Storm Cat, who was pensioned a few months ago, has a genetic right to be what he has become. His third dam, Bolero Rose, was bred by John Greathouse and sold as a yearling to John Hanson, a liquor dealer in North Platte, Neb. She competed primarily at Centennial Park in Denver in the early 1960s, a time when racing was of consequence there. She won or placed in eight stakes, racing principally against colts and frequently beating them. She equaled a track record at Centennial going six furlongs in 1:082⁄5, which was extraordinarily fast in that era.

In 1965, I flew up to North Platte and bought Bolero Rose for $25,000 while she was in foal to Swoon’s Son. Unfortunately, that foal died shortly after birth. Bolero Rose was then sent to Kentucky to be bred, and in 1968 went to be covered by Crimson Satan. In 1969, she foaled a filly that I sold privately for $11,000 as a yearling. I had just taken over Walmac Farm and was in the middle of restoring it, and, as always, needed money. That filly turned out to be Crimson Saint.

Crimson Saint, as a yearling and later as a racehorse, was one of four or five of the most perfectly conformed horses I have seen during almost 60 years of association with Thoroughbreds. Her racing performance paralleled her spectacular physique. As a 2-year-old, she won a maiden race and then the Ballerina Stakes at Oaklawn Park, in which she equaled the world record for four furlongs. Doug Davis, who in that era was perennially the leading trainer of winning 2-year-olds, ran second that day with a good filly named Apple Jackie. I saw Doug at the Keeneland meet after Oaklawn Park had finished its spring meet and Doug said to me, “You little Texas S.O.B., you have bred the fastest 2-year-old I have ever seen, and I have won more 2-year-old races than anybody!”

Crimson Saint went on to win three more stakes races, and in the Hollywood Express Handicap (gr. III), ran 5 1⁄2 furlongs in 1:02 4⁄5 when beating colts. She also won the Meteor Handicap running five furlongs in :56 flat, setting the Hollywood Park track record. She retired from racing and was bought through the Keeneland November breeding stock sale by Tommy Gentry, a very astute horseman. Among the stallions to which Gentry bred Crimson Saint was Secretariat and from that cover she produced the good filly Terlingua.

Terlingua was sold by Gentry as a yearling to L.R. French Jr. and Barry Beal, both Texas oilmen with considerable history in racing. Hall of Famer D. Wayne Lukas selected the filly and subsequently trained her, winning seven stakes races, including one against colts, a notable family characteristic.

At the end of Terlingua's racing career, I bought all of French and Beal’s fillies including Terlingua and Cinegita, keeping only those two. I had just purchased Storm Bird and was looking for mares to breed to him. Concurrently, I was finishing construction on the first stallion barn at Ashford Stud.

As fate would have it, one day W.T. Young drove into Ashford and asked if I would help him with his involvement in the Thoroughbred business.

I told him of my acquisition of Terlingua, for whom I had paid $2 million, and of Cinegita, for whom I had paid $300,000, and Mr. Young declared himself a partner.

In the dark days of the early 1980s, I began to see signs of imminent disaster in the business affairs of my partner in Ashford Stud. About the same time, Mr. Young called me with dire news (from banking circles) of my partner’s finances (reference two books: Funny Money and Belly Up) and asked me to break up the Terlingua/Cinegita partnership, which I did. He retained the mares.

As fate would have it, Terlingua was carrying Storm Cat in utero.

How close we can get to the equine “Promised Land” and not take that last step! However, it is very gratifying to see Storm Cat become a legend.

Dr. William Lockridge is a Central Kentucky farm developer, breeder, bloodstock adviser, and retired veterinarian.

 For six weeks in late summer, top Thoroughbreds, owners, and trainers assemble in Saratoga Springs, N.Y., to put on a one-of-a-kind equine display. Saratoga Race Course is often referred to as “America’s Great Race Place” or simply “The Spa.” My wife and I have made the sojourn each August since 1999 and we admit—we’re hooked!

As we bask in the afterglow of celebrating the birth of our great country, my thoughts can’t help but to wander patriotically to the many benefits available to us here in America. The fruits of my pondering yielded an unmistakable connection between America’s greatest virtues and the embodiment of those virtues that come alive each summer in Saratoga.

For centuries, folks from near and far have followed the irresistible urge to go to Saratoga Springs to renew their health, by drinking in the many mineral springs; their spirit, by basking in the peaceful beauty and serenity of the physical surroundings; and their energy and vitality, by their close interaction with those majestic Thoroughbreds. Horse racing has long been referred to as the Sport of Kings, but an afternoon of people watching amidst the red and white color scheme at Saratoga Race Course reveals that kings, as well as commoners, equally comprise the body of those in attendance.

What is it about a day at the Saratoga races that draws such a wide range of interest from such a broad spectrum of Americans? A day at the Saratoga races contains three key elements that serve as a metaphor for what we find so valuable and enticing about living in America, and serves as the draw for so many.

America is a melting pot of people, many of whom immigrated to this country in search of a better life. What they found when they arrived and what we all enjoy to this day is a beautiful and bountiful landmass. Along with this beauty, we have the freedom to pursue our dreams, which for many includes the hope of a reasonable opportunity for finding prosperity.

