Those of you dear readers who know me, know that I’ve been a fan of horse racing for a long time. As in, half-a-century. I began riding American Quarter Horses when I was four years old, and my Mother and Grandma took me to the races at Green Mountain Park and Saratoga that same year.
I’ve been on the rail for 52 years now.
And once, a few years ago, I stood on the other side of the rail at Saratoga, after traipsing across the infield with some of my friends who are Assistant Starters, to witness a grass race on the Mellon Turf.
That was cool. Very cool. The air from that place felt like the cleanest, most pure stuff I’ve ever breathed.
But on June 9th, 2012, I had the experience of a lifetime, one that shook both the ground beneath my feet and my very being, itself…
This journey to that remarkable, mind-blowing experience actually began, sort-of, in 2010.
Roy Williamson–the funny, intelligent, handsome professional who serves as Head Starter for NYRA–is, as I’ve discussed in this column a few times, the consummate horseman. He’s been working the starting gate at NYRA for some 28 years, the last seven or so as Head Starter.
He takes his job seriously. But, even though he’s been doing the gate thing long enough that he could’ve become jaded through lo, these many years–he hasn’t. It’s been nearly 30 years, but Roy understands–that, while his job and that of the Assistant Starters is back-breaking, soul-challenging and defined by responsibilities to horses and all their connections–still, it’s a profoundly cool profession, one with a completely different perspective than that of anyone else in the world of horse racing.
Roy and his Assistant Starters get to see the horses up-close and wildly personal. They’re in the trenches, every race, every day, year-in and year-out.
Ah, yes, two years ago: on Closing Day at Saratoga in 2010, Roy extended an invitation to me that was mind-boggling. He invited me to stand with him and his wife, Elaine, at the starting gate for the Belmont Stakes in 2011.
What?!? Cool!! Wowie-zowie.
I was pumped.
But 10 months flew by, and I hadn’t communicated with Roy since that day in Saratoga. And, even though I was at the Belmont in 2011, I didn’t call him. I thought it was rude to show up after not communicating, and expect to be taken to that sacred place, the horse racing Holy of Holies, on the biggest day of the year. So I enjoyed the Belmont Stakes from the rail, like everyone else.
Opening Day at Saratoga, 2011: Roy and I said Hi, and then asked if I hadn’t gone to the Belmont that year. I told him that I didn’t want to be rude, etc., and spontaneously he made a face that indicated that, well, I was a dope.
He reiterated that of course I’d have been welcome, and that the invitation stood.
I should be there for the Belmont Stakes in 2012.
Hell or high water, I would be there in June of 2012.
During Belmont Stakes Week this year, I was downstate for the whole shebang. For the first time ever, I attended the Belmont Stakes Post Position Draw on Wednesday. The air was electric. (Once again, the Triple Crown was on the line, and you know in your heart that everyone believed–or at least, wanted to believe–that I’ll Have Another would do it. But I’ll address this later on this page.)
After the Draw, I hung out in the dining room for a while. Sent a few emails, chatted with colleagues. Felt at Home, as I always do at NYRA tracks. Didn’t want to leave, but had other fish to fry that day, like, writing.
Slowly, I made my way to the Clubhouse exit onto the Paddock Patio. I sat there for a few minutes, too, taking in the relative quiet and feeling the building insanity as every minute brought us closer to Saturday, June 9th.
I hated to leave.
But leave I did, and by virtue of the fact that I exited via a route I never take–I saw Roy.
The odds of that happening, I figured, were slim-to-nothing. Roy was entering Belmont’s massive grounds, heading toward the Clubhouse via the same route that I’d never before taken in all my years going to the Big B.
We passed, smiled, cheek-kissed, and he said,
You’ll be there on Saturday, right?
I’d be there. If I was dead, I’d have them drag my body to the rail, so that Roy could see that I was sincere.
Belmont Stakes Day arrived, and with it the most insane excitement I’ve ever experienced. Roy had told me in 2010 that standing where he stands for the Belmont is the single-most thrilling feeling in racing. I’d not-yet experienced it, but I knew that if Roy said it, it must be true. So all this wild anticipation in my head and pounding heart was based on Roy’s insider knowledge.
