Jun 07 2008
The Aftermath
Well.
Well, now.
It was so quiet, wasn’t it, at the end– the crowd stunned and silent, no one more than an utterly subdued Rick Dutrow, drenched in sweat and humility.
Maybe the big horse is hurt. Maybe he’s just now realizing he’s not perfection in horsehide. Even so… terribly sorry to hear about the sudden drop in the price of your sperm, Big Brown.
“He’s never lost before,” I said to my husband as the bemused colt was walked around and around the shedrow before the draped, soaking figure of Dutrow.
“He’s like, ‘This sucks,’” he agreed.
It does suck, for the sport; for the fans; for Big Brown himself, still fighting to run with painfully earnest, staccato steps even as his jockey eased him; and for the Feral Herd which struggled to find a crass emotional hook upon to hang the win, and found it in the Desormeaux’s ailing son. Motherless Molly Dutrow came in a distant second in the Tragedy Sweepstakes. For seven hours the coverage raged, very little actual racing within. Other major stakes on the undercard, each one an opportunity to showcase the flashing brilliance of the sport, were ignored in favor of watching Kenny Manes jog around a high school track with a gaggle of three-year-old children in tow.
“What Can Brown Do For You?” asked the UPS banner draped across the starting gate, so painfully visible in the replay. Apparently, come in eleventh. Those who picked the superfecta today just won about fourteen mortgage payments. And good for them– good for them for noting the gross misalignment of the stars.
Otherwise, best of luck selling that uncashed Big Brown win ticket on eBay.
