The 135th running of the Kentucky Derby signalled the beginning of American racing’s annual quest for a transcendent star. It’s just possible they’ll die trying

Given I am something of a devotee of horse racing, a woman I know asked me last year if I had an opinion on the harrowing scene that had occurred the week before in the Kentucky Derby at Churchill Downs: The runner-up in the race, the filly Eight Belles, broke both front ankles and had to be euthanised as a capacity crowd and worldwide television audience looked on in horror. Such events are always very sad, even worse if  you have seen it up close: A horse rears up, the hoof hanging by a bloody sinew; a jockey hops off and calmly holds him by the rein; a veterinarian kneels down to inspect the injury, shakes his head and soon ... horse heaven. One day 30 years ago that unseemly end befell a cheap claimer as I stood by the finish line at Timonium Fairgrounds in Baltimore, Maryland, and I still remember how the animal looked at me with that wild fear in his eye.

‘So what do you think?’ asked the woman, not an unknowledgeable sports fan.

‘What do you think?’

‘Horrible!’ the woman shot back. ‘That poor thing!’

Ever in search for a curative for the despondency that afflicts American horse racing, overseers of the sport have long held that only a ‘star’ could rejuvenate interest in it among a wider public. History shows us there could be some truth to this, if only there were an adequate rejoinder to the occasional bolt of hard reality that leaves the uninitiated weeping in grief. While the hardcore horseplayer will always be there in the form of online betting, the consensus seems to be that the only way to bring in casual fans is to provide them with an anomaly, a dazzling talent that can sweep the Triple Crown (the Kentucky Derby, Preakness Stakes and Belmont Stakes) and bump the woeful economy off the cover of Time. Give us ‘the stuff of legends’, the unspoken appeal seems to go. Give us the unforgettable Secretariat, who clicked into overdrive and claimed the remaining jewel of the Triple Crown with such commanding precision that he could have summoned the spirit of the old sportswriter Grantland Rice to the Belmont Park press box to rhapsodize: Just as Pegasus carried thunderbolts for Zeus, the sensational Secretariat carried jockey Ron Turcotte to a 31½ length victory ... by the end of the 1970s, Big Red of Meadow Stable had company on the Triple Crown stage: Seattle Slew in 1977 and Affirmed in 1978, the latter of whom edged the superb Alydar in three stirring duels to the finish. I remember how it seemed to have become so commonplace.

Oh, but how spoiled we were back then. Thirty years have passed since we have had a Triple Crown horse. Eleven horses during that period have won the Kentucky Derby and Preakness but have been beaten in the Belmont, a 1½ mile Bataan Death March that is appropriately called ‘The Graveyard of Champions’. The ‘buried’ there include horses that had truly captured the imagination of the public – Spectacular Bid (1979), Pleasant Colony (1981), Alysheba (1987), Sunday Silence (1989), Silver Charm (1997), Real Quiet (1998), Charismatic (1999), War Emblem (2002), Funny Cide (2003), Smarty Jones (2004) and Big Brown (2008). Four of those horses finished second in the Belmont, close-but-no-cigar propositions that compel romancers of the sport to claim that one of these years it will happen again. Gaps between Triple Crown winners have happened before. Heck, when Citation won it in 1948, it was another 25 years before Secretariat charged into history in 1973 with that oversized heart.

But the skeptic in me is not so sure it can happen again. I say this because of how the sport has evolved (or, shall we say, devolved) since the early 1970s, a period of during which it became customary to inject horses with Lasix (a respiratory bleeding suppressant), and Bute, (a non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drug used in treatment of chronic pain). Horsemen used both ‘therapeutic’ drugs liberally – perhaps with unforeseen consequences. In the same way a pregnant woman who is a drug abuser is likely to pass on complications to her unborn child, it is the belief of some that long-term effect of permissive drug use has weakened the physiology of the breed, which has some observers wondering just how equipped horses are to hold up in the Triple Crown crucible. Add to the equation that thoroughbreds today are bred for sped and not durability, and what we have for lack of a better term is a recipe for

HOW TO COOK A RACEHORSE.

* Saddle up one three year old thoroughbred, lightly seasoned (which is to say, virtually untried as a two year old).

