It wasn’t a particularly distinguished field that lined up in Saturday’s Vanity Handicap to face defending champ Zenyatta. Just a couple of Grade 2 winners to try to derail her undefeated march to immortality.
But it was a virtual Murderers’ Row compared to the opposition faced by Rachel Alexandra in the Mother Goose that same day; she saw all of two rivals, who seemed hell-bent on guaranteeing her a victory by running each other into the ground.
Rachel Alexandra’s runaway victory was, of course, devastating. The race was largely a forgone conclusion before the horses entered the starting gate. Once Malibu Prayer, pressed along by Flashing, sprinted a half in 44 seconds and change, the only remaining question was how much Rachel would win by. The answer was plenty.
Zenyatta’s victory was more hard-earned and more workmanlike (workwomanlike?). Yet in a way, it was the more impressive. Conceding her rivals 13 to 18 pounds, Zenyatta didn’t appear to have her ‘A’ game on Saturday. She ran a bit closer to the pace than normal — jockey Mike Smith feared that the 129 pound impost would blunt her usual explosive move — and struggled to get into overdrive. Midstretch, track announcer Vic Stauffer noted that the champ was two-and-a-half lengths back “but gotta go.” Finally, she did and pulled away late to win by a couple.
The true test of a champ is not how well they perform when everything goes exactly right; it’s how they respond when things aren’t quite right — when they don’t have their ‘A’ game, or when the pace scenario is unfavorable, or when their rivals have an enormous weight advantage, or all of these things. On a day when her explosive wide move just wasn’t available to her, Zenyatta found the heart and courage and class to wear down her rivals and win once again.
Of course, the test for which the racing world is clamoring is for the two super-fillies to face off against each other. Various developments over the last few days have made that possibility seem more plausible, which is all to the good.
A year ago, Zenyatta was the upstart, and Ginger Punch, the returning champ. Zenyatta traveled east to Oaklawn Park, where she trounced Ginger Punch and four other rivals on the real dirt in the Apple Blossom. Since then, she’s feasted on a steady diet of Grade 1 and Grade 2 races in her home base of Southern California.
Today, Zenyatta’s the defending champ, while Rachel Alexandra is the upstart challenger. So, of course, the blogosphere is clamoring for Jess Jackson and company to take Rachel to the champ’s lair and…
Nope, that’s not at all what the blogosphere is clamoring for. Actually, it’s clamoring for Zenyatta to come east again. There are, I suppose, many factors that account for it: East Coast bias, anti-polytrack sentiments, love of Jess Jackson. Probably others, too.
Still, it’s an interesting dynamic. The Mosses’ reward for bringing back their undefeated champion for another year of racing? Getting excoriated for a “boring” campaign of Grade 1 and Grade 2 races in California, accused of coddling her to protect her undefeated record (as if Grade 1 and Grade 2 races were starter allowances), criticized for not jumping to bring their horse east to meet Rachel (when, of course, Rachel could just as easily — and, arguably, should — go west to find the champ), bashed for not racing males.
It’s hard enough to get people to bring good horses back when the call of the breeding shed is so strong. I can’t imagine that the (largely unjustified) criticism the Mosses have faced will make them — or anyone else — more likely to resist that call in the future.
Meantime, I’ll enjoy watching these two special fillies. If they meet, it could be one of the truly great races. If not, that’s OK, too. Just having them around and on the racetrack is plenty.
Saturday’s Stephen Foster Handicap (G1) at Churchill Downs featured a salty crew of Grade 1-winning handicap horses…
No, wait a minute. In fact, it didn’t include even one horse that had ever won a Grade 1 event on the main track. The hard-hitting Einstein had, of course, scored at the highest level on the lawn and on Jess Jackson’s preferred surface (lovingly referred to as “plastic”) but never on real dirt.
Winner Macho Again, meanwhile, had a couple of Grade 2 wins to his credit but had also finished sixth or seventh in three of his last four starts, including a distant sixth in the G3 Alysheba in his last out.
