Anyone who lives in the northern half of Florida will tell you this is supposed to be the bone-dry time of year, the sun-drenched weeks when the pastures bake and the forest fires boom, when the mower-addicted little old men have nothing but dirt to cut through on their trusty steeds. But strange things are happening in The Sunless State. Rain clouds have gathered, small tropical disturbances have popped up and there seems no end to the onslaught. Longfellow told us that into each life some rain must fall, but this is ridiculous. We’re well into the second week of this business with no hope of relief and the citizens are getting surly. People have begun throwing lighted matches at passing meteorologists, which would be dangerous under normal circumstances; now the rainfall merely neutralizes the flames. People in Seattle are pointing at us and laughing. It’s an inconvenience, an embarrassment and a blight on the Chamber of Commerce. Imagine taking your family of six to Orlando, paying an emeer’s ransom and spending all your days looking out hotel windows. If this keeps up, Mickey and Pluto will have to start making house calls. It’s unacceptable. Where do we lodge a complaint?
Not to mention the problems with sports. This last weekend, the NCAA Regional Softball Tournament was in town, four teams, double elimination, lots of games. Bill and Siobhan attend these contests, mostly Bill when the weather is grouchy. Siobhan sat in the stands several years ago during a long rain siege and swore off the stuff. Now, the minute the first raindrop descends she’s off to the car. Friday night, early in the third inning, things seemed to be moving along well in Florida’s first game against Bethune-Cookman, when what to our wondering eyes should appear but a fast-moving, wild-eyed grounds crew leaping from the stands to roll the tarpaulin over the infield. Lightning was on the way, or so said somebody. Bill has made his feelings on the subject well known. Until just a few years ago, football games were played in torrential downpours, lightning be damned. To our knowledge, no stadium-dweller ever died. Now, in these days of Whine and Insurance, even phantom lightning detected miles in the distance by dubious contraptions is grounds for suspension. The sun can be shining, makes no difference. A few years ago, Florida’s first football game of the season against Idaho was delayed time and again because of “lightning in the area.” It never rained a drop until 10:30, three-and-one-half hours after the scheduled starting time. The game was lost to an imagined weather problem and never played.
To kill time, we drove over to the new Whole Foods Market nearby. Siobhan had the effrontery to ask if they carried Tums. The horrified clerk assured her they most certainly did not since Tums contained evil food coloring. Gee, that’s strict. But in this era of poison food everywhere you look, give Whole Foods credit for trying to stem the tide. The stores offer a ton of organic stuff and claim to procure as much local food as possible, which could let Anchorage out as a future location. Siobhan eventually bought a bottle of Rebbl Elixir Golden Turmeric Milk, as she is wont to do, but salvaged the deal by grabbing a tasty lemon tart. The nuns were right, as usual---you do have to take the bitter with the sweet.
After scaring away two-thirds of the crowd, the threatened rain never arrives.
Take Me Out To The Ball Game. Hermetically Sealed, Of Course.
Being a life-long Red Sox fan, I have never been one to shy away from horrendous weather where sports are concerned. In Boston, where all the games are sold out months in advance, scalpers will have handfuls of tickets on 40-degree days and drizzly nights. You simply employ the proper skiware and go to the game. I have played baseball in snowy March and barely escaped frostbite watching late November football at Lawrence Memorial Stadium. I watched Florida State and Baylor slog it out on the gridiron during a game-long monsoon one memorable Tallahassee night. Once, in Jacksonville, I actually bought a club seat ticket to the Florida-Georgia game for $5 a half-hour before kickoff, the pounding rainstorm saving me $145. I earned the bargain, though. It never let up during the entire game. Most foolishly of all, many years ago I watched lightning careen all around me at Georgia Tech as UF and the Yellowjackets slipped and slid on the field. So, what’s a little precipitation? Roger Miller once said, “Some people walk in the rain. Others just get wet.” Take your pick.
As the tournament progressed, the Gators and Ohio State persevered to the final game on Sunday. Starting time was noon and we left at eleven. Half-hour later, UF finally posted a delay notice on their Gatorzone website. No need to rush boys. Halfway there, we turned around and went home. The game finally started at seven p.m. and we were there with bells on. Or rather, plastic pants, stall-mucking rubber shoes and a poncho-at-the-ready. Well, I was. Siobhan suddenly remember an urgent need for garden materials at Lowe’s. She finally arrived in the third inning when the skies looked better.
A couple of words about women’s softball. Played at the SEC level, it’s a top-notch sport, the infielders are catlike and strong, the center-fielders can throw the ball a mile and the pitchers can underhand the spheroid at speeds reaching 70+ mph. Florida’s shortstop, Sophia Reynoso, is a whirling dervish who understands all the nuances of the game, when to advance on a ball, when to drop back, almost always anticipating its path correctly, then whipping it to first in a flash. You never feel like you are watching an inferior version of baseball, unlike, say, women’s basketball vs. the men’s version. It’s a quick game, seven innings of zip-zip, third-basemen playing halfway down the line to vacuum up slap-hitters’ bunts, many pitchers now wearing facemasks to protect against vicious short-distance line drives. The players are serious athletes, willing to sacrifice svelte profiles for wider shoulders and thicker thighs, the better to propel themselves through the battle.