* Sprinkle in three big races over just a five week period (the last of which is at a distance they will never be asked to run again).

* And bring it to a foam by whipping in the possibility of an unspeakably large syndication fee.

Oh yes: Bring a shovel. It could well come in handy.

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Horse racing is not what it used to be in America. In fact, you could say that the sport today boils down to four days on the calendar. A capacity crowd once again came out this year for the Kentucky Derby at Churchill Down, won in a stunning upset by the 50-1 shot Mine the Bird. But with the exception of the three Triple Crown races and the Breeders Cup, horse racing is the province of a relatively few diehards, the few remaining descendants from an era when the sport held a wide appeal. Sunday sports sections in the 1950s and 1960s used to display arresting photographs of the feature race from the day before, and it was not uncommon in Baltimore for a Saturday card to more than quadruple the attendance of the reigning world champion Orioles. Even in outlying jurisdictions such as the old Detroit Race Course, opening day was an anticipated event, a fact that former racing writer Gene Guidi reminded me of when we caught up recently by phone. Guidi told me, ‘I remember standing there in the March chill with a Racing Form, pen and cup of coffee and saying: “This is better than sex.” ’

God knows I used to love going to Pimlico, even if I did not share the same primal urge for the atmospherics surrounding the ‘bangtails’ that Gene did. As a young reporter for the old Baltimore News American, I remember I used to cut out early on Fridays, saunter up to a barbershop for a shave and shoeshine and catch a cab to what we locals referred to as ‘Old Hilltop’. There, I boarded an elevator in the noisy, smoky grandstand and got off at the press box, which opened up into a panorama of the oval, a portion of the backstretch and the stunted skyline of the city. The writers stood out in the sunshine on a wooden balcony on Preakness Day, binoculars slung over their shoulders, high above the welter of beer-swilling Baltimoreans that jammed into the infield. Spectacular Bid won the first Preakness I ever attended and quite possibly would have won the Triple Crown were it not for the insistence of his trainer, Grover ‘Buddy’ Delp, to use callow young Ronnie Franklin in the saddle. With visions of surpassing in legend Secretariat, the egomaniacal Delp was so certain that Spectacular Bid could overcome any obstacle that he would not remove Franklin even when he could have used Hall of Fame jockey Bill Shoemaker.

I happened to speak with Delp not long before he died in 2006. The occasion was a piece I was doing on Franklin, who had been exiled from the track because of a recurring drug problem and was then swinging a hammer on a construction crew. Delp did eventually did hand the reins to Shoemaker, but before Spectacular Bid was upset in the Belmont due to a poor ride by Franklin, who inexplicably chased down the 85-1 shot Gallant Best on the back stretch and was passed by the eventual winner, Coastal, and runner-up Golden Act. While Franklin conceded to me that, ‘I probably rushed him’, the ever-affable Delp still contended that his horse was off form because he had stepped on a pin. But it is still an open question how Spectacular Bid would have done that day with sure-handed Shoemaker on his back instead of the human equivalent of a sack of sand.

Whatever it was that did in Spectacular Bid that day – be it a poor decision driven by ego or the unseen hand of destiny that placed a pin under that hoof – the years that followed unfolded into an array of unsatisfying endings. Occasionally, there would be horses that looked unbeatable, only to be challenged and overtaken deep in the stretch: Real Quiet was nipped at the wire by the hard-charging Victory Gallop in 1998; Silver Charm was beaten by three-quarters of a length when Touch Gold passed him in the final furlong; and Smarty Jones was upset by a length by 36-1 shot Birdstone (who just happens to sire reigning Kentucky Derby champion Mine That Bird). Interestingly, Touch Gold did not run in the Kentucky Derby and Birdstone did not run in the Preakness, which allowed them both to come into the Belmont somewhat fresher. But other Triple Crown contenders since Affirmed won it have placed well back in the field, such as War Emblem in 2002 and Big Brown last year; or – in the case of Charismatic in 1999 – fractured two bones in his left front leg. Trainer D. Wayne Lukas said of Charismatic, who survived to have a career as a stallion: ‘It’s racing and these things happen. We’ll deal with them’.

