“Sour grapes Sour grape”, whispered California Chrome’s ‘ the Mick’, the Chestnut’s eleven year old groom and saddle boy as he washed down the three year olds labored sweaty over heated body in his Belmont Stakes fate fatale.
The stable’s scent of hay and manure, transcending the hundred thousand plus afficiandos lost for words, as their “Great Expectations” came to nought, as the Derby and Preakness winner tried in vain to three repeat.
“But it wasn’t in the cards, was it Chromy?” asked the Mick, purring his brush and pail wards, into the tired exhaustedflapping colt’s ears. His ingratiating affection, brought ameasure of comfort and afterthought to the to the unharnessedodds on a favorite named California Chrome.
“What could you have told your admirers, those betters who took your odds on; freaking out, grasping the triple crown.Belmont being your last thrust.
“ After 17 years since Affirmed ma the miracle run 37 years ago…. Secretariat a year earlier , the groom’s brush cooling the perspiring horse breed , legs twitching, the nerves and vibrations out of any calibration with his un reined torso, the Duke riding shotgun in director John Ford’s “Stagecoach” at Monument Valley, Arizona..
“
“So much lather on the networking of commentators, aging jocks. Totes, owners, trainers: their whole smorgasboard whirl of their enchilada “ spritz”.
The Mick brushing down the colt’s stream lined three year old majesty. .
“You are the greatest , Chromy. Belmont Stakes and all, Boz’sCharles Dickens sound and fury hoopla, the ground squirrels aghast at the sound and fury touting your magnificence. But itwasn’t meant to be, Cali”..
California Chrome neighed, and in his heritage, neighed again as though he was back at birth: on old man Ness’s farm, when he first saw the light of day at Bethlehem, New Hampshire. The snow capped Old Man of the Mountain in the distance, the ski lift running their loop across the spacious range.
III
“What could you do with your kick, around the final turn of a mile and a half? You had no explosiveness. Espinosa had left you run the Kentucky Derby and the Preakness in a field of six or so four legged steeds. But here the number was ten. Plus theextra half a mile.
“You knew this New York mile and a half track was longer…. As the saddle boy named Mick, was into his grooming, lathering down this once mighty winner, a magnificent armament of racehorses, his Brooklyn born claimer buying the California Chrome for a thousand dollars that morning, when our eyes first lit on the colt’s stride and pedigree on old man Ness’s Bethlehem,New Hampshire bungalow colony ranch three years ago of a lifetime.
IVC
“What did we know about the conglomeration of the breeding game.. We were working stiffs. Operating from our handy store... My mother and father leaving Brooklyn for California at age 7.My wife and I were following our dream.
“Go west, young man,” Horace Greeley ringing in our ears. What chance did our horse have here.? Eleven fresh steedesrunning against Chromy.. We hadn’t a lick. Not a lick. The odds were against us right from the opening bugle. The whole damn Belmont stage was stacked against us.”
V
The second guessers at the pari- mutual windows, pocketingtheir win place and show winnings, had little to say about the Great Expectations that was run here at Belmont Stakes. The maddening crowd of Julie Christie, steam rolling the planet with unfulfilled dreams, visions of grandeur, and disappointments as reality set in.
The factors had matriculated a version, unlike the Preakness three weeks ago. Chromy had been pouted to a different test, and therefore those mile distances in his triumphs could not befactored on the tote board as an odds on favorite, could they..
“You are the greatest,” cried the stable boy named the Mick,liberating his eleven year old tears, his brush swerving across the colt’s legs. His tears and the bathing suds undistinguishable.
June 8, 2014. Some 24 hours after the Belmont Stakes….The City that never sleeps
