Remembering Secretariat at Belmont

T'was twenty hours before I observed a primeval, confrontational force of nature appear at precisely the right juncture in my adult development arise and abide at the perfect co-ordinates of place, event and time. Twenty hours remained before a performance so stunning in clarity that it raised the expectations of excellence of alll who witnessed it. Twenty hours before time stood still. Twenty hours before I discovered what a horse actually looked like. Twenty hours before I knew the color chestnut. 

It was 10 o'clock on a Friday night. Not just any Friday but June 3, 1973. We were sitting in my basement listening to Wake of the Flood. This night and the next day would be the only time that all  three of us would ever spend together.

One of my friends was Avery Scoville Beer. We called him Scobey. Scobey and I taught together for a year before Scobie joined the Peace Corps. I had shown Scobie how to fold the image of George Washington on a dollar bill into a perfect mushroom. The night he left, he presented me with a frame ink etching of that mushroom that he had drawn. On the back of that work of art he had written these words   "to a true friend that I will never forget".

Scobie went to Nepal where he served for two years. In his first few months in Nepal. He tried like hell to hold on to his American culture but a few months in while riding an elephant, he couldn't hold it any longer He got off the pachyderm and fell into a swoon. When he woke up he was in a Buddhist temple staring up at a mandalla.  He stopped trying to hold on to the past.

Now having just reurned to the States, Scobie was being equally overwhelmed and culture shocked by the United States. Let's put it this way, when Scobie was driving, he had a hard time keeping the car on the street. Scobie considered the sidewalk just another yak free part of the road. I had become his unoffical guide back into America. Earlier in the week, I had taken him to a Grateful Dead concert in Buffalo where we hear Wake of the Flood performed live.

Also in the cellar that night was my childhood friend Johnny Crown. Crown had been out of the army for a few years by then. He had been an MP in Fort Bragg, North Carolina and in fact been one of the officers who arrested Jane Fonda in her Hanoi Jane days. Crown, on this evening, was in the early days of his "retirement" at age twenty six. Crown was finished working for a living and had decided to become a gambler.

We were all in our mid-twenties, all single, all eligible and about as in shape and handsome as we were going to get. As we were trying to figure out what to do next, we started bragging to each other about how far we would travel to do whatever that something was. Chicago was in play, so was Cleveland, New York and Boston. We were ready to go where the action was. Nothing was holding us back.

Crown suggested that we drive to New York city and catch the Belmont Stakes. I was a sports fan and had followed the Triple Crown races that year. I was familiar with two equine stars, Sham and Secretariat who had emerged at the Kentucky Derby in Louisville and the Preakness Stakes in Maryland. Secretariat had won both races with Sham finishing a close second. Both horses had set new track and distance records in each race, the main difference was that Secretariat had two wins while Sham had two places.

In winning the Derby, Secretariat had come from last place to first place, picking off and pasing every horse in the filed until hooking up and passing Sham down the homestretch. During his Run for the Roses, Secretariat had raced each succeding quarter mile faster than the one before it. No doubt about Secretariat's endurance.

In his Preakess victory, Secretariat had once again trailed early. The he exploded into a second quarter of 21 seconds. Having grabbed the lead, he sailed home and once again edged the fast closing Sham.

With my usual underdog instinct in full gallop, I began rooting for Sham. Crown was convinced of Secretariat. Scobie was rooting for karma.

We called the argument to question. We jumped in my car and drove all night to Belmont.

Upon our arrival, we stopped into a diner for breakfast. Ron Turcotte, Secretariat's jockey, stopped into the same diner and sat down near us. I didn't know Turcotte but Crown recognized him. He pointed to the short man and whispered "That's the guy. That's Secretariat's jockey." It was cool but it didn't mean much to me at the time. Ten hours later it would.

We ate breakfast, hung around for awhile and were among the first of the 80,000 who would arrive at the track that day. I got my bet on Sham down early. 

We sat through the eight races as the crowd grew larger, more boisterous and more expectant at the conclusion of each race until only the Stakes remained.

I brought my camera with me so I was anxious to get some pictures. As the race approached, I made my way to the paddock near the saddling area. Most of photography is having a camera and standing in the right place. I had my camera and I was in a great place.

I had been in the paddock area at Finger Lakes, our local track, many times and had seen a lot of thoroughbreds. It became immediately obvious that the horses at this event were of a higher order of breeding. Sham came out before. I was impressed.  He looked the best of the rest. He certainly looked like a winner.