Beauty—No matter from what direction one approaches Saratoga Springs, the raw beauty of the countryside takes the breath away. With the Catskill Mountains to the south and the Adirondack Mountains to the north, Saratoga Springs lies nestled, like a 10-carat gem in a solid gold ring. The mountains, lakes, streams, and rolling farmland are amazing. And the trees—they seem to get taller and taller as you approach the track, and upon passing the admission gates, seem to rise into the heavens in an almost surreal way.

Once inside, the place has more of a campground feel than it does a racetrack. The dirt ovals that surround the tall pines in the saddling paddock remind one of how it must have been done a century ago, and the rustic grandstand remains as a traditional reminder of years gone by.

Freedom—I am continually amazed by the opportunities for Saratoga track patrons to get nose-to-nose with multi-million-dollar equine athletes in the stable areas at the track. Sure, there are some security measures in place to protect the horses, but in general, there is an air of laid-back trust that is not found at any other track in the country. This gives the “common guy” the freedom to rub elbows with the inner sanctum of the sport without the risks and costs of actual racehorse ownership.

Prosperity—A day at the races in Saratoga, in close contact with the elite horses, owners, and trainers, gives the fan a sense that prosperity is attainable. As a small-scale Thoroughbred breeder, I often get a sense of the “possible” as I watch the races at Saratoga. It seems somehow as if the opportunity to breed or race a graded stakes horse is not that far a stretch. Prosperity is simply a matter of perspective, and I always leave Saratoga with a renewed sense that we as Americans are indeed amazingly prosperous and blessed.

Indeed, I would concur with former President Reagan’s words. I would also add that seeing that horse in Saratoga Springs makes it an over-the-top experience.

Whether you are involved with racehorse ownership as we are—or whether you are just seeking some new kind of vacation experience—it is a veritable certainty you will enjoy your day at “The Spa.” Come bathe yourself in the red and white—and renew!

KEVIN LAY is a Thoroughbred owner and breeder from Minneapolis, Minn., doing business under the Triple B Stables banner.

If there is anyone who has worried about the health of our industry more than I have the past 20 years, I feel sorry for that person. Always, it seems, there is bad news: declining attendance, declining handle, offshore wagering issues, drug positives, reduced field size, aging fan base, high-profile breakdowns, diminished soundness of the breed.

Have I missed a few issues? I’m guessing I have. Here’s a feel-good story that maybe offers a sign of hope and cause for optimism.

I recently attended and completed the first year of a three-year program at the Harvard Business School. I am a member of OPM 39. Comprised of 160 businessmen and women from around the world, it was an impressive gathering of successful and astute people attending a rigorous and equally impressive program.

Following the first week of classes, some intense studying, and strong bonding with my fellow participants, I was destined to spend Preakness day amid my newfound friends in academia. Since our arrival at Harvard, I was often greeted upon introduction as, “Oh yeah, you’re the guy in the horse business.” Or, “you do what for a living?” And upon learning that a horse I was connected with was running in the second leg of the Triple Crown, my new friends were mistakenly convinced they were with someone special.

So at the conclusion of classes that morning, my seven hall mates from my “living group” (the group of people you spend a great deal of time with) trucked off to the Harvard Club, past performances in hand and my TVG account loaded.

After a few beers to get us into the mood, we did some serious whooping and hollering when we cashed the trifecta and more importantly watched my clients’ horse, Icabad Crane (Gallagher’s Stud the breeder and Earle Mack the owner), run a good third in the Preakness. Amid the excitement and post-race revelries, my clients’ horse quickly became my horse, his horse, and our horse as we exited the club.

That Monday morning, as I entered our meeting to prepare for the day’s classes, I was greeted with the announcement, “We want you to get us in the horse business.” My mates now want to own a racehorse and have some of the fun and excitement for themselves. Despite my attempts to convince them a horse would quickly separate them, the new fools, from their money, they were not to be discouraged. So after some unsuccessful attempts to throw cold water on their scheme, I relented. Word soon spread, and then more new fools wanted to ante up and get in.

In spite of my misgivings, I figured what was there to lose but a few bucks among a group of people who could afford it? If I could expose them to the beauty and pageantry of the sport and the wonders of the horse as an athlete, who knows what would happen.

So now 22 of my new Harvard friends and I have formed OPM39 Racing Venture, where they will learn about the business, maybe catch the bug, and have some fun. Why people from India, Nigeria, Malaysia, Dubai, Brazil, Mexico, and Canada want to join a few of us from the States and own some racehorses that will race in the U.S. I haven’t quite figured out. Certainly it is not the attraction to make money, because it was presented to them that there was no chance of that. Is it the nostalgia, the chance to bond further, the dream of having a good one? I suppose maybe all of the above. My guess is that there is something about the horse and the intrigue of the sport that kindles the flame of their entrepreneurial spirit.

Where will it lead? I have no idea. But in my new role as their racing manager, I’ll teach them something about the horse, the business, and the industry that has done so much for me.

