Today is Derby Day, when anybody who has ever seen a horse dons fancy clothes, drinks a mint julep, and puts down a bet.
Today will be the only day that three-fourths of the people in the United States who will watch “the most exciting two minutes in sports” give a hoot about racehorses.
I’m one of those people. I’m a bit more interested in it now than I was, say, a decade ago, but I’m no expert. The only horse slated to run today whose name I even know is Brooklyn Strong. And that’s only because Paul Halloran and Jessica Paquette, the two closest people I have in my life who would qualify as “touts,” are high on him. And if they are, so am I, because I wouldn’t know the difference.
I’m the guy who bragged that I never set foot in Suffolk Downs until the place was ready to close. Now, I wish I’d gone there more often.
I did go to Saratoga with Halloran and a bus full of others, on one of the hottest August days ever, for the Travers Stakes. We sat outside and availed ourselves of the off-track betting tents. My first bet was $5 (last of the big spenders, eh?) on a horse whose name I liked. Everybody told me it was a bad bet, but aha! He won.
This, according to Ralph Minsky, another Item guy who went with us, was an upset, even though Ralphie defined “upset” as a horse he didn’t have.
Then again, no matter what race you were discussing, Ralphie would say “I had that horse” afterward. Sure he did. He’d throw a buck or two down on all of them just to be safe.
Because Halloran loved to talk horse racing in the office with Ralphie and Rich Fahey, I couldn’t help but learn at least something about it. Like who Bob Baffert is, for example. He’s a trainer whose horses have won six Derbys, seven Preaknesses, three Belmonts, and a triple crown (Justify in 2017).
So now, when I have to sit through those interminable pre-race features, I can point to the screen and say “there’s Bob Baffert.” He’s hard to miss, with his mane of snow-white hair.
But Linda and I do watch. I got interested enough in it to watch in 1973, when Secretariat won the Triple Crown, and made it a point to watch at least the Derby ever since.
However, I never expected Linda to take to it. She loves it now. I took her to Suffolk the day it closed and she had the time of her life.
One of the more interesting aspects of races such as the Derby is the attire of the well-heeled. This, apparently, comes from across the pond, and was satirized quite nicely in the play “My Fair Lady” in the “Ascot Gavotte” song. At the Travers, where it was 99 degrees (at least), we saw men and women dressed as if they were going to Buckingham Palace for a royal soirée, with gowns, hats, tophats, tails, and everything in between. Lord, they must have been dying in that heat.
I always likened it to going to a showing of “Rocky Horror Picture Show” in costume. But over the years, “Derby parties,” where people actually dress up, have become quite popular (though, thanks to that two-ton elephant known as COVID, these parties will be few and far between this year).
Two years ago, Linda and I went to a Marblehead Arts Association’s Derby-themed fundraiser at the Boston Yacht Club. We got all dressed up (well, she looked the part — I looked like Thurston Howell III), and drank mint juleps for the first time. We even learned how to drink them with rum instead of bourbon (trust me, the rum went down much better).
That was the year it poured rain in Louisville and the judges had to disqualify the winner and award the roses to another. I felt like, in some small way, I was part of history.
A month later, we had to go to a family wedding in Indiana, and flew into Louisville. Before we set out to Indianapolis, I made my son (our designated wheelman these days) find Churchill Downs and drive by it — just so I could say I’d been there.
Happy Derby Day. May your horse win.