Meanwhile, at Monmouth, two Grade 1 winners and a bunch of other hard hitters tackled the ungraded Monmouth Stakes on the grass.
Which is a way of saying that something not very good is happening to traditional dirt racing in this country.
Consider three sets of Beyer figures:
99
111
117
108
112
117
103
110
118
106
119
114
120
114
111
106
119
Avg: 107
Avg: 113
Avg: 116
Those on the far right are the last six figures recorded on real dirt by Medaglia d’Oro. He was, at the time, considered a terrific but not necessarily dominant horse; he lost two of the races in the sequence represented above, with Beyers of 118 and 117 (the Pacific Classic, to Candy Ride, and the Breeders’ Cup Classic, to Pleasantly Perfect).
Those in the middle are Curlin’s last five figures recorded on real dirt (thus throwing out his turf and polytrack tries). Unlike Medaglia d’Oro, Curlin was widely considered an unbeatable super-horse on the main track and won all five races represented in this table.
Those on the far left represent the winning Beyers in the last six Grade 1 races run on dirt at a route distance that were won by a horse other than Curlin. Only Commentator, with a 120 in the Whitney, exceeded 110, and Macho Again’s winning figure on Saturday was a mere 99.
I’m not a huge Beyers guy; I recognize the difficulties inherent in trying to make speed figures (having, at various times, done so myself), so I understand how and where they can go awry. However, the trend portrayed above is hard to miss:
In six years (Medaglia d’Oro’s oldest figures here date from ‘03), our impression of a horse that can average in the 115 range has changed from “one of a few really top-class horses” to “unbeatable super-horse” to “freakishly, astoundingly, toweringly good.” Moreover, the average at the highest level has declined nine full points in six years; that’s a six or seven length difference.
What does it all mean? At the most basic level, these figures indicate that the difference between top class dirt horses in the country today (the Grade 1 winners) and ordinary horses (the $10,000 claimers whose pars at different distances are typically set as the calibration point in making this style of speed figures) is not as great as it was a few years ago.
Theoretically, that could mean that ordinary horses are better than they used to be. However, that would represent a pretty dramatic improvement for a lot of horses in a short period of time.
More likely is that the top quality horses aren’t quite as good as they used to be. Given that the true top of the racing tree is never more than four or five horses deep, it’s easy to see that a little bad luck here or there could dramatically reduce the quality of the best group. It’s also easy to see how a bumper crop could change all that.
Still, there’s more than bad luck at play, I think. The rush to hustle good quality three year-olds off the track and into the breeding shed obviously has a negative impact on the handicap division. That rush often removes not only established stars — Big Brown, Street Sense, Hard Spun — but also solid second-tier horses that might have developed into something better, given time.
Contrast this trend with the treatment of turf horses, who generally are allowed to remain on track for longer and often bloom later. Shakis, for example, didn’t win a stake until he was seven years old.
The trend towards breeding for precocity and speed — in other words, for the sales ring — rather than durability and stamina may also have something to do with these results and may be leading to more quality sprinters. The six furlong True North, on Belmont day, drew two Grade 1 winners in a field of just six, for example.
Used to be that the difference between Grade 1 horses and everyone else was unmistakable. Medaglia d’Oro’s three Grade 2 tries resulted in easy wins, at odds as low as 1-10, with comment lines like “wrapped up.” Curlin’s venture into the ungraded Jaguar Trophy in his final season earned the comment “easily.”
Contrast that with Macho Again’s four length defeat in Grade 3 company in early May.
What’s a fan and bettor to do? Turns out that there’s still plenty of juice in the turf division, with lots of Grade 1 winners facing off against each other (four of them in the Manhattan on Belmont day) in high quality heats. And if you can stomach racing on “plastic,” we’ve still got Zenyatta.
But it sure would be nice to see a stronger, deeper handicap division.
The handsome young fellow in the video below almost immediately earned the nickname “Rocket” from the good folks at Country Life Farm who are taking care of him and his mother, The Big Four Oh. Seems he likes to zoom around his mom, leaving her exhausted.
