Saratoga Memories: Sing a Song of Summer

I miss, terribly, Katherine and Sophie, my friends whose movie about Julie Krone will shatter the world with truth and the beauty of genuine grit.  Those beautiful, brilliant supernovae, whose presence at the track touched everyone they met and charmed even the horses and hardboots. 

How can I not smile widely when I think of Taliban, the unfortunately-named lead pony whose gentle heart and welcoming demeanor remind me that "Taliban" means, "teacher"?  Common Currency, my darling nephew-horse who insists that all visitors hold his tongue.  Catty Madeleine, whose girlish countenance and quietude of spirit invite all huggers.  Meeting Summer Bird was a highlight of the meet--he's so painfully handsome, and regal.  And he knows it.

Rachel Alexandra.  That's all, it's not necessary to say anything else.  The Ultimate Horse took up residence in my heart, and there she will stay for time and eternity.  It was a blessing to be in the entourage of voyeurs who watched her workout, bathe and walk on Monday mornings.

And those Monday mornings!  The faithful crew of looky-loos who joined me at the dew-covered Oklahoma rail, notebooks or cameras in-hand.  I wouldn't get up at that hour for a man, or to take my Mother to the train station.  But to witness the gliding of archetypal poetry, itself--she who personifies God's Perfection as she took command of that lake of dirt--for her,  I dragged my sorry self and blurry eyes out of bed.

Bruce Levine's happy, respected horses, and his loving assistant, Tom Williams and Tom's wife, Carol.  A beautiful barnful of critters of the two- and four-legged kind, working together in harmony.

Leroy Jolley, a warrior of the old school whose insight and Wisdom set him apart.  Racing needs a Commission, and Leroy should be the Commissioner.  No one knows more about racing, or cares more about the judicious administration of the sport--than the Hall of Fame trainer whose blue eyes melt the hardest of hearts.

The spotless, beautifully-groomed barns and critters of Godolphin, racing for my hero, Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum.  Oreo and Patches, the barn cats who reside in the barn of Joe Aquilino, a trainer whom I love simply because he's a classically Good Man, and brings that to his work and life.

Oh, and how I admire the kind hearts and pure spirits of the Race Track Chaplaincy of America/New York Division.  Seeing "Rev," as I call him--Chaplain Humberto Chavez--and his golf cart, zipping around the main track backstretch gave my heart a sense that all is going to be OK, because God is riding the range with His good and faithful servant.

The paddock, and all the magnificent horses who were saddled in the sweltering Saratoga heat.  Rearing their heads to let out a rebel yell, walking 'round trees in a ritual as old as the sport, their dark brown and bright red coats shining like three coats of shellac.

The backyard handicappers, angrily throwing their losing tickets to the ground, cursing the horse who "made" them lose--and causing me to shake my head in amazement.  I still wonder why people bet money they don't have, then blame the horse for their own stupidity.

I love and miss, already, the fact that NYRA employees, from management to the lamp people, take this circus on the road and make it all look as if it's been there forever.  As if you could dig down to the foundation, and see that the thing, itself, has been there for generations.  There's no hint that this show was in Belmont just three days before, or again three days after.  It's all so solid, and it's due to the professionalism of men who wear suits in 90 degree weather, and women who are the soul of grace in jobs that provide pressure I do not envy.

My heart craves just one more cheeseburger from The Morning Line, and Karen's chocolate chip cookies.  Perfection in confection, the large disks that turn  Assistant Starter, Butch, into a three-year-old boy who pilfers from Mom's secret stash.  I love and miss all the  Assistant Starters, and Roy, their fearless leader.  Their very presence blesses my life, and those of the horses.  I pray for them all, ten times a day.  I will miss hanging with Cousin Ralphie and Lenny, two special gentlemen whose personalities and innate kindness-of-heart set them apart in the world of racing.  In any world, on any planet, for that matter.

My memories of the Summer of 2009 take me to the rail a hundred times, holding hands with Karen and praying, "Be-Safe! Be-Safe! Be-Safe!" in-between commands to "RUN!"  And to tears of sincere agony when a horse suffers in any way.

Already I miss the people, the sights, the scents, the music.  I want to hear Mexican tunes blaring from a shedrow radio, and the low nickering of a new, long-faced friend who welcomes me to her barn, first-thing in the morning.  I want to hang on to the big oak trees in the back, to wrap my arms around those silent watchers who have witnessed history and life and love and lust--the cellulose towers who see all, and yet make no judgments. 

I will take with me into this Winter--surely of my Discontent--a soulful of memories of horses, people and experiences that changed my life for the good.  I will wrap them around me as a big, soft shawl, and draw upon the warm thoughts when I need them to stave off the frigid winds and blankets of snow. 

I will take Saratoga and the races and the thrills and the pain, I will draw this sacred place into my heart.  And Saratoga, in turn, will take me to the Elysian Fields, where dreams and goals and hopes are within reach.  For Saratoga indeed is a place where Anything is Possible; sheikhs and knights mingle silently with the crowd--and royal equine coronations bring ecstasy to the hearts of the citizens of our village. 

This civilization built around the myth and the magic of the horse--this is my Home.  The Saratoga meet of 2009 may be over, but the stories we tell, the glories we sing, the oral history we create every time we say, "Hola" or "Salaam"--this is the comfort of knowing that, while the meet is over, the Home we share, this sport of ours--will go on long after the last golden leaves fall onto the abandoned track.  The sport knows no boundaries--a genuine reflection of our own imaginations, the love we've shared, the joy we've known.

A racetracker's memories far transcend time and space.  We dwell in a sport that seems, to those on the outside, to be a frivolous pursuit.  But to those of us who live and breathe this endeavour--it is far more than a mere "sport" or "game."  This, in the most-real sense, is The Meaning of Life.  And our memories are simple reminders when the "real" world tempts us to give up and give in--that we can, indeed, live with one foot firmly planted in the thick, rich, brown Earth.  And with the other foot, we are partners in a dance with God, Himself--for God waltzes in ovals, running fast and turning left.

[Please share with me your memories of the 2009 Saratoga meet.  From the frivolous to the soul-revealing--we want to hear it all.  Please write to us in the Comments section, and give us your memories. Thank you.]

[Photograph credits:  Royal Valentine with Pedro; Rachel Alexandra; Blue Destiny and Calvin Borel, Cathleen Duffy.  Katherine Brooks, Sophie Watts and Julie Krone, courtesy of Gravity Films.  Chaplain Humberto Chavez, courtesy of Race Track Chaplaincy of America.  NYRA Starting Gate, courtesy of NYRA/Adam Coglianese.]