If you’re a regular reader of this column, then you know that I do my level best to avoid inserting myself into the stories I write. I neither train or own equine stock, and I haven’t been able to make riding weight since the days when I consumed a good percentage of my meals from my trusty Power Rangers lunch box. So I don’t belong in these stories.
But, in this case, I feel that the best way I can serve you is to offer you my personal perspective on the day‘s events. After all, you, most certainly, know by now that Shackleford won Saturday’s 136th running of the Preakness Stakes, prevailing by a half-length over Kentucky Derby winner Animal Kingdom.
There’s nothing I can give you on the race itself that you can’t get elsewhere. So all I can do is try to take you there, and make my case - one that differs with what I perceive to be the prevailing opinion - as to why this year’s Preakness should be regarded as special.
*****
The Pimlico Stakes Barn was buzzing on Saturday morning. Kentucky Derby winner Animal Kingdom had just arrived. The photographers were camped outside Stall 40, the stall traditionally reserved for the Derby winner. Not far away from Stall 40, ESPN’s Jerry Bailey and Hank Goldberg were consulting with a producer, preparing to shoot a stand-up for SportsCenter. This area, on Saturday morning, was where the action was.
At the opposite end of the Stakes barn, several hundred yards away from the hustle and bustle of Preakness morn, John Shirreffs sat alone on a bench. Such solitude surely was not afforded him on the morning of the 2010 Breeders’ Cup Classic, as the conditioner of the horse everyone was there to see - the great Zenyatta. On this morning, though, as the trainer of Preakness longshot Mr. Commons, he was left alone.
I watched him for a few minutes, and wondered what he was thinking about, as indeed he wore a look of deep contemplation on his face. He played with a cell phone for a moment - appearing to text someone - but apart from that, he sat still and gazed at the stall where his charge was quartered.
Surely this man has other thoughts, mundane thoughts, as he goes through his daily life. Surely he thinks about what to eat for breakfast, or what time he’s supposed to pick up the car from the shop, or who should win American Idol. And, of course, he must surely think about the horses currently in his care - Mr. Commons being one of the more promising prospects in his stable at the moment.
But I wondered, as I watched him, if the incredible mare who’d triumphed in all but one of her races ever strays too far from those thoughts. On a morning like this, in the stakes barn getting ready for a big race day, Zenyatta had to be on his mind.
He wasn’t smiling. But he wasn’t frowning either. He just seemed to be thinking.
Due respect to the horse he’d saddle nine hours later (who would go on to finish a well beaten eighth), it had to be about her.
It always is.
It always will be.
*****
I had heard the stories.
I had heard about the nudity, and the all-around debauchery. I was told to expect to see people running across portable urinals (which appeared to be about as sturdy as a jenga tower). I was told to expect madness.
Maybe all of that happened a little later on. But when I ventured over there shortly after 12 noon, what I saw was strictly PG-13.
I saw drinking. I heard music. I saw drinking. I watched a professional beach volleyball game. I saw drinking. I inexplicably passed on an opportunity to eat funnel cake. I saw drinking. I got a look at the man (the centaur), the myth, the legend that is Kegasus. I saw drinking. I witnessed a man physically collapse like the Houston Oilers defense against Frank Reich (no, I couldn’t possibly find a more dated sports reference).
And I saw drinking.
I did not, however, see any part of the human body that I don’t normally see walking the streets of New York (okay, bad example). Nor did I see the famed urinal run, save for a few souls who, perhaps, made such a dash after consuming any one of the many scrumptious, indigestion-inducing bits of culinary goodness that were available on the infield.
The Maryland Jockey Club endeavored to stage a party that was both fun and safe.
As far as I could tell…mission accomplished.
*****
I was in the Pimlico press box about a half-hour following the race. The fact that I didn‘t immediately compose a race recap story made me, pretty much, the only person in the room who wasn’t in front of a laptop.
The busy reporters were simultaneously pecking away at their keyboards and viewing the post-race press conference, in which the winning connections were offering their thoughts. I was barely paying attention, figuring I’d get the transcript later to get all the quotes I’d need for my story. I was headed out to the balcony to find a quiet spot to call for a taxi, as I had very little time to get to the station to catch my train back to New York.
As I was walking out towards the balcony, though, I was caught by the sound of jockey Jesus Castanon, who had just piloted Shackleford to a half-length victory. His voice seemed to be cracking. I looked at the monitor, and saw that he was choked up.
He was speaking about his father, who passed away in November - the result of kidney failure.
“He was on dialysis,” Castanon said. “He only last(ed) three years. Once the race --”
At this moment, Castanon was unable to speak. He was overcome with emotion. Moments before, I was in a frantic rush, hastily gathering my belongings and getting ready to make a dash for the exit. But now I was frozen. I was captivated by the moment.
Fighting off tears, he continued.
“When I came to the wire, he just came to me. I know he was up there watching me.”
There was a brief pause before the next question was asked as Castanon was given a chance to gather himself. It felt as though that pause lasted an eternity (even though it, in actuality, lasted only a few seconds), as this 38 year old man laid bare his soul, and shared his grief in the most public way imaginable.
The rest of the room seemed as taken in as I was. The typing, if it didn‘t cease completely momentarily slowed. The reporters sat there and watched. I did too. Right then, the fact that I had to be on a train in 90 minutes -- and that the traffic leaving the track was surely a mile long -- was the furthest thing from my mind. I stood still.
The next question was finally asked, after what seemed like an eternity. It was about something completely unrelated.
I awoke from my momentary mental slumber, and resumed the business of departure. Shaken.
*****
I concluded my hectic, eighteen-hour Preakness Saturday on an Amtrak, which afforded me an opportunity to reflect on the weekend in Shirreffs-ian fashion.
I thought about what I’d observed over the course of what will go down as one of the most memorable days of my life. From the contemplative peacefulness of John Shireffs in the quiet morning, to the drunken sea of humanity in the afternoon, to the man who reached the pinnacle of his profession in the evening, and dedicated it to his late father, the day was chock full of indelible images. I witnessed -and I felt - pretty much every emotion a human being can experience during these eighteen incredible hours.
Horse racing may have lost on Saturday as we found out definitively that, for the 33rd consecutive year, there will be no Triple Crown winner.
But humanity won. That’s good enough for me.