When we were there the other day, four mare-foal sets were enjoying the first sun Maryland had seen in days. The oldest foal, a Malibu Moon filly, was born in February; the youngest, our fella, hit the ground running on April 30.
It’s a funny thing, watching the mares and their newborn foals in the field. There’s a tenderness in the interactions that you somehow don’t expect to see: the mare, waiting while the foal nurses, flicking her tail to keep the flies off him; the foal, boldly exploring on his own, but then scampering back to mom. There’s more humanity in the exchanges than we might expect.
Of course, even at this early date, there’s some disappointment. One foal is too small, while another is too fine-boned. Some owner paid good money to get not much of a foal. Breaks of the game. Breed her back, and try again.
For the rest of us? For the rest of us, our foals are budding stakes winners. Rocket carries not only his pappy’s regal blood but also his distinctive arrowhead blaze. And he carries dazzling speed through his maternal line. The result: A great stayer with tactical speed? Only time will tell.
The old saw holds that you breed the best to the best, and then hope for the best. But for most of us, that’s not quite true; most of us don’t own the best. Our unraced mare by a disappointing sire doesn’t exactly make the racing world’s heart flutter, but she’s ours all the same. So we breed the best we can to what we have, and hope for the best.
Still, in these strange days, when sales ring trumps winner’s circle, there are breeding bargains to be had. If you dig. If you are patient enough. If, as ever, you are lucky.
Of course, Rocket doesn’t know any of this. All he knows right now is that every day brings something new, each experience something previously unimagined: a whole world and all his to explore. And he also knows that mom will be nearby, just in case.
Which, for a five week old colt, adding about a pound-and-a-half to his spindly frame each day, is plenty.
Seemed like a good day in the offing when the buglers hit “Fugue for Tinhorns” early in the day at Belmont (”Got your horse right here, his name is Paul Revere…”)
And, indeed, it was: some big, front-running efforts on the main track (Fabulous Strike in the True North, Gabby’s Golden Gal upsetting the Acorn), a Manhattan that class players loved (four G1 winners in the field go first through fourth, leading nevertheless to a $151 exacta and a four-figure triple), and a Belmont that didn’t run quite the way anyone expected it to but still produced an exciting finish. Especially if Summer Bird completed your double or other multi-race sequence.
Of course, the Daily Racing Form and Equibase will be happy to provide you with the official chart and comments. My own, highly unofficial comments follow:
SUMMER BIRD took wing down the lane, providing some redemption for jockey Kent Desormeaux, who previously had been extremely flappable in the Belmont. DUNKIRK, who needed his own rescue operation after a dismal Derby, nearly stole a march on the field and received a battlefield commendation for his courage in fighting back. MINE THAT BIRD showed, again, that he is a bird to be minded with his third straight in-the-money finish in a classic, but jockey Calvin Borel’s magic touch from previous races deserted him as he made a too-soon move. CHARITABLE MAN, taken up sharply when DUNKIRK crossed into his path, received no gifts from the stewards, who did not alter the placings. LUV GOV — hate horse. FLYING PRIVATE will be downgraded to coach after this no-impact effort. BRAVE VICTORY’S triumph came in avoiding last place. MR. HOT STUFF proved again to be simply tepid. CHOCOLATE CANDY looks great but is, predictably enough, empty calories. MINER’S ESCAPE’s connections will be searching for new canary for this coal mine.
As Nicely says in “Guys and Dolls,” keep in mind that “this is no bum steer — it’s from a handicapper that’s real sincere.”
A friend of mine told me this story: A few years ago, he paid $1,000 for a yearling. He moved heaven and earth to have the horse ready to run when two year-old races in Maryland began (in April). Racing against the small group of Maryland two year-olds ready so soon, the horse recorded a second, then a first.
He fielded offers to buy the horse. He finally sold it for $75,000. The horse went on to a career of no particular note.