Am I still worried about the industry? You know I am.

Is there hope and a chance it can survive despite a myriad of problems? The eight Harvard guys who bounded out of the Harvard Club on that sunny Preakness day don’t care about its troubles. Their 14 classmates from around the world who joined them in racehorse ownership don’t know and don’t care. They’re in the game.

It isn’t dead yet from what I can tell.

I don’t gamble. Shoot, I don’t even fill out a March Madness bracket. I do follow the games to see how the seedings play out. The win-or-go-home format makes irrelevant that great artifice of the gambler—the point-spread.

I have no high-minded, moral principle against gambling; I just never caught the bug. I recall playing golf in my college days, when someone in the foursome said, “Let’s put something in the pot to make it interesting. ”Make it interesting? How much more interesting than trying to run a 7-iron shot against a crosswind onto a summer-hard, backward sloping green? Any more interesting than that, and I’d collapse under interest-overload.

I don’t bet, but I do like to watch Thoroughbreds race, whether across the south pasture, running for the sake of running, or around an oval for a handsome purse. Has there been a better match than Curlin versus Rags to Riches, head-to-head, eye-to-eye, for the length of the stretch at Belmont? Pick your sport, any sport, and beat that. Maybe, for some, racing is more interesting if the mortgage payment is on War Pass to show, but for me, the running is enough.

I also don’t know much about Kentucky politics. I have no opinion on why Steve Beshear disappointed the horse industry. I have no idea why some Kentuckians want to amend their Constitution and others don’t.

OK, so I don’t gamble and don’t know much about Kentucky. Still, maybe the observations of such an outsider can shed some light on the failure of the Kentucky casino bill. Here goes:

Horse racing used to have a virtual monopoly on legal gambling. It still does in some states, but by and large those days are gone, never to return. For good or ill, we live in a slot-­machined country. And the truth is just this plain—for the heart and the buck of the typical gambler, horse races lose out to slot machines. Don’t ask me why, but people would rather drive to Indiana and play the slots than stay in Louisville and play the horses.

Patrons at Oaklawn will sit for hours at slot machines, betting on the outcome of a previously-run horse race, and will hardly bother to walk outside and watch the live races.

And if our game loses the gamblers in a match with slots, can it win the hearts and dollars of the pure sports fan? Sadly, no. Betting aside, most Americans care about just two races in the spring. Three, if the same horse wins those two. A few will tune in to watch a day’s worth of championship racing in the fall, though getting them to watch two days’ worth is problematic.

There are many reasons for this. First, the sport is still packaged first and foremost as gamblers’ entertainment. Second, our heroes and heroines don’t stick around long enough for the fans to know them. Curlin versus “Rags” was a once-in-a-lifetime event. Real Quiet versus Victory Gallop was three times for a generation. Affirmed versus Alydar, three times for a century. It’s as if Magic and Bird had played one game against each other in 1979 and never set foot on the same court again. Or Ali and Frazier had fought once and then retired to open a restaurant together. Connors versus McEnroe, again and again? Forget it.

If I’m right, and we lose to the slots for the gamblers and to NASCAR for the racing fans (God knows why; maybe it’s the hats), then it looks like one of two things is going to happen—either we face a downsizing of the Thoroughbred industry or we need a subsidy.

The gaming industry in today’s market is so darned profitable that they can give the state a cut, subsidize the Thoroughbred industry, and still run out of places to put the money they have left. What do they get? An air of respectability, maybe, and our industry’s fabled influence with legislators. What do we get? A direct conduit from the slot machines to race purses, thence to owners, thence to trainers, jockeys, breeders, and the rest of us hangers-on. There may even be some support for the retirement operations.

So, a subsidy, or we downsize to about five or six tracks, nationwide, and maybe a thousand new foals a year. I have nothing against subsidies. Lots of industries get them, directly or indirectly. But let’s be honest enough to admit that that’s what we’re doing—getting money that, if the market were left free and unregulated, would be going elsewhere. Let’s drop the smugness and sense of entitlement. We aren’t owed a cut of the slot machine take. We’ll turn the clubhouses into casinos, and run races that will barely be noticed by the players. We’ll take some of the money poured into the slots in order to keep our industry going. And we’ll hope that it will be enough.

It would help to say “please” in advance, and “thanks” at the end.

Why do racing fans coalesce around one horse and not another? Favorability can be as simple as a catchy name (Smarty Jones) or backing an underdog (Funny Cide). Unfavorability, since horses themselves don’t usually rub us the wrong way, is tied to the animal’s human connections.

Nobody should question Big Brown's talent. Yet, other than vying for the Triple Crown, he has not captured the public’s fancy in the manner of the above-mentioned pair. In fact, some people were rooting for him to lose at Belmont, despite the fact his bust there cost the sport millions in lost marketing and advertising. So why hasn’t he become the people’s horse?

The most publicized of his connections is his trainer, Rick Dutrow Jr. Like all of us, Dutrow is an imperfect human being. Unlike many, he cares little about hiding his imperfections. He’s had issues feeding himself and his horses drugs, and talks about it. His rider throws in a clunker in the Belmont, and Dutrow wails on him. The man says what he thinks.

