Kat’s Eye: Witnessing History

I remember vividly the first time I fell in love. He was tall, with dreamy brown eyes and an athletic build. He was the most popular in his class and everyone adored him.  He was three and I was seven. His name was Secretariat.
In the spring and summer of 1973 I watched, along with the entire world, as a chestnut colt owned by Meadow Stable set the racing world on fire. The 1970s were good years for horse racing, and we saw three Triple Crown champions, with Seattle Slew in 1977 and Affirmed in 1978.
Then there was the drought. In the years since 1978, thirteen horses have captured the first two jewels of the Triple Crown, only to find heartbreak in the Belmont Stakes, on the track aptly named Big Sandy.  
That all changed on June 6, 2015.
The final leg of my Triple Crown journey began at 5:30 a.m. on Friday on our farm just outside Atlanta, when my husband, Scott, called to me that the horses were out. My big knucklehead – 4-year-old Kryptonite, a Percheron gelding – had pushed his way through the fencing and was racing around the front yard like a silly puppy. (A silly puppy that weighs a ton!)
With a little patience and coaxing from my husband, without lead ropes or any other means of force, both Kryptonite and his buddy, Karma, walked back into their pasture. (Their herd-mate, Karla, our “Jesus donkey” was still in there, calmly munching on hay and wondering why the boys had felt the need for an outing.)
With that little bit of excitement behind us, we headed for the airport and within a few hours I was walking through the terminal at La Guardia. It’s been a few years since I was last here, and the updates that have been done to the Delta terminal are very nice. Then you step outside, and you’re on the streets of New York.
It was a quick shuttle ride to my hotel, where I checked in, dropped off my luggage, and immediately turned around to head downstairs and request an Uber car so that I could head to the track. Let me say, I’m a fan of Uber, was an early adopter, and use them all the time when I travel. But in New York - forget about it!
I stood at the curb for over thirty minutes and had two drivers cancel my trip. The second was just across the street when I approached the car, whose license plate I had confirmed, and asked the driver to take me to Belmont Park. He said that I was not his fare. I showed him the vehicle license tag on the Uber app, but he still refused to drive me anywhere. 
Frustrated, I stepped back onto the curb just in time to hear two ladies telling their cab driver that they wanted to go to Belmont Park race track. I asked if I could ride with them, and they were only too happy to oblige.
Enter Kara and Jennifer - my new friends and companions for Belmont Stakes weekend. Sisters from the Chicago area, they had arrived a couple of hours earlier and were excited to get their first glimpse of the track, as was I.
Shortly after we arrived I found the press room, got my credentials, and walked back down to the track to get my bearings. It was around 4 p.m. and the eighth race was about to start, but the crowd was practically nonexistent. After my experiences in Louisville and Baltimore, attending the Kentucky Derby and the Preakness Stakes, I was more than a little surprised to find the grandstand empty the day before a potential Triple Crown.

I was able to walk around freely, however, and crossed to the infield for the final races of the day, which were run on the turf. As I walked across the main track, it was more than obvious to me why they call it “Big Sandy”. It was practically ankle deep, dense and spongy. Completely different from the surfaces I had trod over at Del Mar, Los Alamitos and Santa Anita Park when I lived in California, and sure to be a challenge to any horse that had not been training under similar conditions.

As racing wrapped up for the day, a local handicapper directed us to a street festival in Garden City, an adjacent community, and we took a few hours to walk around, enjoy some live music and have an enjoyable dinner. (I also had some fun, dancing to “Walk Like an Egyptian” with a little girl who had previously been repressed by her mother, who was trying to get her to “just stand still”.)
On Belmont day, Jennifer, Kara and I jumped in a cab with a driver who spoke NO English and somehow made it to the track just as the first race was being called to the post. (Our driver was passing the track, which is really large, and we had to tell him that we had arrived and wanted to get out of the car.)
The weather was pleasantly overcast with a light breeze. With no sign of possible rain, it was a perfect day for racing. I hung out with my new friends, watching the early races, until I got a text from jockey Victor Espinoza a little after 1 p.m., inviting me down to the jockeys’ room.
I walked through the tunnel that connects the paddock to the track and down the stairs, reaching the jockeys’ room after navigating a large hallway that held signs pointing the after-race band, “Goo Goo Dolls,” to their dressing rooms.