Which, in a roundabout way, is why the Belmont, the “Test of Champions,” these days is an increasingly quirky and quixotic endeavor in which the winner is more likely to be the last horse standing than the horse of the highest quality.
Four times in the last seven years, the 12-furlong marathon has been won by a rank outsider, starting with Sarava in ‘02, who was 70-1, and ending with Da’Tara last year, a much more moderate 38-1. While longshot winners are no bad thing, two of the four bombers — Jazil and Da’Tara — had won only a maiden race prior to their Belmont triumph. Moreover, neither Jazil nor Sarava ever won again after their Belmont wins, and Da’ Tara is winless since his. (Birdstone, on the other hand, was a legitimate horse and won Grade I races both before and after his Belmont triumph).
It’s wise to be cautious about drawing conclusions with small sets of data, and seven recent races is nothing if not a small set. But the onslaught of unlikely winners with dubious credentials who go on to undistinguished careers has to make one wonder if something else is going on here.
Which brings us back to my friend and the ultra-cheap yearling on which he turned a hearty profit.
For everyone in racing who has to keep at least one eye on the bottom line — which is to say, virtually everyone — precocity is an extraordinarily powerful asset in a horse. The purses for two year-olds are exactly the same as for older horses, and the fields are much lighter, since (especially early in the season) most of the generation isn’t racing yet.
In other words, earning opportunities are plentiful for young horses, and the competition is easier. Low-hanging fruit, you might say.
At the same time, baby races are usually short sprints, most often five furlongs or less. Sixteen of the 17 two year-old races in the current condition books at Delaware and Colonial are sprints, with Colonial also carding a one-mile grass race later this month. It’s not exactly a shock that the horse best equipped to thrive in short sprints may not be the next Belmont winner.
What’s more, most horses are bred for the sales ring, rather than the racing strip. The sales ring likes big, strong, good-looking horses — right now. It rewards physical precocity and punishes the late developer, thus providing further incentive to breed for the here-and-now rather than the misty future.
As fewer and fewer horses seem equipped to handle longer route races, racing secretaries card fewer of them, further diminishing the incentive to breed them. At Laurel this last meet, for example, unable to fill the nine-furlong races for which the track was designed, the racing secretary resorted to writing 1 1/16 mile races, which start practically on the first turn — a lousy outcome necessitated by the lack of horses able to get the longer distance.
The future likely portends more of the same, and if it continues, you will see a gradual reordering of racing priorities, with more emphasis on races like the Met Mile — middle distance races that bring together routers and sprinters — and less on the classic distances.
In the meantime, consider this betting angle: six of the last seven Belmont winners, including all four of the longest shots, were sired by horses who won at a classic distance.
NOTE: A special thanks to our friends at the Paulick Report and at Equidaily for picking up our last post regarding Marion Cornwell. While we’re always pleased for the extra pub, I was especially grateful that Stick Man’s story reached a wider audience. Thanks, folks!
In the moments after his Preakness victory aboard Rachel Alexandra, an emotional Calvin Borel said, “I love you, Mom and Dad, and thank you for the little boy that got cancer here. We’re going to try and help him, okay?”
The little boy, the 33 year-old man, is Marion Cornwell.
Most racetrack folks toil far from the bright lights. For every Calvin Borel, who’s come from the backwoods bush tracks of his youth to win some of America’s most important races, there are dozens, hundreds more who don’t quite get there. And it is these people who are, if not the face of racing, then its backbone.
Like Marion Cornwell, the Stick Man.
I don’t know Stick Man personally, though it’s likely that he’s galloped a horse or two of mine. He’s been an exercise rider in Maryland since 2002, and in 2007, he took out a jock’s license. You see riders like him at every racetrack: a jockey with bad statistics riding bad horses and hoping for the best.
He’s had 259 career starts, with 12 winners and earnings of a touch less than $150,000. He earned his first win in 2007, aboard a horse with the unfortunate name of Banana Pancakes (who was 70-1 that day), and his most recent on April 24, at Pimlico.
