedy slappers out at first, blocking the plate like Jabba the Hutt and chopping down would-be base thieves at second and third.
And what can you say about pitcher/designated player Lauren Hager, voted the best player in the country for 2015 and the Most Valuable Player in the College World Series? When she’s not shutting down powerful offenses with a few scattered hits, she’s blasting spheroids over the fences, the only player (well, there was Babe Ruth) ever to win seventy games pitching and hit the same number of home runs. After throwing 160 pitches to beat Auburn in the semifinals, she skipped a day, then allowed Michigan one run (losing 1-0) in the second game of the finals and another in the title game, won by the Gators, 4-1.
This week, the University of Florida baseball team (boys) goes to their own College World Series in Omaha. We think they have a pretty good chance to win it. As long as they play like girls.
Summer Is Icumen In
It’s getting busy around here. Places to go, people to see. Next Tuesday starts the Ocala Breeders June Two-Year-Old sale, where Bill and Siobhan will amble around searching for talent. It’s in there somewhere, all a person has to do is wade through 1100 candidates. Maybe we’ll do better than we did when we picked Bull Ensign out of a yearling sale a couple years back and watched him finish fourth a million times in a row. That horse was eventually claimed in New Jersey last month for $30,000, giving us the opportunity to try again.
Meanwhile, homebred Cosmic Saint is up at Monmouth working toward her first start. After several middling efforts, she finally posted an encouraging 36.4 out of the gate Sunday and should run next month. Our two layabout yearlings, Ava and Micki, have been advised the day nears for their own trip to boarding school. Only four more months of frolicking on the lea before they pick up their beanies and Crayolas and march off to class.
It’s almost vacation time for B&S, as well. Come July 23rd, we’ll be off to Maine by way of New York City and Boston, with a side trip to the old homestead in South Lawrence thrown in. We wrote to the current homeowners of 51-53 Garfield Street the other day and we can’t wait to hear back. I can see it now—our letter arrives, they look at it suspiciously, the husband shakes his head: “I don’t know, Brunhilda—might be a sneaky way to case the joint. Better tell them we’ll be in the French Alps that week.”
Siobhan is looking around for a dress and a wedding ring, even though there are twelve months to the nuptials. This takes a lot of work, just any old thing won’t do. Last I heard, she’s leaning to an outside ceremony with red rock backgrounds, thus requiring something in the vast range of white to eggshell. Knee length or shorter. This isn’t the Renaissance, after all. People keep asking if they can come. This is what happens when you get hitched in Las Vegas. Maybe we should have tried Boise.
Pathogenes is rolling in dough so now we have to visit people like investment counselors and worry about the stock market. Maybe we’ll start a foundation. Tiger Woods has one, perhaps we can talk to him and get some advice. It’s not like he’s doing anything else right now.
With the College World Series wrapping up next week and pro hockey and basketball playoffs about finished, we’re out of sports for awhile. Oh, there’s the Red Sox, but they’re setting a new standard for Dismal. How can you pay millions of dollars to professional hitters and get shut out all the time? They’ve already fired the pitching coach, the batting mentor will be the next to go, then the manager, the GM and the guy who plays the electric organ. The team is currently owned by an odd little fellow named John Henry, who is definitely not a steel-drivin’ man. I don’t think John Henry knows much about baseball and he needs better advice. I keep waiting for his call but the phone never rings.
I’m expecting to see my sisters, Alice and Kathy, when I get to Maine. But only in the evening. Alice and Kathy don’t hike. Alice and Kathy drink wine and spend a lot of time on Facebook. Kathy mainly gabs with her friends and proselytizes for her kid’s rock ‘n’ roll band. Alice bashes Democrats. They have a lot of time on their hands. Alice was thinking about volunteering at the L.A Mexican Soup kitchen but she found out they don’t feed the volunteers free tequila. There’s nothing like family.