He was not wrong–even being at the track and knowing that I’d be at the inside rail, was making me nuts.
As you know, the build-up to something thrilling adds to the one golden moment of madness. I’d arrived at Belmont at 6AM, to meet William H. (Billy) Turner, Jr., for the first time. (This, experience, alone, was cause for profound joy: Seattle Slew is my all-time favorite Thoroughbred, and Billy Turner is the man who took that big boy and turned him into the only undefeated Triple Crown winner. I’d never met Mr. Turner or his wonderful wife and partner, Pat, and was beside myself as I arrived at their barn in the Belmont backstretch.)
After weeping all over Mr. Turner (seriously–you know me) about how much I love him and Slew, I made my way to the Paddock Patio, where I would park myself and my spontaneous posse in the hours before the big race. It was 7AM, and the only other souls there in those early hours were those wafting in to report for work.
As I sipped my coffee and wrote notes, the air was fresh and vibrant.
In fact, the air was filled with an almost surreal joy–even though I’ll Have Another had scratched the day before. Another year with no possibility of a Triple Crown–but still the place was throbbing with all the joy of a child’s birthday party.
We in horse racing are a hardy bunch: we are not about to abandon our sport, or our obsessive love for horses, simply because we’re denied a Triple Crown for a few decades.
Hell, Triple Crown or no Triple Crown–this was Belmont. This was the Belmont Stakes–the most grueling horse race in America. The hulking, demanding Big Sandy. This race has taken almost-great horses and shown them that, well, they’re not in the Pantheon, yet.
This race is horse racing’s wood chipper–grinding up terrific steeds and their jockeys, and spitting them out on the other side. I take a particular pride–call it the New Yorker in me–that loves knowing that NOT everyone can win the Triple Crown–and 99% of the reason for that is The Belmont.
Ya wanna come here and win? You’d better be tough as nails.
The day rolled by: many great races, many smiling faces. New friends, old friends, comrades in the fox hole. A dear friend hung with me for the majority of the day, and then came the race before The Belmont.
We’d made our plan, to move toward the winner’s circle immediately after the race before had gone off. The second the gate opened, we leapt from our chairs and fought our way through the crowd. It seemed like we had to get past all 85,000 of the fans there, to get to our destiny.
We made it to the rail at the winner’s circle, and immediately saw Communications Director, Dan Silver, who waved and smiled across that wide space. (I couldn’t get over the fact that he was so gracious as to acknowledge us, on the biggest day of his year–and following what must have been a vicious day for him, after IHA scratched.)
Then we spotted Roy. But, of course, he’d never hear us hollering, “Roy!” because those same 85,000 people who tried to keep us from getting that far were drowning out even our own thoughts.
Fortunately, I’d dyed my hair, Nuclear Plant Red the day before–and Roy spotted us. He called us into the winner’s circle, and instructed to hang until he gave us the signal.
This is where I can recall every detail, and yet I’m relating it to you as someone who observed. The reason for this is that the collective excitement of that place, in every second that ticked toward the big race, was taking a toll on my brain. It was almost like I had to check out, in order to live through the experience.
And this wasn’t even the part that Roy had promised was mind-blowing.
Roy gave the signal, and we joined Elaine and a couple of other privileged people, following Roy and his instructions. We walked through the gate onto the track. (O, my GOD, I was standing ON the track at Belmont.)
Immediately we were to plaster ourselves, backs against the rail on the track in a line, because–no kidding–the starting gate, that 10,000-pound chunk of steel and electromagnetism–was moving right in front of us, into its position.
At this point, I could see my heart pounding, trying to get out of my chest. I could hear the masses, screaming behind me, and it struck me that this may not be the safest place in the world to stand, with my back to 85,000 wild-eyed horse racing fans.
It crossed my mind that those good folks who normally comprise my racing community, could well have been those who decide to rush the track and kill us all.
I was like a child in Kindergarten, looking wide-eyed at Roy, waiting for his sage instructions.
As soon as the gate was in place, we were to make our way directly behind it, to safety on the other side. (We had to do this quickly, before the horses and their ponies got to us as they danced to the gate.)