That’s his most recent victory because of the pancreatic cancer which has now spread throughout his body. He’s 33 years old. Doctors measure his anticipated lifespan in months.
Sunday evening, a cross-section of Maryland racing gathered at Laurel Park for a benefit and silent auction for Stick Man. I commented to a woman there about the nice turnout. She replied, “Racetrack people take care of each other. It’s what we do.”
And, indeed, they — we — did. Borel had contributed numerous autographed items, pictures, hats, and the like. Edgar Prado had sent along a saddle. Jeremy Rose offered up a no-guarantee breeding season to Afleet Alex, which fetched more than $10,000.
Bidding was spirited, and the event raised a lot of money to help defray Cornwell’s mounting medical expenses. Though what brought us together is sad, the atmosphere was anything but. There was a palpable sense of community — of paying it forward — in the room.
Oh, and one other noteworthy auction item: a blown-up win photo, autographed by numerous jockeys, from Banana Pancakes’ maiden score, Marion Cornwell aboard. That brought $4,000.
(Please contact That’s Amore for info on how contribute to the cause).
Larry King has a little problem with something we like to call the truth.
And horse racing has a little problem we like to call terminal stupidity.
First, Mr. King’s problem. In an excerpt from his new book, “My Remarkable Journey,” King recounts a tale from his younger, broker, less suspender-laden days.
Down nearly to his last dollar in mid-1971, King joined a friend on a trip to Calder Race Course near Miami. He had no job and no money but plenty of debt and a four year-old daughter named Chaia (which I’m sure is pronounced with a “K” sound, but which had me singing, “Ch-ch-ch-chia” after the pets, but I digress).
King saw a horse named Lady Forli, racing in cheap company against males. He assessed her realistic odds at 20-1, but was excited to see that her toteboard odds were 70-1 (tip: betting on no-hopers whose odds are somewhat longer than you think they should be is a way to go broke fast!).
Barely able to contain himself, King scampered up to the windows and bet the horse nine ways from Sunday: win, under and over the field in exactas, and on top of a triple. You probably don’t need me to tell you what happened next: the horse won, King cashed on the win, the exacta, and the trifecta, and woo-hooing ensued.
King garnered nearly eight thousand dollars off the bet. As a result, he paid both his child support and his rent for the coming year. In the book, he reports, “It had to be one of the happiest moments of my life — certainly the most exciting.”
Ah, but there, as they say, is the rub. Because the horse in question, Lady Forli, wasn’t born until the following year. Because she never raced at Calder and never won in the United States. Because trifectas weren’t available at Calder in 1971. Because the amount of money he won in this telling is considerably less than the amount he claimed to have won in a previous telling. Because the pocket-less Pierre Cardin jeans outfit he was wearing sounds like a heinous crime against humanity.
Fortunately, Deadspin (here) is on the spot, leading an angry horde of reporters dedicated to setting the facts straight, which means either that the story is made up — which evidently wouldn’t be the first time he’d concocted a great story — or that Mr. King got the details wrong. Of course, since the event occurred nearly four decades ago, either possibility seems plausible.
Still, in general, the angry mobs of racing fans, much diminished these last decades, are ready to storm the castle and hurl Mr. King to his death. The details, they say — correctly — don’t add up. Our pals at Equidaily have a great graphic of Mr. King, in which the speech balloon has him saying, “I won the tri… And I’m an astronaut… and czar of Russia… and…”
Good stuff, and — fortunately — racing’s future is not likely dependent on the veracity of a Larry King story. Let’s hope not, in any case.
But racing’s future probably is dependent, in part, on offering compelling stories to the public, and not just compelling horse stories (like the one being written by Rachel Alexandra and Mine That Bird right now). A celebrity who calls his day at the races “one of the happiest moments of my life” is marketing gold: an unsolicited testimonial from a well-known and much-admired source. And if the details are wrong, well, I imagine Mr. King can laugh that off.