It’s June here in soggy Fairfield, so it rains every day. We go from dry as a bone in May to paddock ponding in June. With satellite TV, that means you lose your television all the time. I have discovered, though, that this mainly applies to the hi-def channels and you can often keep the non-HD stations with a deft twist of the knob. This ranks right up there with the discovery of cheese and several of the lesser planets, but it keeps me happy.
I went to visit my old friend B.J. at her hair salon the other day. It’s a twenty-five mile drive just for a haircut but things were not working out at the Ocala drive-by haircutteries. With so little hair to contend with, you’d think they’d do a better job. Anyway, I’ve missed B.J. When I go there, we always discuss politics and other important issues of the day. This time, it was the privatization of Florida prisons, about which B.J. has mixed feelings. Her son is in one of them so she has first-hand experience. “The phone calls are outrageous,” she complains. “It’s fifty cents for three minutes. On the other hand, they let the inmates dress like it’s Casual Fridays on the outside.”
We almost had a nice picture in here with my stepson, Danny, and American Pharoah. Danny drives vans for Brookledge Horse Transportation, haulers of AP, and he snookered himself into a good shot with his wealthy friend. His mother, Harolyn, sent it to Irana and she to me. Trouble is, the photo is a tiny little thing, unforwardable from my ancient phone. Irana is technologically challenged and doesn’t know how to email it and I am progressively challenged and still have one of those flip-top phones from the Troglodyte Era. Siobhan says I have to get with the program because I am the only one left on Earth with one of these dinosaurs, but I know that is not true because one or her employees, Debbie Stuart has a flip-top and so does Internet Heroine Of The Year, Deb Peterson. Siobhan says that pretty soon my little phone won’t work any more because I’ll be bypassed by the latest technology which spits on flip-tops. I don’t believe her. My phone worked on a mountaintop in Alaska, why should it quit now? Siobhan points out that her brand new phone can scratch her nose or book an aisle seat to Duluth, but I don’t need any of that stuff. Shockingly, I just use it to make phone calls. Go ahead—lock me up. Hey, let me tell you something. I can close my phone off to the worries of the world; if it falls into a tub of marmalade, no problem. If it’s run over by a John Deere tractor, it comes up smiling. You can even put it in your back pocket and sit through a movie. Try that with your fancy-schmancy new phones—they come back looking like horseshoes. You have to turn them over and jump up and down on them to straighten them out. You keep your communication instrument and I’ll keep mine. Hello? Is anybody there?
Friend Of Internet Hero Eats
Harry Edwards was not always the Counterculture Archbishop of Austin. Once, long, long ago, he was just a simple little boy with a socially-conscious father, who taught him to always consider the fortunes of others. “Everybody doesn’t have a new shiny Schwinn like you have, Harry. Make sure you give your friends rides.” Harry did not give his friends rides, but he felt guilty about it, and years later when he joined the seminary he promised God he would do what he could to help the less fortunate. And over the years, he has kept his promise, dutifully picketing the child-labor mills, boosting gritty socialist causes and religiously dumping boiling oil on greedy capitalist pigs.
Now, he has been installed and he uses the might of his Bishopric for the betterment of man, often sacrificing his own interests for the sake of his neighbor. Recently, in fact, he donated his Flying Pie Internet Hero Of The Year dinner to a young, struggling neighbor couple, just one year married. Charles and Hannah Packard have been separated for much of that year by the nature of his job as a recruiter for ITT, never a happy circumstance for young marrieds, nor are they rolling in Uncle Scrooge’s money bin; Hannah is an event coordinator for the Austin Humane Society.
So, thanks to Archbishop Edwards, here they are at La V, one of Austin’s finest restaurants. “Some of the best food we’ve ever eaten,” says the grateful couple. Oh, and by the way, The Flying Pie being a progressive outfit, our clergymen are allowed to marry. It’s so much easier on the little altar boys. And Harry is married to the lovely Diane, who we have a sneaking suspicion is in charge of research and development.
That’s all, folks….