Oh, good idea. I’d gotten that far, it would be a pity if we’d been trampled to death by all the beautiful horses. (Although it would’ve been a great story to tell Saint Peter, about how I arrived in Heaven before my appointed date.)
Getting to the other side wasn’t as easy as it sounds. There’s a reason why it’s called Big Sandy. I was up to almost my calves in that storied dirt, pulling and striving to get one foot ahead of the other. I saw that my friend had the same challenge, a fact that should have consoled me, but made me think instead that the horses would get there and kill us both.
Fortunately, Elaine–Roy’s very kind wife–was right ahead, and looked back to nurture us.
As I fought my way across the track, I heard a familiar voice:
Behave yourself now, Marion!
To my right, standing at the gate, was Butch. Butch Hocker is a gifted horseman, as well. One of the Bowie Boys. A Marylander, he works all summer in Saratoga, and does many big races around the U.S. I tried to smile and think of something coquettish to say. I’m pretty sure that I failed miserably, as I dragged my sorry self behind Elaine. (Note to self: if ever I get to do this again–NO purse or other girly nonsense to carry.)
On the other side, safely on the grass and behind the hedge, per Roy’s instructions.
Elaine, God bless her, asked if my friend and I were all right. Again, I think I managed to say something like,
So far, so good!
But I’m pretty sure it came out as,
Ydj3p48fn, wiellydd!
It wasn’t until I was there, in The Promised Land, that I realized that, just as Roy had described–the crowd had completely lost their minds.
All I could hear was those 85,000 people screaming their lungs out as the horses took their positions. Eighty-five thousand horse lovers–85,000 racing fanatics who’d weathered lousy rides in airplanes, New York City traffic and lost luggage to be there. Eighty-five thousand people for whom this was the pinnacle of their racing year.
And there wasn’t even a Triple Crown on the line.
No, this madness on this day–the whooping, hollering, chanting, screeching that yelped forth from the lungs, hearts and mouths of these racing fanatics was not because we had hope of ending the Triple Crown Dry Spell.
Nope, these lunatics were losing their minds because, as we’ve said–this was Belmont, and this was the biggest contest in American racing.
Triple Crown be damned: a mile-and-a-half on dirt that goes all the way to China is still the most challenging race in the United States. And these many citizens of our racing community were there, and participating as best they could–by cheering for their favorite horse, jockey, trainer, owner–and for themselves.
They, too, had made it to The Belmont Stakes, and, by God–they were celebrating themselves, as well.
The roar was deafening, as Roy had said. I had no thoughts at all, and a billion all at once.
First on my list was the fact that, as Head Starter, Roy usually listens–on a normal race day–for audio cues from the Assistant Starters:
No-no-no-no-no!
One out, one out!
He’s listening for that one golden moment when all the horses in the gate are quiet–that nanosecond before one of them goes insane–to hear,
OK, Boss!
That’s the minute that he hits the button, and all that electromagnetic energy releases horses and jockeys, and the race begins.
But on Belmont Stakes Day, there’s no such luxury for Roy. He has to go by what he sees, both the horses in the gate and the faces and other visual cues from his crew.
(The Belmont experience at the gate is nothing like that of the Kentucky Derby–as you know, the Derby starts down the chute, away from the Grandstand. The Belmont begins directly in front of the building. The building that is rattling on its foundation, because those thousands and thousands of rabid fans are losing their collective minds.)
So I thought of Roy in that moment, and the fact that he has the hardest job in racing.
The moment after that, I lapsed into some sort of sound-induced coma. I couldn’t think, I couldn’t hear anything–my own thoughts were a jumble of 0s and 1s, like some sort of computer language. The one thought of which I was aware was that I wondered if my auditory canal was bleeding: the sound of those 85,000 people was the loudest thing I’ve ever heard. It wasn’t even a sound, it was a wall of sound. No rock concert I’ve ever attended–and I’ve been to thousands–could match the sheer madness or volume of those moments.
And I have no idea how long this experience lasted: it may have been five minutes, or maybe a year. The space-time continuum really is busted wide open at a moment like that, when sound waves roll, like a freight train, across such a short expanse.
