They arrived singly and in pairs. They arrived in clots of four and five. They came in their hundreds and finally in their thousands - to a kind of place that many of them had never seen before.
They came, as they often do in times of confusion and unrest, in search of clarity and greatness. They came to be a part of a story already wonderful - that might yet become more wonderful still. They came to say, "I saw, I was there."
They began to line up as the exercise riders worked their charges through the early morning fog, the fugue of hooves muted by the heavy air. Their lines formed up as quietly as those at religious shrines must do.
Wisely, those who make such decisions at Philadelphia Park opened the doors a bit ahead of the appointed hour of 8:00 am, to allow the press of pilgrims in.
They had come to see a smallish, Pennsylvania bred horse, with the unlikely name of Smarty Jones, who had won the Kentucky Derby by almost three lengths over Lion Heart and six lengths over Imperialism. They had come to see a colt that had beaten the field by almost twelve lengths at the Preakness. They had come to touch the promise of the first Triple Crown winner in more than a quarter of a century.
And many had never set foot on a racetrack in their lives.
Smarty Jones has a trainer who had never been to a Kentucky Derby prior to taking Roy Chapman's horse there. He has a jockey who had never walked the ground at Churchill Downs, until the day before he rode in a race bigger than any he thought he would ever see, let alone ride in.
In July of his second year, the colt reared and ruined his skull against an iron bar in the starting gate at Philadelphia Park - he nearly lost the use of one eye - he nearly died. He spent months in an equine clinic.
In November of the same year he won in his first race at Philadelphia Park, by almost eight lengths. Two weeks later he won by fifteen lengths.
Smarty Jones still hasn't lost a race.
When the announcer, groggy from this too early working hour, asked that those in attendance be restrained in their enthusiasm, so as not to spook the colt during his workout, a titter of laughter worked its way through the crowd. Some said, "I'll bet they were quiet at the Derby - I'll bet they were quiet down in Maryland."
Still, they were quiet.
As the colt was lead onto the track, there was no applause, only the unheard holding of a thousand breaths. The rider stood in the stirrups and let the young horse stretch out and come slowly to a moderate stride, letting him uncoil himself into a gentle rolling gate.
A breezing up and down a short way on the track - and then the jockey took his seat.
You must remember that, at fifteen hands, three inches - Smarty Jones is only five inches taller at the withers than what would be considered a pony, rather than a horse. He is not nearly as overpowering a physical specimen as those that we have become accustomed to seeing in the winner's circle of the big races.
The jock's hands sat quietly, his legs asking for nothing as the colt lengthened his stride, apparently to suit himself and for the sheer joy of running at speed.
Those who have been fortunate enough to hang by the rail at a horserace often describe the sound of the hooves as, 'thundering'. There was no thunder in this single horse going around the track - but there was a rhythmic tattoo, as of a speed bag being thrummed and brought to a level where the individual blows are indistinguishable - and the sound is a pulsing blur of power and grace.
As he came before the grandstand there was no cheering, no clapping - no untoward loudness of expression.
Awe is a silent thing.
Smarty Jones made several passes in front of the crowd. They did nothing loud - only watched and were glad that they were there.
As the horse was lead away, the first in a series of speakers took over the microphone.
Most people started heading for the parking lot before the first speaker was into his second sentence. They'd already seen and heard what they'd come for.
I took my twelve-year-old daughter to see Smarty Jones this morning.
She wasn't much interested in the speakers, either.
But the expression on her face as we were driving home said all that needed to be said about what she had just seen.
(OBWW - Smarty is the first owner-bred horse to win the Derby since GRINDSTONE.)
Regards, Tom.
Thomas J.Watson - Cabinetmaker (ret.) tjwatson1ATcomcastDOTnet (real email)