Not such gold, however, that DRF could mention it, or that the NTRA could see fit to include this news as one of its top nine stories of the day. Certainly wouldn’t want to displace the “news” that the NTRA has a sweepstakes promotion this summer. Or something.
One of racing’s myriad problems is that, for the most part, it’s a grinding sort of gambling: you grind out a small profit (if you’re good enough) and make your money on volume. Most folks out for a casual day, however, aren’t really looking to turn two dollars into ten; they’re looking for a lottery score, a life-changer. They’ll trade win percentage for a chance at a big score.
Which is exactly what Mr. King did (or claims to have done). He went to the track with a friend, simply to have an enjoyable day out, and he turned his last $40 into about $8,000 — more than $42,000 in current dollars.
This is a great story, told by one of America’s most famous and most gifted story tellers. This, my friends, is a tremendous opportunity to share our great sport with a public that’s largely forgotten about us. It’s manna from heaven, dropping out of the sky into our unsuspecting laps. It’s a chance to…
Nah, on second thought, I’d rather debate when exactly the trifecta was invented.
It’s been said, in another context, that academic battles are fierce precisely because the stakes are so low.
So it is with sports in general and sports commentary in particular, in which the nearly meaningless becomes invested with the hand of God himself. Because apparently God has nothing better than to do than to prevent this team from winning a championship, or clear the path for that one to do so. Right.
In recent weeks, we have had the supposed worst Derby winner ever — reviled as if he were a pro wrestling villain spitting on the American flag, this interloper proving by his very existence the dismal state of American racing — facing off against a super-filly anointed as Secretariat-in-a-skirt, carrying, evidently, all the hopes of womanhood for a brighter tomorrow on her broad brown back.
But, as is so often the case in horse racing, a funny thing happened on the way to the forum, and the result was a Preakness that was, in almost all respects, a satisfying one that gave us something better than one pat storyline: two compelling tales.
For, when the dust had settled, Rachel Alexandra — really tested by a quality field for the first time since she got good — had answered the questions, with just enough in the tank to hold off the late-charging Derby winner, Mine That Bird, who turned out not only to be a legitimate horse but also to be clearly the best of the group that competed in Louisville.
That the last was even a question is a testament to how lightly regarded the horse was prior to the Derby — and also to the stubborn intransigence of humans when confronted with a challenge to our preconceived notions. In the minutes after the Derby, I thought to myself and said to others that he had beaten a terrible group and had benefited from track conditions, an expert ride from Calvin Borel, and racing luck.
All true. And all utterly besides the point.
The truth is that you don’t win the Kentucky Derby by nearly seven widening lengths through luck, track conditions, or a good ride, though all of these can help. You win the Kentucky Derby by seven lengths because, on that day, you are much the best. Mine That Bird obliterated a field that was, though considered to be evenly matched, entirely overmatched by the gelded son of Birdstone.
Mine That Bird towered over his Louisville rivals and, with the exception of Rachel Alexandra, those he saw in Pimlico. Which you didn’t read here, or in too many other places.
Mea culpa.
As for Rachel Alexandra, she was pushed to the limit, probably for the first time since at least last November, and responded in championship fashion. After a long dual upfront with Big Drama, who ran a better race in tougher conditions than anyone should have expected, she kicked well clear in the stretch.
Unlike on Oaks day, however, when her competition steadily receded from view — the second-place finisher that day, Stone Legacy, was a no-threat sixth in Friday’s G2 Black-Eyed Susan — her Preakness rivals kept up the chase. Consistent hard-hitter Musket Man closed steadily but too slowly, while Mine That Bird finished with a rush once he found a seam in which to run. Even the conquered Big Drama refused to wave the white flag, finishing a respectable fifth.
Calvin Borel had claimed that he’d never asked Rachel prior to the Preakness. He asked her plenty on Saturday, going to the stick at the head of the lane and keeping after her until the last jump. If he had questions, she had the answer and held her rivals safe to the wire.