This trait, which I find refreshing, has been portrayed by most as a negative. Apparently, folks prefer bland and covert. If you think Dutrow is the only famous trainer who is familiar with an equine medicine cabinet, you’re wrong. The others just don’t talk about suspensions and steroids.

Dutrow is brash, abrasive. Before the Derby, he told everyone he had the best 3-year-old in the land. “Oh, he’s going to find out what a humbling experience the Derby can be,” said the provincials.

So Dutrow’s crime became being right. He does have the best 3-year-old in the country. But his media detractors kept grumbling about the guy who gave them column after column, biting the hand that fed them quotes.

Now, the owners. You don’t have to be Mother Teresa for your horse to be admired. Roy Chapman (Smarty Jones) wasn’t exactly warm and fuzzy, and moved Fords for a living. But Mike Iavarone and Richard Schiavo of IEAH Stables? Too New York? Too ethnic?

Nine years ago, Iavarone was fined, censured, and suspended by securities regulators for making unauthorized stock trades. This year, he lied about his Wall Street background while attempting to cover up his history. You want to dislike him and his horses? Have at it.
But know that he and Schiavo are opening an equine hospital under the direction of the respected Dr. Patty Hogan that will save horses’ lives. He and Schiavo have donated money to the children of a New York cop shot in the line of duty. And unlike industry bureaucrats who have failed to do so, they are succeeding in bringing young professionals into this sport.

How about Big Brown’s other three owners? Paul Pompa Jr. gets up in the dark to get to his Brooklyn trucking business at 6:30 each morning. He started small in horses, and then hit a home run with Big Brown. He’s funny, unassuming, cooperative, and one of the nicest guys I’ve had the pleasure of meeting.

And what of IEAH partners Andrew Cohen and Gary Tolchin? Cohen, 51, has two kids and works on Wall Street. He owned a couple of trotters, and bought into his first Thoroughbred four years ago. “I own parts of 20 now. I got a little carried away, which is a good thing.”
Cohen donned jockey silks for the winner’s circle photo after Kip Deville won at Keene­land last year. “It wasn’t the most flattering photo I’ve ever taken,” laughed the corpulent Cohen. “It was the first big race I’d won, and I got so excited I didn’t know what I was doing. I’m having the time of my life.”

Tolchin, 48, is a father of three from the Bronx. His father, Sam, worked nights, and the only time Gary and his brother saw him was weekends, when they’d go to the races.

“We didn’t have money growing up; my father would bet $2 or $4, but we had a great time at the track,” Tolchin said. “Those were special times for the three of us.”

Agreeing that life is too short, Gary’s wife gave him the OK to invest in Big Brown. “You love it; just do it,” she told him.

Sam Tolchin passed away last year. “My only regret is he’s not here for this run,” said Gary. “He might bet $6 win, $4 place on Big Brown. I’m sure he’s looking down on us now and going crazy.”

So go ahead and root against Big Brown, if it really makes you feel any better.

It’s amazing that six weeks can go by so quickly, yet also seem like an eternity.

Was it just last month, or was it last year when we saw Big Brown bound past us on the Churchill Downs backstretch during a chilly morning in Louisville? Was it just a few weeks ago, or was it a couple of months ago that we witnessed a coronation off the Northern Parkway in Baltimore? We’re certain about June 7 on Long Island, witnessing the Belmont Stakes (gr. I) in sticky, steamy Elmont, N.Y.

This year’s Triple Crown run had more twists than a New York pretzel, and was twice as salty.

When looking back over the ’08 run by Big Brown, here’s hoping the industry will have moved forward on a couple of horse health-related issues.

First, with the tragic breakdown of Eight Belles following her dazzling runner-up effort in the Kentucky Derby Presented by Yum! Brands (gr. I), industry leaders must not lose sight of the need to take steps to make our sport safer for its participants. Just as the breeding industry came together back in the spring of 2001 to unravel the mysteries of mare reproductive loss syndrome, the key is communication. We must share all information, good and bad, for the betterment of the sport. The newly formed Thoroughbred Safety Committee is a good start. So, too, are the conversations and research that must continue regarding synthetic track surfaces.

The issue of steroids in racehorses must be addressed, promptly, and on a national level. I can imagine few in the game who would like to see more trainers and owners interviewed on national television discussing the pros and cons of Winstrol.

Big Brown’s disappointing run in the Belmont, for the umpteenth time giving fans a handful of feathers instead of a Triple Crown winner, teaches us just how special it is to win the Triple Crown. We don’t want to hear any talk about changing the span between races. It’s supposed to be hard to win it.

While the five weeks puts three demanding races very close together, the three weeks between the Preakness (gr. I) and Belmont can slow to a crawl. As this season’s Belmont approached, and with Big Brown’s quarter crack getting better ratings than “American Idol,” one could almost watch the bloom come off the rose of Team Brown at Barn 2 at Belmont.

