Brown Haze

By: Ben Strauss

Through the haze of 90-degree heat it was hard to see. Nine horses charged into the final turn and only eight came out sprinting. Two hundred thousand eyes searched for the ninth horse under the guise of inevitability, waiting for the colt they came to see pull away down the home stretch. But Big Brown, in a story twisted like a strand of DNA, instead trotted the final eighth of a mile.

This Belmont was supposed to be different. Big Brown was undefeated, invincible, impregnable and unbeatable; a lock the kind Harry Houdini couldn’t undo to win the Triple Crown.

Ninety-four thousand die-hard horse race gurus, casual fans and curious spectacle seekers were there to see history. More than six hours and ten races in the kind of heat usually reserved for a toaster oven later it was finally time. This was going to be the story you told your grandkids when they asked about the framed un-cashed two-dollar betting ticket hanging in your living room two generations down the road.

The stage was set. Hundreds of cameras, big and small, held poised to capture their own piece of history. Big Brown was led from the paddock through the clubhouse to the track. A spine-tingling roar greeted his entrance. A breeze blew and all of a sudden the heat wasn’t so unbearable. On the video board in the infield the horse looked calm, magnificent; the kind of horse that wins Triple Crowns.

Big Brown wasn’t Smarty Jones or Funny Cide. He was bigger, more powerful, ready to run the grueling mile and a half like he was out for a Sunday afternoon stroll. There was no Touch Gold, no Empire Maker to stand in his way. The rest of the field was amateur at best, unworthy to be more accurate.

With the venerable Kent Desormeaux aboard, the Great Dane of a thoroughbred coolly sauntered through the pre-race parade. Desormeaux had been here before, losing by just a nose aboard Real Quiet in the 1998 Belmont with history on the line. Other horses dripped sweat, foamed at the mouth, showed their nerves. Big Brown, just like his jockey, was ready for his big moment.

Flowers hung along with red, white and blue banners from the overhanging balcony above the grandstand. Underneath the imposing green roof of Belmont Park, those in jackets and ties sat waiting and watching the NYPD mounted procession that preceded the stallion of the day’s entrance. At the railing it was packed ear to ear. For a sport that bathes itself in pageantry, this was thirty years in the making.

Desormeaux dressed for the part in his white shirt with blue stars and red trim, almost presidential. In the race day program, the silks of the previous eleven Triple Crown winners were pictured; from Steve Cauthen in his pale brown on Affirmed to Ron Turcotte in his blue checkerboard pattern aboard Secretariat. Desormeaux was primed to join them.

Post time was 6:31, t-minus two minutes to Mardi Gras at the Belmont. Eight horses ready to gallop a mile and a half, one ready to gallop toward immortality.

The excitement of the Triple Crown comes and goes almost as fast as the races themselves. Six weeks ago, Big Brown was a three-year old colt training in relative obscurity. After this week he’ll be a sire on your racing form. But for the five weeks in between, a magic carpet ride.

On a day where the heat wasn’t just felt but seen, time seemed to stand still as the sun rose and began to fall again over Belmont Park. Shade turned to sun and then back to shade again by the time Big Brown left the stables. Excitement, exhaustion and nerves all sweated from bodies packed so close together in expectation of victory for a horse, a sport and everyone in attendance.

Finally they were off.

The splits were slow after the first quarter mile, and the second. With no one pushing the pace Big Brown was coasting, just waiting for Desormeaux to make his move; jockey, horse and crowd anticipating in unison. Big Brown was there heading into the final turn, sitting just behind leader Da’ Tara, right where he wanted to be. But when Da’ Tara opened up around the final turn Big Brown didn’t follow.

Desormeaux asked for the patented second gear, the one that gave the great horse five-length wins in the Derby and the Preakness, but on this day it was nowhere to be found. Eight horses galloped toward the finish line and Big Brown was eased out of the turn as Desormeaux gently laid to rest any dreams of a Triple Crown.

Stunned silence. There had to be a mistake. Whatever happened had to be in pencil, ready to be erased and raced again. This Triple Crown wasn’t up for discussion. Waiting for Big Brown to cross the finish line first wasn’t a hope or a wish, but a certainty, like waiting for a sunrise.

But Belmont Park has no time for destiny. Its mile and a half track has no interest in happy endings. It’s seen hopes dashed, dreams crushed and ambition destroyed now eleven times since 1978. It is a park more acquainted with defeat than jubilation.

Smarty Jones left Belmont Park feeling disappointed. Big Brown left it feeling betrayed. A 1-4 favorite, he brought with him an air of invincibility, a mantle he carried all the way until that final turn. Even watching replays the days after, it’s still a wonder to see him fall from third to last, and not watch him accelerate around the turn, leave Da’ Tara staring at Desormeaux’s back and follow destiny into the winner’s circle.

A park once buzzing with life had nothing left to cheer Da’ Tara. It was as drained emotionally as Big Brown physically. All it had left was a mass exodus toward the Long Island Railroad and a ride home to lament what might have been, to discuss the latest on a growing list of almosts. Big Brown didn’t make history at the Belmont, but he certainly added to it; his air of invincibility transferred seamlessly to the myth of the Triple Crown, a myth that seems to swell exponentially each year it remains unclaimed.

All the evidence you needed was to look to the ground littered with ripped up un-cashed $2 win tickets on the one horse in the eleventh. The once historic ticket now trash to be picked up by the cleaning crew. The humidity having beaten down anyone not enjoying an air-conditioned suite, it was time to trudge home. But that’s the kind of day it was at the Belmont; too hazy to see history.

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Ben Strauss was born and raised in Chicago and is currently a senior at Ithaca College. He vomits everytime a Yankee fan turns on the YES Network, and can be reached at bstraus1@ithaca.edu.

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2 Comments

  1. Big Brown’s victory in the derby over filly Eight Belles seemed like a perfect metaphor for Barack Obama’s triumph over Hillary Clinton. I found this hilarious article where Big Brown “speaks” out about how he’s feeling: http://www.236.com/news/2008/06/09/236_horseatorial_big_brown_exp_1_7017.php

    Comment by eliana on June 9, 2008

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