Derby Day has always been one of my favorite days of the year. It is a small glimpse of the pomp and circumstance of a different time. A magical and elusive promise of a potential crown. It can also be tragic. The kind of tragedy that trumps the favorite son is today’s story.
While we had no great plans of parties to cap our day, we did want to introduce a little piece of our tradition, so that it could be passed down. Much like memories of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, or the annual showing of The Wizard of Oz, I remember sitting around the TV with my family and watching the Derby every year. I look forward to it and identify strongly with it. I have never been to Churchill, nor do I ever expect to go, but I love the story. I grew up in a neighborhood where all the streets were named for Derby winners. I remember family parties where pie was served and strips of newspaper with horse’s names were placed in a bowl and selections were made. I wanted to introduce this to my daughter.
We headed for Pop-Pop's house, mainly because we hadn't been there in a while, but also to share the day. We arrived in time to critique a few hats and hear a few commentators make predictions. We shared a newspaper racing form and showed all the names to my daughter. Out of the blue, she chose a number and became entranced.
Number 5, the only filly, in a crowded house of men. Eight Belles, a beautiful horse with a name to match. How could any little girl not love her? The call to the post was made and the parade began. "That's my horse", was echoed again and again about the little filly. "She is going to run fast and She is going to win!"
"I hope so!" was our sentiment and we all chose a horse but silently agreed to cheer only for number 5.
The long race began and number 5 was in good position. "She is in a good place" we commented, "She may win this", we agreed. Down the stretch they came, and only the favorite son was in her way. Second was her place in history as the race ended.
"She did great!" We lamented as we often do when small daily feats are met. The camera followed the winner, who then pulled up in fright and threw his jockey. Spirited, they said, was the mark of the winner. Spooked was the true case.
What the favorite son had seen, was what we had thankfully missed. Number five was down. Eight Belles had met the end so feared by any race fan. The delicate nature only thoroughbreds possess also creates a true Achilles heel. Tiny ankles are necessary in a race horse but are not capable of being mended, once broken. Like Marathon, Eight Belles made it to the end and no further.
"That's my horse" the terribly astute pre-schooler lamented. "Why is only she down?"
"Let's go outside. It is pretty outside. Let's fly helicopter leaves outside. Let's get out of in front of the TV." Was an immediate adult response.
Then came the lone adult, who had missed it all.
"What is going on? Which horse is that?"
"Change the subject!"
"What?"
"Change the SUBJECT!" the chorus sang.
"Why?"
"It's my horse." the little voice replied, head down as she plodded outside.
Posts