The finale was the colt’s five-furlong work June 3, a minute flat, followed by a six-furlong gallop out in 1:14 2⁄5. The drill left more than a few raised eyebrows. A 14-second eighth before the Belmont? Galloping out?

Secretariat wouldn’t have done that. Big Red worked a mile in 1:34 4⁄5, then blew out a half-mile the Wednesday before the Belmont in :46 3⁄5.<->Seattle Slew worked six furlongs in 1:11 3⁄5 the Tuesday before his Belmont, and blew out three furlongs in :35 4⁄5 the morning of the race.

Big Brown, in front of a curious crowd the morning of June 6, galloped slooowly around the Belmont Park oval and then headed back to the barn. It was at that point it became questionable as to how much juice was left in the lemon. We found out the next day.
A reflective Kent Desormeaux, who 10 years ago had come within the shadow of the wire of winning the Triple Crown with Real Quiet, addressed the media following Big Brown’s defeat.

“For him it was a slow pace,” he said. “When I got outside going into the first turn, I said, ‘That’s it; the race is over.’ ”

He, like the rest of us, was confident.

“Then, when I asked him to engage, I was done. I had no horse. Fortunately, there are no popped tires; he’s just out of gas.”
He then paid the Triple Crown phenomenon quite a compliment.

“The end result is I can’t fathom what kind of freaks those 11 Triple Crown winners were,” the Hall of Fame jockey said. “It’s unfathomable to me. I won the Derby with some pressure, I won the Preakness in an armchair ride, and for whatever reason he wasn’t resilient enough today. This is unknown to me because he’s supposed to be a mile-and-a-half-horse; he’s supposed to be a distance horse.
“With that being said, these occasions for me have only made me realize how awesome those horses were.”
That’s why we’ll be back next spring.

No matter what happens in the June 7 Belmont Stakes (gr. I), the 2008 Triple Crown season will always be defined by the triumph and tragedy of the heir apparent crown prince, Big Brown, and the fallen heroine, Eight Belles. And tradition says that this Belmont, factoring in Big Brown’s pre-race hoof injury, will come up as a “hold your breath,” arduous race that’s guaranteed not to be won in a New York minute. 

After a diet of mint juleps and crab cakes, there is less pomp and a heavy dose of New York grit when the racing schedule reaches Belmont. You’ll need all your fingers and half your toes to count the TC “can’t miss” favorites that didn’t make it here.   

I was a CBS News television producer covering the Triple Crown of 1969 with commentator Heywood Hale “Woodie” Broun. Majestic Prince, like Seattle Slew after him and Smarty Jones after him and, yes, Big Brown, was undefeated heading into the Belmont. But “The Prince” had suffered a leg injury in the Preakness and his trainer, Johnny Longden, wasn’t sure he was sound enough to run.

With the first undefeated Thoroughbred trying to win the Triple Crown, there was enormous pressure on owner Frank McMahon to go for it. Longden and McMahon argued openly about it. Not only had there not been a TC winner since Citation in 1948, but McMahon’s wife, gossip columnist Betty Betts, wanted desperately to get into The Jockey Club, and saw Majestic Prince as her ticket. On the eve of the race, Woodie Broun interviewed McMahon, who was so nervous and perhaps hungover, that he kept referring to the TC as the “Cripple Crown.” Majestic Prince finished second and never raced again.

Fast forward two years, when Canonero II became the next pretender to the “Cripple Crown” and the last before Secretariat. Canonero was unique in that he had done all of his racing in Venezuela and became a hero to the entire Latin American world. Broun, one of America’s great wordsmiths, was on the scene once again, and wrote the following in his sports memoir Tumultuous Merriment: “The thing one notices at the Belmont…is the very New Yorkness of it. Like the old Manchu Empire, it can swallow up all the invaders that come and either absorb them or outnumber them so that they are no longer visible.

“The great exception at Belmont was the June day in 1971 when Canonero II tried for the Triple Crown. He had been bred in Kentucky to an unfashionable English sire, and because he had a gimpy leg had been sold as a yearling for something like $1,600. This modest beginning may have been the essence of his subsequent appeal. This was a price that poor people could understand.”

Broun wrote that huge numbers of Latinos descended on Belmont Park that day, “a great mass of people, many of whom had never been to the races, with nothing in common but their language and a vague sense that today they were going to show the Anglos and have a good time while they did it. Hundreds of them brought musical instruments and long before the first race, bongo drums were echoing in places where nothing was usually heard but the murmur of old horseplayers mumbling inaccurate information to each other.

“In Caracas the president of Venezuela stood ready to make a speech to the whole world about the connection between a 3-year-old horse and his country’s eminence and the drums were rattling all over Belmont Park.

“Oddly and sadly Canonero’s fourth-place finish that day was one of his bravest races. Subsequent examination showed him to have been suffering from some odd but debilitating illness, and it appeared that he ran through agony and exhaustion of such shattering intensity that he was unable to raise his head for weeks after the race. The drums stopped beating, however, and the crowd straggled home, while the president in Caracas called for his limousine and cursed racing luck, not the first head of state to discover that power ends where chance begins.”

