American Pharoah

Despite the morning’s gray static of rain,we drive to Churchill Downs at 6 a.m.,eyes still swollen shut with sleep. I say,Remember when I used to think everythingwas getting better and better? Now, I thinkit’s just getting worse and worse. I know it’s notwhat I’m supposed to say as we machine ourway through the silent seventy minutes on 64over pavement still fractured from the winter’swreckage. I’m tired. I’ve had vertigo for fivemonths and on my first day home, he’s shakenme awake to see this horse, not even race, butwork. He gives me his jacket as we facethe deluge from car to the twin spire turnstiles,and once deep in the fern-green grandstands, I seethe crowd. A few hundred maybe, black umbrellas,cameras, and notepads, wet-winged eager early birdscome to see this Kentucky-bred bay colt with hischewed-off tail train to end the almost 40-yearAmerican Triple Crown drought. A man next to us,some horseracing heavy, ticks off a list of reasonswhy this horse—his speed-laden pedigree, muscleand bone recovery, et cetera, et cetera—could neverwin the grueling mile-and-a-half Belmont Stakes.Then, the horse with his misspelled name comes out,first just casually cantering with his lead horse,and next, a brief break in the storm, and he’s racingagainst no one but himself and the official clocker, monstrously fast and head down so we can seethat faded star flash on his forehead like thisis real gladness. As the horse eases up and weclose our mouths to swallow, the heavy next to usfolds his arms, says what I want to say too: I take it all back.