A year ago, I was the owner of a Breeders’ Cup horse. That’s the truth, but not the whole truth. As a very small part of the cast-of-thousands ownership syndicate put together by my friend Bill Malone on behalf of trainer Vickie Foley, I could claim, oh, maybe a couple of hairs in the mane of She Says It Best, who ran in the Juvenile Fillies.
The kind folks who run Kentucky’s race tracks have a love/hate relationship with our syndicate. Usually our horses run in the name of “Vickie Foley, et al.” I’m one of the et als. Only Malone, a CPA, knows how many of us there really are, and sometimes I’m not so sure about him.
The tracks love us because we show up en masse whenever one of our horses runs. We bet, we buy hot dogs and drinks, and we bring ur friends with us. We are good for business. The track photographer loves us. Whenever we win, he can count on many orders for winner’s circle photos.
But we also create serious credentialing problems. All of us want to be in the paddock before the race. All of us want parking stickers and the other perks that go with ownership. Our demand often exceeds the supply, which taxes – no pun intended – our CPA leader to his wit’s end.
When we won the Kentucky Derby Trial in 2002 with Sky Terrace, the winner’s circle couldn’t accommodate all of us. Jennie Rees of The Courier-Journal estimated that our ownership group included most of Jefferson County and some of Southern Indiana. She was exaggerating, of course, but not much.
So last year, by devices known only to Malone, we came up with this 2-year-old filly, She Says It Best. Doggoned if she didn’t win the prestigious Alcibiades Stakes at Keeneland. Next thing I know, we’re going to Belmont Park on Long Island for the Breeders Cup.
Well, why not? Our filly had the credentials. Sometimes dreams do, indeed, come true, but only if you give yourself a chance. So we – well, Malone, Foley, and main partner Carl Bowling of Florida – decided to take a shot.
I went along for the ride. Well, actually, I WAS the ride. Because of my familiarity with Belmont Park and Long Island, I was appointed official chauffeur for the She Says It Best party. I even was given a cap to wear as a I transported folks back and forth from the track to our headquarters at the Garden City Hotel.
It was a hoot.
To understand how much Malone and I enjoyed it, you have to know how long we have been friends (since the earth cooled) and how many games and races we have attended together (more than the number of women Wilt Chamberlain claimed to have, ah, well, never mind).
We both have stood in the shadows so many times – me as a writer, Bill as a fan – that we probably enjoyed the limelight, what there was of it, more than most. Here we were, after all these years, rubbing elbows with the giants of thoroughbred racing, a sport we both dearly love.
We went to the barn every morning and tried to look important. We fetched coffee for Vickie and monitored her interviews with the media. We went to all the parties and tried to adopt a pose of, ah, modest confidence.
Actually, it wasn’t a pose. We really felt that She Says It Best had a shot. Everytime we ran the race in our minds, she hit the board. At a big price. Both of us kept our cell phones humming. Our fellow syndicate members in Louisville and Southern Indiana were making big party plans. I mean, what if she actually won? What if our friends from Kentucky, Tom Hammond and Mike Battaglia, were interviewing us for NBC after the race? Incredible.
When jockey Eddie Martin arrived on Friday night, we made sure he got right to bed. Everything was cool. No glitches. On Saturday, we got to the track in plenty of time to get everybody comfortably seated at our clubhouse table overlooking the finish line. For Foley and Bowling, lifelong horsemen, it was the chance of a lifetime in a lifetime of chance, as Fogelberg sang it.
The memories are blurred. We went to the paddock and watched Vickie saddle her. It was a very proud moment for all of us, including those watching on TV at home. It was an affirmation of the dreamer that still exists in all of us, regardless of age or financial circumstances.
We went to the windows and made our bets. It was a crisp and clear fall afternoon, perfect for a miracle. Our hearts were beating rapidly when the starting gate sprang open, releasing our fantasies and dreams.
But it didn’t happen. Our filly stumbled at the start and never threatened. She finished next-to-last in the 10-horse field. The winner was Folklore, trained by D. Wayne Lukas, who needed another Breeders Cup win like Toyota needs another car.
We found out later that she had bled from the nostrils. It was a good excuse, but scant consolation. Our moment in the sun had vanished. We all knew that we probably would never be in that special place, ever again.
But you know what? I wouldn’t trade the feeling of pride in ownership for anything. We were there, on racing’s biggest day. It was enough to just have the chance to compete and win at the highest level, in one of the greatest sports ever. But that’s not totally candid, either. We wanted to win. Sure, we did. Hell, yes. We wanted to beat the oil sheiks and the business tycoons and the old-money dynasties.
I think ownership syndicates will play an important role in racing’s future. They’re the equine version of Rocky because they afford little guys the chance to make dreams come real. We all love dreams as much as we love upsets and underdogs. We’re hopelessly and forever in love with Cinderella. And heaven knows, we Americans love our animals.
We sold She Says It Best, bless her heart, and she’s now either in foal or trying to get there. I still have my hat. Most importantly, I have the memory or rubbing her nose, so soft, before she went out to carry our hopes on Breeders Cup Day.
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