My friend Woodie Broun wrote those words nearly 30 years ago. Funny how they resonate today in both Thoroughbred racing and American politics.

E.S. Lamoreaux III is a four-time Eclipse Award winner and the longtime executive producer of CBS News Sunday Morning with Charles Kuralt.

“History consists of a series of accumulated imaginative inventions.” - Voltaire

As a Thoroughbred owner, I stand on the shoulders of giants. Horse racing’s tradition and history are like no other. However, in the past 30 years, we’ve been surpassed by the major sports leagues. Being a traditionalist, I don’t blame the caretakers for this lapse. When you have more than 100 Kentucky Derbys, it’s easy to say, “Hey, we’re doing something right.”

Major League Baseball suffered the same fate. However, in the 1990s, recognizing what was happening around them, the MLB powers that be reversed course. Lights at the Chicago Cubs’ Wrigley Field and advertising on their field of dreams were only a few of the needed changes. They even sped up their “timeless” game, which was then clocking in at more than three hours. Baseball grew up. Better yet, it did so while maintaining its rich history. The last time I checked, they still observed the seventh inning stretch.

It’s time for Thoroughbred racing to follow baseball’s lead.

When Big Brown entered the winner’s circle at Churchill Downs, jockey Kent Desormeaux switched his riding helmet for a UPS Racing Team hat. Two days later, UPS and Big Brown’s connections struck a marketing deal.

We should be thrilled for this possible new revenue stream for owners, except for one small problem. It’s against the rules! 

Both the name of the winner of the Run for the Roses and the ensuing marketing deal violate Section V.6. of The Jockey Club Rule Book. “Names of horses clearly having commercial significance, such as trade names, are ineligible.” The rule has a sister component adopted by most states that doesn’t allow stable names to have any commercial value either. As has been reported on multiple occasions, co-owner Paul Pompa Jr. named the horse after the freight carrier, the United Parcel Service, or UPS. We’re not sure how this one got past the excellent folks at The Jockey Club, but instead of crying equal protection, owners should look at this as an opportunity.

It’s time to repeal the entire rule. 

Without going into a financial analysis of the horse racing industry, let’s assume for the sake of argument we’re in some trouble. We’ve tried almost every marketing campaign known to man, except the one staring at us in the face. With promising champions being whisked away to the breeding sheds too early, I can think of no better marketing for the sport than the advent of racing teams and names with commercial value.

Now, before everyone goes all NASCAR on me, let me say this. Our horses will not be called Miller Lite. Marketing is about creativity, trust, and understanding your fan base. If the folks at Miller brewing sponsors a team, they will want you to buy their product, not mock it. The very nature of the marketplace will demand that the traditions and pageantry remain.

In truth, I actually don’t mind a series of names centered around “taste great, less filling.” Let’s be honest, our names now aren’t much better. For some reason, I can’t name my horse “Dew It,” but “Plugmein” is acceptable. I shouldn’t have to tell you there are more T-shirts that say “Mountain Dew” than “Santa Anita Park.”

Creating new revenue for owners will have a serious trickle-­down effect. More importantly, larger fan bases and connectivity with that audience will grow attendance, which will ultimately increase wagering pools. In addition, we will have also found a key component missing from the game—name recognition and staying power. Go to any Web site dedicated to a sponsored racing team and tell me you wouldn’t want to see something similar for horse racing. 

I know there has been support on this issue in the past. With Big Brown making headlines and a run for the Triple Crown June 7, our fractured business finally needs to come together on this one. If California adopts it and Kentucky doesn’t, where does that get us except more infighting over the same small pie? 

Apple pie, anyone?

Gary Fenton is the managing partner/CEO of Little Red Feather Racing, which is based in Los Angeles

Recently as I re-read some of the late humorist Frank Sullivan’s pieces, I thought what a shame it was that this gifted writer never turned his sights on horse racing, a sport he loved.

During his 40-year newspaper and New Yorker magazine career, Sullivan was widely read as he poked gentle fun at a variety of subjects in politics, sports, and life in general. He was best known for creating Mr. Arbuthnot, the so-called Cliché Expert. For example, Mr. Arbuthnot was asked what he did for exercise. He replied, “I keep the wolf from the door, let the cat out of the bag, take the bull by the horns, count my chickens before they are hatched, and see that the horse isn’t put behind the cart or stolen before I lock the barn door.”

Sullivan died in 1976, so Mr. Arbuthnot’s expertise could not be applied to contemporary American Thoroughbred racing. Following is an example of what he might have produced while interviewing a trainer today.

Q. How easily would you say your horse won?
A. Like a thief in the night. All by himself. Ears pricked. Fooling around. Trying to pull himself up.

Were you confident going into the race?
Wouldn’t have traded places with anybody. I had him trained to the minute. He was tighter than a drum, sharper than jailhouse coffee. I don’t lead ’em over there unless they’re sitting on top of a win, unless they’ve been working bullets as easy as breaking sticks, unless their ankles are ice cold even after nearly kicking their stalls down.

How did he come out of the race?
Galloped out strong. They wouldn’t have beat him if they went around again. He came back bucking and playing, kicking and squealing. Just attacked his feed tub.

