Eight Belles--Farewell to a Champion

Buried in work for most of the day, I glanced at the clock. Six p.m. I had promised myself I would do it this year: I would make it to the Kentucky Derby. But, as we all know, the best laid plans of mice and men often take turns we can not control. Still I took a moment, imagining the excitement, the crowds, the smell of horses, the sea of hats, the congenial banterings of my-horse-is-better-than-yours. All the trappings I longed for laced with the perfume of horses, fine bourbon and mint.

My thoughts darkened briefly as I realized in less than eight minutes history would be made. Lives would be changed forever. The dark side of racing grazed my thoughts as I thought of those who don´t make it. Anything can happen: a sprain, a bowed tendon, a cracked sesamoid, a fractured cannon bone, a burst heart. Silently, I said a prayer, and waited. By the grace of God they would all come home safely.

This large Derby field was as diverse in bloodlines as it was in experience. Some of the horses only ran on artificial tracks--manmade tracks meant to lessen injuries and maintain the health of the true athlete. Some ran only on turf, and some had a bit of experience on dirt. All of that produced fine fodder for the railbirds and others who intently watched as the three year olds prepared for the Big Day. The Kentucky Derby is tradition, and the best of the best run on the dirt.

The horses filled their gate positions full of fire and expectation. The early gated horses, impatient to get on with it, required steadying while the large field loaded up. Every eye was on the starting gates, for once they are all in, they are gone. Gates open, the field broke wildly and each horse seemingly leaped for the front. A living mass of energy and power, blood and bone, thundered down the track in the two minute quest for fame and glory. It can be the longest two minutes in the world.

Anything can happen in the Derby and it did. A come-from-behind horse ended up third, a great-striding filly came in second in the field of colts, and a youngster with only three races under his girth lit up the stretch to blaze under the wire by five lengths. Another wild card race proving anything is possible under the twin spires of Churchill Downs. My prayer answered, they all crossed the finish line safely.

Beyond the excited embraces and the congratulatory pats on the back, the great-striding filly stretched and slowed in her run-out, her great heart beating wildly, filled with the adrenaline that would disperse when her waiting groom soothed her in the walk-out around the barn. But, as her rider and partner raised in the stirrups to slow her down, Eight Belles changed the cadence of her great stride--subtle enough to miss unless one is in the irons. Before he could complete pulling her up, she faltered and fell, her two front ankles destroyed by the repeated pounding of thousands of pounds of pressure on each leg during each grueling stride.

Eight Belles´ fate was sealed in that instant. There was no hope to save the beautiful filly for she literally had no leg to stand on. Adrenaline still high, she wanted to stand. But that would have spelled further suffering and disaster. The kindest medicine arrived in the form of the track veterinarian who filled a big syringe. Eight Belles would suffer no more.

Champagne and mint juleps flow tonight like life´s elixir in Louisville. Another Kentucky Derby enters the history books while the contenders look forward to the next leg of the Triple Crown. Another exciting race in the future and I plan to be there. Whether I physically get there or not, I shall be watching, and I shall say another silent prayer for the safety of the field.

Also tonight, in the quiet of the shed row in Churchill Downs there is an empty stall. Empty of the beautiful and fantastic life that occupied it only hours ago. Among the quieted athletes who now sleepily munch their hay, there is one less sound. Gone is the champion filly who may have won the Kentucky Derby today had Fate offered just a little different twist.

Finally tonight, miles away on my quiet porch and comforted by a cool evening breeze, I raise a quiet toast to a true champion, Eight Belles, who gave everything doing what she was bred to do. Barely three years old, this formidable filly showed her great heart and gave her very life leaving an indelible mark on all who witnessed her last moments. In spite of the celebrations, we all lost a little today: a great filly like Eight Belles doesn´t come along often.

A heartbreaking reminder that our Sport of Kings does not come without a price.