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I came late into the fold of thoroughbred horse racing.
My entrance was not as a 9 yr. old rail-bird, introduced to the Sport of Kings by a program toting dad, but rather by accident. My wife, who was an equestrian all her young life until a disastrous accident derailed her show jumping career, wanted to try a restaurant in Saratoga Springs. A restaurant. In Saratoga Springs.
Can you imagine?
How we came to find the racetrack I do not recall, but we did. The next thing I knew, I was caught up in the Sunday Silence - Easy Goer duels of 1989, and I was hooked. By 1995 I was an avid fan, although where the game was concerned I was still a neophyte. Summers were now spent shuttling between home and Saratoga. The Fall was dedicated to riding the rails to Beautiful Belmont Park. And then a wonderful racehorse named Cigar caught my attention as well as the attention of millions of others, by not losing for what seemed like forever. We were at the Breeders Cup that year to witness the exclamation point that punctuated a fabulous season by an incredible athlete.
Permit me a brief digression:
Occasionally, the debate as to how good he was still rears its ugly head. To those who still wish to measure him, just shut up. You cannot measure heart. Or the heat of the light bulb when it goes on in a racehorse's head. He was a specimen rarely seen in ANY sport, and all he did was what fans and media alike cry out for each and every year:
He carried the sorry state of the Sport of Kings on his back from sea to shining sea for two years.
End of digression.
By 1996 we had been attending the Breeders Cup each year from I don't remember when and Woodbine was to be no exception. The small but venerable race course was a wonderful host, and the threat of a cab drivers strike deterred no one. We sat in bleachers erected for the event just around the top of the stretch. You could look into the eyes of the runners as they came around the final turn, nostrils flared in preparation for their powerful stretch run, and for the first time, I heard for myself the awesome sound of thoroughbred horse power.
The trip began with an omen which needless to say, I ignored. My wife is the one who really knows horses and horse flesh. She has provided me with many insights and winners over the years... when the mood strikes her, of course. From our early days at Saratoga - before cell phones - where she would signal me from the paddock while I stood at the edge of the second floor clubhouse and watched her with my binocs, to just the other day when she popped into the living room, took a quick look at the post parade on the TV, and gave me a $30 horse...that I did not play, she just knows from a lifetime of experience.
Well, on this day, as we were checking in at the regal Royal York Hotel, she looked to her left and at the front desk standing next to us, and checking in at the same time, was Chris McCarron. "That's your Classic winner!" she whispered to me as I presented my American Express Card. I looked at Chris, looked at her, and promptly forgot the conversation in favor of the frequent flyer points dancing about my head. She still reminds me...when the mood strikes her, of course.
But this story is not about the stone cold silence that filled a stunned track as the Canadian sun was setting, when Alphabet Soup and Louis Quatorze finished just ahead of one of racing's great heroes. Or about the hair raised on the back of my neck as I heard that trio leaning into the top of the stretch and reaching out in unison for that final gear right before my eyes. It is really about Ricks Natural Star and the "Look of Eagles". What? You have never heard of Rick's Natural Star? And you call yourself a race fan? I won't get into the guts of the story about Rick but it was big time in 1996. I will instead, provide you with a link to a Thoroughbred Times story I recently discovered which kind of spawned this tome.
Use it.
But I will mention the "Look Of Eagles". I cannot say for sure that I knew of the Prix de l'Arc de Triomphe in 1996. As I said, I was still a neophyte. I can say for sure that I had never heard of Pilsudski and in fact, only recently was able to say his name without sounding like the Novocain had yet to wear off! And I certainly had no clue of his finish in the Arc, or of his ability to do what he did in the Breeders Cup Turf that year.
Now, in preparation for the Breeders Cup Turf, and to get as far away from me as possible - a sullen loser up to that point in the day - my wife dispatched herself to the paddock to assess the entrants and try to help me out. As I recall, it had rained in the days prior and the ground was soft and in some places muddy. I was standing in a long line of bettors fondling the wad of cash in my pocket, looking at my form, and wondering what to do in this terrific race that included Singspiel, Swain, Shantou, Diplomatic Jet and local champion Chief Bearheart.
The cue snaked towards a makeshift betting window in a field adjacent to the temporary bleachers where we sat. The ground squished underneath my shoes. At some point I heard my name being called and sure enough, here was my wife running...on a knee replacement...one that was 12 years and 20 surgeries in the making! She was hauling across the muddy field towards me. I cringed with each unsure step, the mud giving way underneath her feet.
"How much money do you have?"
"Why?"
"Because you are going to put it all on number 7. All of it."
She had seen that blank stare before.
"Trust me. He has the Look Of Eagles."
"The what? What the hell is the Look of Eagles?
And then I realized that my wife had seen in Pilsudski what only she could and I could not.
My beloved Cigar! I would not have anything left to pay my respects to him, and he deserved my support after what he had done the previous year.
And what about lunch?
As we shuffled slowly towards the teller, she made her pitch. When my turn at the window came, to her credit, she walked away and left me to my own private torture.
"Two dollars to win on Rick's Natural Star, please!"
The teller punched the ticket, then stared at me. "Anything else?" I considered the question for a long moment.
"Yes."
I swallowed hard and then, pulled out all the cash.
As for Rick, you can read about him using the link on my website. I still have the ticket. It is tucked away in the racing form I used that day. The printing has faded to nothing, as has the memory of this horse and what his selfish owner put him through. But he survived as these noble creatures tend to do, and lives in luxurious retirement without a care in the world. A deserving reward to be sure.
As to the reward for trusting the Look of Eagles? Well, a small portion went to supporting Cigar in his quest for a second Breeders Cup Classic.
Of course, the winning horse was Alphabet Soup. And the winning jockey?
I forget!
Posted: September, 2016
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