It may be the only time in my Life when I’ll experience that interruption of the space-time continuum. I could say it was cosmic. Or spiritual. Or sensual. It was all those things, and yet it was none of them: it was its own thing, a thing yet-to-be defined.
Before I knew it, the horses were out of the gate, and the race was over. I felt the Earth shivering beneath my feet when Union Rags and Paynter thundered past me, only feet away. The power of those two throbbing, beautiful horses–in concert with the collective soul of 85,000 lovers–shot like a bullet through my body, from my feet, up and out through the top of my head.
And then it was over. And Roy and Elaine were escorting us back across the track, to exit again through the winner’s circle before Union Rags and his peeps took the stage.
And I sat on a box near the winner’s circle presentation, and yet it was a blur for both of us, I suspect. Shortly thereafter, we made our way out to the Paddock Patio, and found space on a bench. We sat in stunned silence: I suspect that my friend was experiencing the same thing that I was: not sure what we’d just experienced. Needing to process it, but lacking words or even emotion to connect to the moment.
It was the best horse racing experience of my Life.
Like many people, I am jaded. Never jaded about the horses–I love them absolutely and utterly. Never will that change. But humans are a constant source of disappointment. Hence my phrase,
The more humans I meet…the more I love horses.
Never do I take for granted the beauty of Saratoga Race Course, or of every golden day at that shrine. Never do I take for granted any opportunity I have to be around a horse.
But other than horses–it takes a lot to impress me.
So when I tell you that June 9, 2012–those few minutes on The Other Side with Roy, Elaine and a good friend–were THE best moments of my entire career as a horse racing fan and writer in the sport–I am not exaggerating.
And I’m not kidding when I say that, looking back at the experience–having three months and an entire Saratoga meet to think about it–finally I have some thoughts.
Many of my thoughts are about the others, those who weren’t behind the hedge on the infield. The 85,000 mad-with-glee horse racing fans. Those people for whom this sport is the very essence of Life, for whom every day is a good day because there are horses in the world, and in our lives.
I’m thinking also about the thousands of people who have jobs, careers and vocations because of horses, especially here in New York State. The billions of dollars that are spent every year in New York State, because of horses. The millions of dollars spent just around that one day in June, in New York City.
I doubt that it’s possible to calculate to the dime, how many billions of dollars are generated every year by The Belmont Stakes, the New York horse racing community and the people who, across-the-board, comprise that family. (Fans, professionals, support industries.)
The taxes that are collected from those people and services–that number, alone, must be staggering.
I had the best racing day of my Life in June of this year. I thanked Roy and Elaine a few dozen times, I’m sure. I know of another 85,000 people who, while they didn’t have the hallucinogenic experience that I knew that day–still, they went home and talked about it being The Best, Ever.
It’s taken me these three months to collect my thoughts, and I’ll replay the experience in my head and heart for years to come.
But the most prominent thought, that which plays over and over, is that, because of horse racing, Roy and this golden day–I had the best experience of my Life.
And that Belmont Stakes Day is representative of the passion, drive and money that flows into and through this State, because of the equine industry.
The passion for the horses cannot be separated from the economic indicators. Economics are cold: horses, horse lovers and those in the equine industry are warm. To calculate the value of horse racing in New York–or anywhere–based solely on money is to miss the point, altogether.
The Belmont Stakes is an institution, a challenge, a sacred event to those who love horse racing, worldwide.
Our New York tracks and the gauntlet of racing on them draw royals, professionals and fans from the four corners of the Earth. Warm people–cold, hard cash.
I’d rather have my eardrums split wide-open by the screaming of 85,000 people who are deliriously happy about a horse race…than to face those same 85,000 people if they’re angered because New York racing is the subject of uneducated, unfair, unwarranted tampering.
Just a thought. A thought that finally entered my head, after I got my hearing back.
Photo Credits: Many thanks to NYRA/Adam Coglianese for the photos of Roy Williamson and the Saratoga gate. ‘
Needless-to-say, I didn’t take any photos from the infield on Belmont Stakes Day: there’s no way that my CrackBerry could have sucked those 85,000 people into that tiny frame. And besides, I wasn’t coherent enough to speak, never mind try to do an Ansel Adams…