But it was a horse that did not live long enough to contend for the Triple Crown that changed the way Americans perceive horse racing: Barbaro. Two years before Eight Belles had to be destroyed, Barbaro had won the 2006 Kentucky Derby in convincing fashion, only to break down two weeks later in the Preakness and become the focus of a debate that has centred on the inherent cruelty of horse racing. One knowledgeable observer of the sport that I know called the horse a ‘disaster waiting to happen’, given that it was widely speculated that he had lingering leg problems. But the big money is in the Triple Crown events, and that is where it ended for Barbaro, who fractured three bones in and around his right hind leg. Given his potential value in the breeding shed, Barbaro underwent a series of delicate surgeries aimed at saving his life. Cards and flowers poured in from every zip code, which seemed to underscore the notion that if American do not always love racing, they have enduring fondness for the horses themselves.

A statue was erected this year at Churchill Downs for Barbaro, who lived less than a year before he was finally euthanised in January, 2007. There was a certain edginess surrounding the race this year, in part fuelled by reports that Big Brown last year had been ‘juiced up’ on the anabolic steroid Winstrol; he had to be ‘eased’ in the Belmont Stakes by jockey Kent Desormeaux. Worse, there was the uneasy sense leading up to the Kentucky Derby that yet another breakdown could be a public relations catastrophic. So perhaps it should have been of  no surprise when the 3-1 advance favourite,‘I Want Revenge, was scratched due to an ankle problem by trainer Jeff Mullins, who it should be pointed out had just been fined and suspended in New York for administering cough syrup to a horse that did not have a cough. In any event, it left the fairly wide open race to be won by the unlikely Mine That Bird, whose veteran jockey Calvin Borel found an accommodating spot on the rail, slipped into high gear at the 16th pole and sprinted to a 6½ length victory.

Chances are that Mine That Bird will not become the horse for the ages we have been searching for, that the Triple Crown will ultimately be beyond the scope of his ability. I was somewhat surprised he even agreed to show up for the Preakness Stakes in Baltimore, in part because he has no value as a stud horse. Mine That Bird is a gelding, which is to say he will not command a syndication fee. Early speculation had been that he would thus skip the Preakness and point beyond it. But I suppose I understand what his connections are thinking, even if they themselves are unaware of that old exchange from Damon Runyon: A punter is told by an acquaintance that he was not going to the track that day, whereupon he implores him to reconsider and explains: ‘You could be walking around lucky and not know it!’

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Is that not the enduring appeal of the sport? Even as it appears to have become the passion of a stubborn few in this age of Facebook, I am always reminded of a story told to me by Vinnie Perrone, once a fine racing writer for The Washington Post. Vinnie told me how in the old days they used to run a commuter train to Bowie Race Course in Maryland, and how it derailed one day just before the first race. Injured punters were thrown from the cars this way and that and were left with gaping head wounds and assorted other lacerations. ‘But they got up and began walking to the entrance,’ says Vinnie. ‘It looked like “Night of the Living Dead” coming over the hill. When one of them got inside to a betting window, the cashier said: “Go get yourself cleaned up.” To which the horseplayer replied: “I will, but I have a horse I love in the opener.” ’

Great story, but I have one even better, if only because it happened to me. The place: Windsor Raceway in Canada on a cold winter evening. Far from the genteel aspect of Triple Crown venues, Windsor offered up standardbred fare, not exactly a personal favourite – but hey, the horses still had four legs. Long story short: I get down on a 15-1 shot, a horse called Peachy ... and off they go. Running true to form, Peachy gets out of the gate sluggishly and immediately drops to the rear. When I say she no longer had contact with the field, think two time zones. But just as it appeared the betting slips I held were utterly worthless, the horse leading the race tripped and caused a collision of flying buggies and whips. The only horse left standing was Peachy, who came upon the pileup, tiptoed around it and became the only horse to finish the race. With the win and exacta tickets I held, I went home with $600 or so. But long after that money was spent, I had something that would last far longer: a story I probably told a thousand times and only gets better with each telling.     

Kram is a celebrated sports writer with The Philadelphia Daily News and the regular contributor of the American Read in Business Day Sport Monthly.