Every track is different, and every jockeys’ room is, too. Because the rooms are meant for the jockeys, to allow them a protected area to prepare for their races, access is closely guarded. As Victor’s guest, I tried to find the Clerk of Scales to introduce myself and to understand any guidelines for my being in the room for the day.
Shortly after arriving, my friend, who was making his third attempt at the Triple Crown, emerged from the locker room. After saying hello to me, he received the well wishes of his colleagues and chatted with former jockey turned owner, Rene Douglas. While I prefer “candid” photos, I couldn’t resist when Victor struck a pose along with Rene and fellow jockey, Martin Pedroza.

As Victor bounced past me, into a larger room, he said, “Hang out while I warm up for my race.” It’s surprising to me the focus that comes over these athletes when they are training and preparing to work. Victor appears to be visualizing the race and is able to block out everything around him. You can see it on his face.

Just as quickly, he’s casually perched on the Equicizer, chatting with representatives from Monster Energy Drink, the team’s newest sponsor. (And a group of really nice guys.) It was then that I finally made the acquaintance of the Clerk of Scales, who told me that I had to leave the room, even if I was the guest of one of the sport’s most celebrated jockeys. Oh well!
I returned to the clubhouse to join Kara and Jen to watch Victor guide his mount, Sky Kingdom, to a third-place finish in the sixth race.

Without access to my friend in the jockey room, there was little of substance for me to do leading up to the big race. We visited the paddock and took in the beautiful grounds of Belmont Park. I love the infield here, and the fact that it is kept completely open. The track is enormous as it was built for races of a mile and a half, and unlike other major tracks, no one is allowed in the infield. At Churchill Downs and Pimlico, more than half the spectators occupy these spaces. At Belmont, all of the 90,000 in attendance were in the clubhouse and grandstand.

As the big race approached I went down to find a spot on the rail to take photos. Once again I was greeted with the hospitality of both the Belmont crowd and security detail, was bounced around to the point of being bruised, and denied access to that which my press credentials were supposed to allow. Surveying the landscape, I settled on what I deemed to be a friendly face and was happy to discover a kind officer who encouraged me to cross the path in the tunnel to reach the rail on the clubhouse end of the track. From there, I settled into position a little further from the finish line than I had hoped, but in front of the capacity crowd.

The anticipation leading up to the race was palpable, and as the field entered the starting gate, my heart began to race and I felt anxiety generally reserved for those who are actually being called on to perform in such situations. Then the gates opened, and within seconds, Victor and American Pharaoh were sprinting past me, reaching the front of the pack as they strode in front of me. (Looking back at my photos, I could see that they did not get out of the gate well, with Victor noticeably high and right to counterbalance his horse.)

At that point, I relaxed. I knew they had it, and that feeling never left me for the remainder of the race. As they crossed the finish line, a huge smile on Victor’s face, I was barely aware that I had just witnessed history.

After trophies were presented and participants left for interviews (the humans) and a shower (Pharoah) the two remaining races on the card went off, and then the after-race concert. My friends and I decided to stick around for a couple of hours to let the traffic die down, but even at 9:30 p.m., finding a cab was a chore.
We lucked into a ride with a group from Queens - all friends from childhood who had been attending the Belmont Stakes for decades. They were kind enough to offer to drop us at our hotel, and our trip back was quick and smooth, once that ride was secured.

On Sunday morning, trainer Bob Baffert, owners the Zayats and of course, Victor, greeted the media at their barn on Belmont’s backside, but I was already on a plane winging my way back to Georgia. Sunday was my husband’s birthday, and I was looking forward to having the day with him and our farm full of critters.
During my flight I thought about the first time I met American Pharaoh, in October of last year. I was visiting the barns on the backside of Santa Anita, beginning some background work on horses that I wanted to follow in the coming year. I had hoped to start a series on Pharoah similar to the Chrome Diaries - the behind-the-scenes account of my time in the barn of Sherman Racing and California Chrome. While no such series materialized, on that beautiful fall morning, Bob Baffert was only too happy to allow me access, and introduce me to American Pharaoh.
For years I’ve heard owners, breeders and trainers talk about how they knew they had a special horse. I’ve wondered about that, and even asked many of them how and when they knew. Until that moment, when I approached the stall of the then 2-year-old Pharoah, I still had no clue what they meant.
His back was to me, but when I spoke his name, he turned gracefully, whinnied and stepped forward, placing his head softly into my hands. It sounds sappy, but on that morning in October of 2014, I said to myself - “There’s your Triple Crown.”  
While my love for horse racing lives in the barns on the backside of the tracks I’ve been privileged to visit, I’m happy to have had the opportunity to be present to watch my friend Victor enjoy every moment of his journey, and to be witness as he guided this incredible horse to the pinnacle of sport. Pharaoh Reigns.