Then Secretariat made his way into the paddock and I completelly forgot about Sham. It was the closest I've come to animal worship. Not just me, but everybody around me. A couple of people fainted. Women were having, let's just say pheremonic reactions as they swooned in the presence of Big Red as Secretariat was known.

People often ask me how Secretariat looked up close. The best description I can give is he looked exactly like a horse is supposed to look. Everything was in proportion only bigger, better and more breathtakingly real. Secretariat was the tatoo in the paddock, all others were birthmarks.

Secretariat oozed confidence. He knew he ws a champion and he had come to New York to prove it once and for all. Although up to this moment he was invincible an undeniable aura of relatability rather than snorting arrogance raidated around Secretariat. He was enjoying himself and enjoying the people who were enjoying him. He impressed me as a friend impresses me...a friend you can count on. If you have friend on whom you think you can rely, you are a lucky man.

In the presence of Secretariat I felt like a lucky man.

In the presence of this fully realized horse, I felt like a more fully realized man.

People were screaming. People were in awe. My consciousness of passing time was being altered. We were all in slow motion. Gears were tumbling and clicking. Secretariat was already wearing the blue and white checkered mask that was his trademark and which made him instantly recognizable.

My camera was ready to click as well. I re-positioned myself near the tunnel where Secretariat would pass on his way to the track. He approached me. He got closer and closer. Because my camera was of the rewind variety, I kept waiting as he got closer. He was right next to me. I waited one more second. He was looking directly in my eye from under his mask and swerved even closer to my lens as the camera clicked. 

I swear to God, he smiled.

He passed me and headed into the tunnel that separates the paddock from the track. Momentary silence ensued as Secretariat entered the tunnel. In the distance, I could hear the band playing Sidewalks of New York. Then the silence was broken by Big Apple roar as the horses exited from the tunnel and came into view of the awaiting crowd. The clamor doubled when Secretariat stepped on the track. Secretariat was the last horse in the parade to the track

I had just enough time to get  to the betting window where I strengthened my wager on Big Red. All that remained was the race.

The gate opened and immediately Sham and Secretariat left the field behind. The two rivals were racing as one, stride for stride. I asked Crown how it looked. He said that both jockeys were straight up in the stirrups. Crwon told me that meant that the jockeys were letting their horses run at will and free.

Gradually Sham's jockey started to lower himself a little to drive the horse rather than to ride the horse. Turcotte continued straight and tall. One of the jockeys as clearly pushing his horse while other jock was taking asurrealistic ride on a genius, equine rocket.

Nearing the far turn, Secretariat seemed to glance over at Sham. I imagined Secretariat smiling again. "Sham" the smile said "you've been a great rival, maybe later someday we can have grain together but right now, I'm leavin' you. I know it's gonna break your heart. Sorry pal, I gotta go. It's legend time."

See ya

And Secretariat hit a gear unkown to other horses. He separated from Sham. As Secretariat sped up, Sham fell back. Eventually all the other horses would catch Sham who finished last. Spirit broken, the grerat Sham would never race again.

Now all eyes were on Secretariat and time began to disappear as Secretariat devoured it. Shadows of the late afternoon sun painted a magical silhouette of a horse and rider galopping into legend. The crowd had screamed itself into awe struck silence or silenced itself into an ear splitting scream whichever as Secretariat came down the stretch, still running free, still increasing his lead. Now all alone. The lead stretched to twenty lengths as Turcotte glanced at the timer. The record for the race and for the distance 2:26 and 3/5. Secretariat took a final zoom and crossed the finish line at 2 minutes and 24 seconds. The track announcer screamed "and the winner in a new track record and new world record.....Secretariat"

He won by 23 lengths.

23 lengths.

Later that evening Scobey, Crown and I reminded ourselves about what we had just seen together. We promised to remind ourselves throughout our lives about Secretariat and each time we would recall that moment we would expect more of our existences. If we never saw each other again we could always look back and say "well, were together that day at Belmont."

As fate would have it, I haven't seen Scobey since that day. He had to get back to mountains. Some folks sy he moved to Oregon, invented a back pack that turned int o ac hair and struck it rich. I f he somehow walked into the door of my North Carolina home right now, I'd say "Scobe, let's take a minute and remember Secretariat.

As for George Mushingroom, I gave the precious artwork to one of my daughters, the one with the chestnut hair, when it became clear that she would be leaving home. I hoped and continue to hope that it will bring her the best of luck.....Secretariat

As for Crown, I called him last night and told him I was going to try and write this story. He reminded me to stay tall in the stirrups and let the words run free.

Oh and the picture...it came out a blur. Secretariat had come too close to the lens.