Long story short, the Gators prevail, as UF teams always seem to do against OSU, winning 4-0 on a no-hitter by Aleshia Ocasio, who also drove in two runs batting. Aleshia is a miracle who can play any position on the field. Try it sometime, let us know how you do. The weather holds until the sixth inning when scattered raindrops begin to fall. Siobhan, certain the tidal wave is about to descend and swallow up the stadium, departs for her truck. The mist abates and the game goes on without further incident. I didn’t even need my poncho. We can hardly wait for this weekend when the superregionals arrive, pitting Florida against Texas A&M, the winner earning a spot in the Women’s College World Series. The forecast calls for more of the same, but who cares? I’ll be there like Gene Kelly, singin' in the rain. “What a glorious feeling, I’m happy again….I’ll walk down the lane with a happy refrain.…and singin,’ just singin,’ in the rain.” We better win, though.
The Preakness: Reviewing Act II
“Neither buckets of rain, a trackful of mud nor gloom of fog stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.”---Preakness Stakes Motto, 2018
As Snoopy might write, “It was a dark and stormy afternoon.” If the Kentucky Derby was run on a sloppy track, the Preakness was navigated on the Sargasso Sea, a watery venue filled with free-floating sargassum where monsters lurked just beneath the surface, eagerly waiting to take a bite out of any lingerer errantly passing by. This is the life of the thoroughbred race horse, one day frolicking through the grass meadows of sunny Gulfstream Park, the next getting a mud bath in chilly Baltimore. Not all take to it. Some, like temperamental Quip, grumpily withdraw, pulling their shawls around their ample shoulders to ward off the elements. Others, like Tenfold, see it as waterskiing and slip through the mire as if it were nothing. This is what makes horseracing great, its enigmatic nature, its defiance of logic, its capacity for surprise. Seems like there’s a Tenfold in every classics race, a 26-1 shot who suddenly decides Today’s The Day and runs like the wind. A race where the betting favorites finish 1-2-3 is more the exception than the rule.
Since Derby winner Justify chased a fearsome pace in Louisville and trounced his foes, it was altogether logical he would do the same here. The Preakness, after all, was 1/16 of a mile shorter and the small field of eight suggested few traffic problems. If some rash opponent went to the front, Justify would merely track him down and wave cheerily as he sped by. If rivals let him have the lead, he would set a comfortable pace and ease away at the end. The shrewd young trainer Chad Brown, conditioner of Good Magic, had a different idea: run his horse head-and-head with Justify until one of them gave in, best horse wins. As they said at the Edsel plant, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Unfortunately for Chad and the boys, their horse was the one to crash and burn. Good Magic dropped to fourth. Their tactic, however, was not without merit. As happens with many horses who go head-to head for most of a long race, Justify tired at the end and was almost caught by Wayne Lukas’ Bravazo and even the unlikely Tenfold. Hey, if betting on horses was easy, everone would do it.
So the question now is, Can Justify Win The Belmont, a road trip 1 1/2 miles long in just three weeks? Was he compromised in Baltimore by the short two week interval between the Derby and the Preakness? Two horses seemed primed to pass him in another step, if the race was any longer surely he would have lost. Ah, but the race was not any longer. Justify’s 52-year-old jockey Mike Smith has been around, he knows where the finish line is. Does anybody out there remember the Affirmed-Alydar Triple Crown races? Alydar was always charging at the end, how could Affirmed hope to hold on in the endless stretch of Belmont Park? He did, of course, the last winner of the Crown prior to American Pharoah.
For our rookie horse enthusiasts, here’s a suggestion. Go out and run around the block at a manageable pace. Next day, go out and run it as fast as you can. See how far you get. The issue here is pace. In the Preakness, the first six furlongs were run in one minute, eleven seconds+. Nobody will be running that fast in the Belmont. If anyone tries it, somebody will be there to pick him up with a truck. If Justify is on the lead, as seems likely, he will slow the pace down as much as possible. If another horse sets a compromising pace, Mike Smith will not take the bait. In the old days, wily trainers often inserted a “rabbit” in races against free-running favorites, hoping to draw their rivals into suicidal speed duels and allowing their actual contenders to catch the tiring victims. Some horses have a burning need to be in front or very close. Justify is not one of those horses. The real question is how much juice has been siphoned from the favorite’s reservoir of strength and stamina? Under ordinary circumstances, no great horse would be asked to undergo the taxing schedule presented by the three classics, races where the contenders can be expected to lose 25 pounds or more each time they run. But these are not ordinary circumstances, this the The Triple Crown, the measure of the Great Ones, the ultimate scoreboard. If Justify is one of these, he will overcome all obstacles, win the race and be remembered forever. Anything less and he’ll be left on the second shelf with Pleasant Colony, War Emblem and Real Quiet. Everybody recall those guys? I didn’t think so.
That’s all, folks….