Anything he wouldn’t blow out?
The proverbial match.

Going into the race, was the off-track a concern?
No way, Jose. He can win over any kind of going, running through a plowed field, over broken glass, hot coals. And if you ask me how far he’s bred to go, I’d say all day.

Were you worried about his main rival?
Not for a New York minute. That horse couldn’t go a mile and a quarter in a box car. We had him over a barrel from when the bell rang.

How did you feel about drawing the outside post position?
I wouldn’t have picked it.

You’ve praised your jockey’s sense of pace. Is there something in his head that’s useful?
A clock. They say time’s only important if you’re in jail, but not with this little race rider.

I understand he’s got something useful in his veins.
You bet—he’s got ice water.

Did your jockey say anything about the way your horse went to the lead?
Said he just exploded at the top of the lane, that he’s push-button, like driving a Mercedes.

When the foul claim was dismissed against your stakes star Saturday, where did you direct your thanks?
First and foremost to the Man Upstairs, then to my lucky stars.

Did the trainer of the runner-up tip anything to you after the race?
His hat. He was gracious in defeat, a hard-working horseman who has been flying under the radar for years, kept there by critics who are beneath contempt.

When this colt goes to stud, how do you think he’ll be?
Extremely popular. Well-priced. Probably pre-potent and a major influence on the breed, since he’s beautifully balanced, has a classic head, a great mind, wonderful temperament, and he’s been sound as a dollar. Never had a pimple on him.

Is there something that as a stallion you think he’ll do to his get?
Stamp them.

Your major owner says his stable under your care has lost money for every one of the last 22 years. How has he been about that as far as you’re concerned?
A genuine sportsman. Great for the game. Member of a dying breed. One of his well-bred fillies finally finished in the money last week, and he was over the moon and on top of the world.

John McEvoy’s third horse racing mystery novel, Close Call, was published in March.

"Memory draws from delight, ere it dies, an essence that breathes of it many a year…"    — Irish bard Thomas Moore, 1779-1852

Bay Meadows, California’s pioneering racetrack, has been this aging fan’s delight for nearly my entire lifetime. Now, barring an unlikely last-minute reprieve, it is marching inexorably toward May 11, the final day of its final meeting.

Doomed by commercial real estate developers, the “track that Bill built” 74 years ago along the El Camino Real in San Mateo is to be demolished by the wrecking ball, thereby bruising the psyches of generations of faithful fans and splitting Northern California’s future racing dates into small bits and pieces.

A son of poor Irish immigrants, “Bill” was William P. Kyne of San Francisco, who abandoned plans for the priesthood to lead the 1933 campaign legalizing racing in California after its long absence. The “yes” votes on the statewide ballot hardly had been totaled before Kyne, the flamboyant trailblazer, was breaking ground at an abandoned airfield along the El Camino Real—“The King’s Highway” or “Royal Road” trod by those earlier trailblazers, the mission-building Franciscan padres.

“The Meadows” opened Nov. 3, 1934—eight weeks ahead of Santa Anita’s first meeting, many months ahead of Del Mar’s and Hollywood Park’s, and seven years before Golden Gate’s. Innovations introduced by Kyne included the enclosed stall, electric starting gate designed by Clay Puett and financed by Kyne, the electronic totalizator board, the photo-finish camera, the jockeys’ hot box, and transportation of racehorses by air.

Following are some of this fan’s memories of Bay Meadows over seven decades:
Most Historic Moment: May 21, 1939, watching Specify win the Bay Meadows Handicap on my first-ever day at a racetrack. (Specify later was to defeat Seabiscuit, who had won the race in ’37 and again in ’38.)
Most Thrilling Moment: Cashing two $2 win tickets following the three-horse blanket finish of the Thornton Stakes Nov. 11, 1939. The Thornton, a four-mile marathon, was the defining moment in a series of marathons created by Kyne, and took 7:17 3⁄5 heart-pounding minutes to negotiate. At 7-2, Anhelation came from 40 lengths back to catch two others at the wire, with legendary 12-year-old Malicious a close-up fourth. Wow!
Most Embarrassing Moment (in retrospect): Watching Cigar, a son of Palace Music and grandson of The Minstrel, finish third in a turf stakes Sept. 25, 1993, and grousing to my companions, “If he can’t win with a turf pedigree like that, he’s not going to amount to much.” True, Cigar didn’t amount to much for another year while his connections kept him on grass. In the autumn of ’94, however, Cigar switched to dirt and the result (16 straight victories) made horse racing history.
Most Festive Moment: Attending Ascot Day Oct. 23, 1983, decked out as a proper English gentleman in rented morning coat, gray-striped trousers and top hat, and with my fair lady on my arm. When guests so attired alighted from horse-drawn carriages at the finish line, they were introduced over the track’s p.a. system and escorted to an infield picnic. Almost lost amid the festivities was the American record of 1:382⁄5 for 11⁄16 miles, set that afternoon by Hoedown’s Day.
Most Poignant Moment: Grasping the hand of globetrotting English riding champion Lester Piggott when he competed in the annual International Jockey Competition in the ’80s. I thanked him for earlier making an unscheduled stop in New Zealand to ride my cousin’s horse in the Air New Zealand Stakes (NZ-I). Cousin Peter Cathro trained Arbre Chene, a miler, but never lived to see Piggott nurse the gelding to victory over the classic distance of 11⁄4 miles. Just days before the race, Peter had been killed in a freak stable accident.
Highest and Lowest Moments: Watching with John and Betty Mabee as their Event of the Year, an undefeated son of Seattle Slew, wins the 1998 El Camino Real Derby (gr. III) to become the favorite for the Kentucky Derby (gr. I). Eight days before the Run for the Roses, the colt is hurt in his final Derby workout.