In the days before the Preakness, I found that I didn’t really care who won but had two rather strong wishes for the race. First, I hoped that all of the horses and Rachel Alexandra, in particular, would come through it in good order, regardless of where she finished. While I’m not one who thinks that fillies can’t or shouldn’t compete with males, the level of public scrutiny and outrage that attended last year’s Derby breakdown of Eight Belles clearly was heightened by the fact of her sex. It’s not hard to imagine the death knell for racing being too many breakdowns in high profile (read, Triple Crown) races — and a third breakdown, second by a filly, in four years of Triple Crown races would have brought an entirely new level of unwelcome anger directed at the sport. So, I rooted for her to make it through sound.
My other wish was that Mine That Bird run a good race. In the days after the Derby, as I reviewed the chart and watched the replays, I became convinced that, far from being an unworthy Derby champion, Mine That Bird had simply picked the right day to run a spectacular race. He is a legitimate and deserving Derby winner, whose superiority to the field he faced that day is clear to any fair-minded person. Or, to put it another way, I decided I had bee wrong about him. It seemed clear, though, that the chorus of doubts would only grow louder if he threw in a stinker in the Preakness. I think he made his point.
All in all, it was a good day for racing. Though there is disappointment at another year gone by without a Triple Crown, the Preakness certified two horses as real stars: the big, powerful filly and the small, athletic gelding. And if racing’s problems are more complex and deeper than anything that two good horses can solve, well, two good horses can’t hurt, either.
Oh, and I had one other wish that, unfortunately, looks unlikely to come true. I wished that I would never again have to hear the relentlessly self-promoting Jess Jackson expounding on the various ways in which he is the human personification of the good of horse racing.
Now that the Preakness has been drawn, the controversies die down. Whether you love or hate Rachel Alexandra in the race, ready or not, here she comes. Whether you think Andy Beyer’s recent “kill Maryland racing to save it” column was genius or lunacy, the one thing we all know is that, come Saturday, the eyes of the racing world (and a not inconsequential part of the rest of the world) will be on Old Hilltop and the 13 three year-olds who will face the starter for the big race.
Actually, there’s one other thing we know. I’ll let the trainers tell you how they felt about the post position draw:
“It’s a good spot,” said Mine That Bird’s Chip Wooley of the two-hole;
“We’re very happy with it, being on the outside,” opined Scott Blasi, assistant conditioner of Rachel Alexandra. She’s all the way outside in post 13;
“I loved it, absolutely loved it,” said Tom McCarthy, owner/trainer of General Quarters. He’s right in the middle, in post eight;
“I thought the post was great, a perfect spot,” said Papa Clem’s trainer, Gary Stute. He’ll line up in stall number seven;
“It’s very good,” said Bob Baffert of the nine hole, which will house Pioneerof the Nile;
“I don’t think I could draw it up any better. I like the way things shook out,” said Al Stall, whose Terrain is in the six spot.
Virtually every trainer, it happens, is very happy with their draw. Inside, outside, in the middle — everything is perfect.
Sure.
In all sports, there are certain rules that coaches follow. In football, for example, coaches must say the word “football” at least three times per sentence. In hockey, during the playoffs, coaches believe that players can suffer only two kinds of injuries: upper body injuries and (inevitably) lower body injuries.
And in horse racing, every trainer is very pleased with his horse, expects him to run well come race day, and thinks the race circumstances generally favor the horse’s doing so.
Some of this, of course, is true; good trainers don’t run horses they don’t expect to run well. If the horse doesn’t appear to be ready, a good trainer will call a time out to figure out the problem.
Some of it is also self-preservation. Horses run poorly all the time, often for inexplicable reasons. A trainer who’s predicted a good race retains plausible deniability for a bad one. “Not sure what happened there,” he might say, “but we’ll get to the bottom of it.”
Plus, there’s a little bit of buckpassing that goes on. There are no jockeys on the backside, only riders and pinheads, and every person we think of as a jockey has been both at one time or another. Pinheads, of course, cost trainers a lot of wins.
