california dreamin’ on derby day

Spring commences for some on opening day, but the Kentucky Derby marks the equinox for Mrs. Smith and me.  We convey ourselves to capacious Belmont Park to refresh the spirit and renew the mind through proximity to the beautiful nature, arboreal and equine, that decorates the grounds.  The first Saturday of this May brought  no change in our habit and we found ourselves rewarded for our consistency.

We arrive early and climb to our accustomed clubhouse seats in order to peruse the arcana of the post parade program.  In this case,  we studied up on the four races leading off the Belmont card, but devoted most of our skillful handicapping  to the eleventh race at Churchill Downs.  For those of you who have eschewed the sport of kings for lesser pursuits, that would be the Kentucky Derby.  Dramatically described by earlier scribes as the “greatest two minutes in sport,” at the very least it is the single most significant thoroughbred stakes in the country.  It remains, consequently, the most renowned contest in a game that once mattered acutely to millions of Americans as anyone who has read Laura Hillenbrand’s fine Seabiscuit knows. I like to gauge my horse sense about  the latest crop of three year olds by wagering on a few of  those qualifying for the run.  In this regard, at least, I have proven far less savvy than the insightful Smith.

In 2010 she foresaw Super Saver’s victory and backed Calvin Borel’s mount for a tidy profit.  I demurred, despite my superstitious confidence that any nag with a two word name both words of which begin with the same letter deserves a 50 buck bet.   Ignoring my own rule,   I backed some nag that I’m told is slowly approaching the finish line.  This year I was certain that I had not only read enough, but had seen enough of the contenders to have a more clairvoyant sense of where the money should  fall.

I had watched Dullahan run down the favorite Hansen in the Blue Grass back on April 14.  But I also knew that Dullahan had only triumphed on synthetic tracks.  The colt that had unmasked Hansen as perhaps not the horse he had promised to become as a two year old probably lacked the necessary talent  to win on the dirt in Louisville.  Later that same afternoon, I had seen Bob Baffert’s star pupil Bodemeister dominate the field in the Arkansas Derby.  That wire to wire performance, by a horse unraced as a two year old,  reduced the program’s astonished description to the simplest of the sport’s lexicon – “much best.”  Now I happen to be one of the current crop of Derby handicappers who feel the Arkansas race is a very strong predictor for the Run to the Roses.  In this particular case, however,  I was unconvinced.  Creative Cause, Gemologist, and Union Rags all had solid resumes and seemed slightly better made for the mile and a quarter of the Derby.  Additionally, an absolute speedster named Trinniberg would be running and, I thought,  provide an early pace daunting even for Baffert’s best.

Besides this scrutiny of some of the contenders, I felt poised for a solid return on my Derby choices because I sucessfully picked the winner in the 4th at Belmont, a 6 furlong dash.  My money went to Sunday at Nipper’s, an ill regarded 3 year old filly whose sire was Indian Charlie, a notable sprinter.  Omar Hernandez gave the girl a lovely ride, cutting her loose at the top of the stretch and winning going away.  How could I miss in the Derby when I knew so much more about that field?  Bringing all this to the attention of Mrs. Smith, I asked for her considered opinion regarding the great contest to come.  She looked at the  racing form for perhaps two  minutes.  Tossing it back to me she said only, “Nineteen.”  I pressed for her rationale, as her choice was nowhere in my calculations.  “Uncle Max,”  she said simply, referring to a beloved relative who had frequented the track where I’ll Have Another (or Number 19 in the field) had won this year’s Santa Anita derby back on April 7.

Strolling to the parimutuel window to place my lady’s bet,  I pondered her choice.  The Santa Anita was a legitimate test of three year old thoroughbred quality but in the history of the Run for the Roses no winner had emerged from the dramatically outlying gate 19.  Why should I’ll Have Another break that nearly 140 year old record.  Number Nineteen!  I imagine!  Much more sagaciously,  I placed most of my eggs in a trifecta basket consisting of Union Rags (second favorite to the aforementioned Bodemeister),  Creative Cause (I would not resist those double C’s especially since the pony had never finished out of the money in eight tries), and finally Calvin Borel’s mount Take Me Indy, as the Cajun jock has been wicked hot in the Derby and at Churchill Downs for half a decade now.

Much was revealed about the ultimate fate of our wagers at the very break.  The linchpin of my trifecta bet,  Union Rags, a powerful closer with a very long stride, was a step slow out of the gate, got bumped and was pinched back to a middle of the field position that he could never much improve.  Since he had suffered a similar miserable break in his last run at the Florida Derby, where at least he rallied to show, I wondered if his rider Julien Leparoux had learned anything from that unhappy experience.  Smith’s choice,  I’ll Have Another, under the adept supervision of young senor Mario Gutierrez,  bee lined to the rail, “saving ground” as they say, and settled in for a steady, untroubled ride over the first mile.  During that time the favored  Bodemeister was melting stop watches with a wickedly hot pace  under the steely guidance of Mike Smith.  The Arkansas champ’s splits were such that most knowledgeable observers anticipated a momentary collapse.  Nonetheless, as the pack r0unded the final turn for home, the favorite looked ready to extend his three length lead.  No sooner did I formulate that thought than I saw Gomez nudge I’ll Take Another two or perhaps three wide from the rail and simultaneously apply the whip thrice and initiate his pony’s stretch drive.   Three more quick smacks from Gutierrez and the California champeen blew past the finally faltering Bodemeister for the victory.  I like to think that Uncle Max would have seen it coming.  Mrs. Smith certainly did.