❖❖❖

Such is the essence of one fan’s delights and disappointments along The King’s Highway. As Britons proclaim when a monarch dies and a successor mounts the throne, “The King is dead! Long live the King!”

Sadly, Kyne the kingpin is dead, his track is dying, and no successor travels the once Royal Road.

Born and reared in Northern California, MORTON CATHRO is an award-winning newspaperman, now retired.

Stepping down from his Windfields jet, E.P. Taylor bounded across the tarmac into the terminal building, where he pulled up short in front of a vending machine.
“Help me, Joe. I don’t have any U.S. change.”
As I sorted through my change for quarters, the Canadian tycoon described by biographer Peter Newman as “the ultimate personification of the riches gained and power wielded,” fumed, “Never mind. Damned if I’m going to pay 75 cents for a slice of stale pound cake!”
This, in July 1974, was the only time in a quarter-century as Mr. Taylor’s point man for Maryland operations that I had ever known him to balk at price, either buying or selling.
He didn’t flinch when, a year earlier, the price for Cragwood Stable’s sire prospect Tentam was $2.2 million, a record figure for a horse in training.
He didn’t haggle when I introduced him to a neighbor who was interested in selling her farm. “Your price, madam?” When she responded, he beamed, “Good. I’ll have my Toronto office cut a check in the morning.”
As we departed, I asked Mr. Taylor if he wanted to drive through the farm, to inspect his latest acquisition. “No, that won’t be necessary. I’ve flown over this property so often I know what’s here. This exercise is mainly to protect my flank.”
When E.P. Taylor would fly in from out of the country, he had to land for customs inspection at New Castle Airport, the approach to which took him over Delaware Park, home turf to the extended du Pont sporting families. It had, however, fallen on lean times.
E.P. had a plan to buy and energize Delaware Park: concentrate on 2-year-old and turf races so that New York and New Jersey trainers could set up separate divisions for runners lacking racing opportunities on the home front.
“Let’s go see if they are ready to talk, Joe.”
As we waited in the turf club to feel out senior staff, we noted executives hunched over a small table, engaged in some sort of frenetic activity. Asked later about this, an officer replied, “Oh, that. We were playing Pac-Man.” The boss was not amused.
As it developed, the board was still hopeful of a turnaround. By the time they were ready to sell, Mr. Taylor was gravely ill. William Rickman, the elder, wound up buying Delaware Park. His enterprising son, also named William, now enjoys “slotsa” success with the Stanton oval.
The evening of the pound cake caper, Mr. Taylor, Windfields’ vice president of Thoroughbred operations Joe Thomas, and I met over dinner to discuss the purchase and syndication of the sire prospect Halo, then training forwardly at Belmont Park with MacKenzie Miller, after a $600,000 sale to Irving Allen’s Derisley Wood Stud in England had been voided because Halo was a cribber.
Undaunted that the $600,000 Halo was now priced at a million, Mr. Taylor also shook off the cribber knock. Wasn’t Kelso, just a whinny away at Woodstock Farm, a world-class cribber?
The deal was struck and the 5-year-old son of Hail to Reason—Cosmah, by Cosmic Bomb, was syndicated for $1,200,000—40 shares at $30,000 each. Shortly thereafter, Halo won the $100,000 United Nations Handicap in Windfields’ turquoise and gold.
As with so many of Windfields’ great latter-day successes, Mr. Taylor did not get to savor Halo’s. Stricken by a debilitating stroke in October 1980, the great breeder was non compos mentis while Halo reigned as leading sire of 1983, the year his son Sunny’s Halo won the Kentucky Derby.
In February 1984, Charles Taylor (who had succeeded his father as Windfields president), Joe Thomas, and I met in a Manhattan brownstone to arrange the sale of Halo to Tom Tatham (Oak Creek Breeders) and Arthur B. Hancock III (Stone Farm) for $36 million—that was some price for a 15-year-old stallion.
It was a great deal for both buyer and seller. Original shareholders who had bought in at $30,000 and had the use of the stallion for 10 years received $900,000 if the 1984 breeding right was included. Otherwise, the bounty was $700,000.
Re-syndicated in Kentucky, Halo went on to earn his second sire title (1989) on the back of his gifted Horse of the Year son, Sunday Silence.

Joe Hickey, who lives in Easton, Md., has been a publicist, writer, breeding farm administrator, and racing commissioner.