The other thing we know for sure is that, on Saturday, some horses will fire and some will not. Some will have excuses, while others won’t. Some folks will have reconsidered the excellence of their post position. And some jockey will be called a pinhead.
Most every year, there’s a local angle to the Preakness. After all, in this faded era, the Preakness stands out as the middle jewel of the Triple Crown — and, to Maryland horsemen, our middle jewel.
The Derby, of course, will always be the Derby. But to Marylanders, the Preakness is special in a different, perhaps more parochial way. More than one local horseman, if pressed to name the race they really want, would point to the race named after a horse who’d been named, in turn, after a New Jersey farm.
So, most years, a horse with local connections competes. This year, it’ll be Tone It Down, ridden by local star (and rider of Hard Spun) Mario Pino and trained by William Komlo. He most recently finished third in the $75,000 Federico Tesio Stakes at Pimlico, which might not, on the surface, seem like the most promising way to be entering a Grade I contest.
On the other hand, maybe it’s more promising than it seems. After all, it was just seven years ago, in 2002, that unheralded local longshot Magic Weisner, off a second place finish in the Tesio and dismissed at 45-1 odds, came within about six feet of stealing off with the money and the Woodlawn Vase.
Magic Weisner was as unlikely as any Preakness contender could be, a scion of a modest local family with modest hopes. Nancy Alberts, his breeder, owner, trainer, and sometime exercise rider, had purchased his dam, Jazema, for all of one dollar — that is not a typo — because of her terrible knees. After surgery and extensive care, Jazema ended up a useful racehorse, winning 14 races.
After retiring Jazema, Alberts decided to breed her — a decision even Alberts admitted in a 2002 story marked her as a “crazy fool.” Modestly bred fillies with bad knees do not productive broodmares make.
Except, of course, when they do. Her ‘99 mating with local sire Ameri Valay produced a son who nearly died of an infection as a foal. Only the expertise — or Magic — of the veterinarian, Alan Wisner — or Weisner — saved the youngster.
Soon enough, Alberts — who in ‘02 had a stable of just six horses — had determined that Magic Weisner could be “the horse of a lifetime.” By April of his three year-old season, he’d validated her intuition, with wins in several local stakes. After a second in the Tesio, folks at the Maryland Jockey Club encouraged Alberts to enter the horse on Preakness day — but in the $100,000 Sir Barton Stakes.
Having none of that, Alberts shot for the moon.
I rather vividly recall talking with fellow handicappers about the race. War Emblem had blitzed the Derby field (topping a juicy four-figure exacta) and looked to be the star of the show. Magic Weisner, meanwhile, rated an automatic toss.
As the field turned for home, War Emblem asserted himself, gaining a multi-length lead. Proud Citizen, second in the Derby loomed a menacing presence but could not get by.
And then, on the far outside, another horse, coming along late like a freight train. He finished three-quarters of a length behind, though he was closing with every step; he simply needed more racetrack.
Who was that? A quick check of the programs, then a look of shock: Magic Weisner.
Magic Weisner went on to finish fourth in the Belmont, then win the Ohio Derby and finish second (again to War Emblem) in the Haskell. While prepping for the Pennsylvania Derby, he contracted West Nile Virus.
He survived WNV, and after a lengthy rehab, returned to racing. On the day of his return, punters crowded around the paddock to see the star, and he looked every bit the part: big, strong, and full of attitude. “I’m back, and I”m back in charge,” he seemed to say.
Until the gates opened. The nerve damage he’d suffered from the WNV left him largely unable to push off the way he needed to. He didn’t race again.
In 2005, after she’d retired Magic Weisner, Alberts said, “I am still proud of him. Even now, he knows he is special.”
That’s still true, because Magic Weisner, as much as any horse of recent vintage, showed that lightning strikes in unpredictable places and that passion and devotion and commitment can still, on occasion, trump wealth and pedigree. And so, reliably, local connections will take their shot at the Preakness each year and hope to capture some of Weisner’s magic.
