Pure Heart: The thrilling life and emotional death of Secretariat. In honor of Sports Illustrated's 6. SI. com is republishing, in full, 6.
Today's selection is . In the doing, he took the author on an unforgettably exhilarating ride. Just before noon the horse was led haltingly into a van next to the stallion barn, and there a concentrated barbiturate was injected into his jugular. Forty- five seconds later there was a crash as the stallion collapsed. His body was trucked immediately to Lexington, Kentucky, where Dr.
Thomas Swerczek, a professor of veterinary science at the University of Kentucky, performed the necropsy. All of the horse's vital organs were normal in size except for the heart. The heart of the average horse weighs about nine pounds.
My Knee Clicks When I Walk Upstairs In Home
In honor of Sports Illustrated's 60th anniversary, SI.com is republishing, in full, 60 of the best stories ever to appear in the magazine. Today's selection is 'Pure Heart,' by William Nack, which ran in the June 4, 1990 issue.
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This was almost twice the average size, and a third larger than any equine heart I'd ever seen. And it wasn't pathologically enlarged. All the chambers and the valves were normal. I think it told us why he was able to do what he did.''In the late afternoon of Monday, Oct. I headed my car from the driveway of Arthur Hancock's Stone Farm onto Winchester Road outside of Paris, Ky., I was seized by an impulse as beckoning as the wind that strums through the trees there, mingling the scents of new grass and old history. For almost 3. 0 years, until he suffered a stroke in March of 1. Robinson was the head caretaker of stallions at Claiborne Farm.
I had not seen him since his illness, but I knew he still lived on the farm, in a small white frame house set on a hill overlooking the lush stallion paddocks and the main stallion barn. In the first stall of that barn, in the same space that was once home to the great Bold Ruler, lived Secretariat, Bold Ruler's greatest son.
On the bright, cold afternoon of Nov. Blue Grass Airport in Lexington to greet the horse on his flight from New York into retirement in Kentucky. I flew with the horse that day, and as the plane banked over the field, a voice from the tower crackled over the airplane radio: ''There's more people out here to meet Secretariat than there was to greet the governor.''. Well, he's won more races than the governor,'' pilot Dan Neff replied.
For me, that final walk beneath a grove of trees, with the colt slanting like a buck through the autumn gloaming, brought to a melancholy close the richest, grandest, damnedest, most exhilarating time of my life. For eight months, first as the racing writer for Long Island, N.
Y.'s Newsday and then as the designated chronicler of the horse's career, I had a daily front- row seat to watch Secretariat. I was at the barn in the morning and the racetrack in the afternoon for what turned out to be the year's greatest show in sports, at the heart of which lay a Triple Crown performance unmatched in the history of American racing. On the long ride from Louisville, I would regale them with stories about the horse - - how on that early morning in March of '7. Belmont Park, his ears pinned back, running as fast as horses run; how he had lost the Wood Memorial and won the Derby, and how he had been bothered by a pigeon feather at Pimlico on the eve of the Preakness (at the end of this tale I would pluck the delicate, mashed feather out of my wallet, like a picture of my kids, to pass around the car); how on the morning of the Belmont Stakes he had burst from the barn like a stud horse going to the breeding shed and had walked around the outdoor ring on his hind legs, pawing at the sky; how he had once grabbed my notebook and refused to give it back, and how he had seized a rake in his teeth and begun raking the shed; and, finally, I told about that magical, unforgettable instant, frozen now in time, when he had turned for home, appearing out of a dark drizzle at Woodbine, near Toronto, in the last race of his career, 1. Greek lore. Knew them as I knew the stories of my children. Knew them as I knew the stories of my own life. Told them at dinner parties, swapped them with horseplayers as if they were trading cards, argued over them with old men and blind fools who had seen the show but missed the message.
My Knee Clicks When I Walk Upstairs And Out Of Breath
Dreamed them and turned them over like pillows in my rubbery sleep. Woke up with them, brushed my aging teeth with them, grinned at them in the mirror. Horses have a way of getting inside of you, and so it was that Secretariat became like a fifth child in our house, the older boy who was off at school and never around but who was as loved and true a part of the family as Muffin, our shaggy, epileptic dog. I had never been to Paris, Ky., in the early fall, and I only happened to be there that day to begin an article about the Hancock family, the owners of Claiborne and Stone farms.
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There wasn't a soul on the road to point the way to Robinson's place, so I swung in and out of several empty driveways until I saw a man on a tractor cutting the lawn in front of Marchmont, Dell Hancock's mansion. He yelled back to me: ''Take a right out the drive. Go down to Claiborne House. Then a right at the driveway across the road.
Go up a hill to the big black barn. Turn left and go down to the end. Lawrence had a stroke a few years back, y'know.''.
The house was right where he said. I knocked on the front door, then walked behind and knocked on the back, and called through a side window into a room where music was playing. But I had time to kill, so I wandered over to the stallion paddock, just a few yards from the house.
The stud Ogygian, a son of Damascus, lifted his head inquiringly. He started walking toward me, and I put my elbows on the top of the fence and looked down the gentle slope toward the stallion barn. Even from a hundred yards away, the horse appeared lighter than I had seen him in years. It struck me as curious that he was not running free in his paddock - - why was Bobby grazing him? But something was terribly wrong.
On Labor Day, Secretariat had come down with laminitis, a life- threatening hoof disease, and here, a month later, he was still suffering from its aftershocks. In fact, he would be gone within 4. Instead, for a full half hour, I stood by the paddock waiting for Robinson and gazing in the distance at Secretariat. The gift of reverie is a blessing divine, and it is conferred most abundantly on those who lie in hammocks or drive alone in cars.
Or lean on hillside fences in Kentucky. The mind swims, binding itself to whatever flotsam comes along, to old driftwood faces and voices of the past, to places and scenes once visited, to things not seen or done but only dreamed. As I scanned the pedigrees, three names leaped out: By Bold Ruler- Somethingroyal, by Princequillo. Bold Ruler was the nation's preeminent sire, and Somethingroyal was the dam of several stakes winners, including the fleet Sir Gaylord. It was a match of royalty. Even the baby's name seemed faintly familiar: Secretariat. Where had I heard it before?
Lucien Laurin was training the colt at Belmont Park for Penny Chenery Tweedy's Meadow Stable, making Secretariat a stablemate of that year's Kentucky Derby and Belmont Stakes winner, Riva Ridge. I had been at the Meadow Stable barn one morning, checking on Riva, when exercise rider Jimmy Gaffney took me aside and said: ''You wanna see the best- lookin' 2- year- old you've ever seen?''. We padded up the shed to the colt's stall. Gaffney stepped inside. The horse looked magnificent, to be sure, a bright red chestnut with three white feet and a tapered white marking down his face. He can run.'' And then, conspiratorially, Gaffney whispered: ''Don't quote me, but this horse will make them all forget Riva Ridge.''. So that is where I had first seen him, and here he was in the second at Aqueduct.
I rarely bet in those days, but Secretariat was 3- 1, so I put $1. Florio and I fixed our binoculars on him and watched it all. Watched him as he was shoved sideways at the break, dropping almost to his knees, when a colt named Quebec turned left out of the gate and crashed into him. Saw him blocked in traffic down the back side and shut off again on the turn for home. Saw him cut off a second time deep in the stretch as he was making a final run. Saw him finish fourth, obviously much the best horse, beaten by only 1. Smashing his binoculars down on his desk, he leaped to his feet, banged his chair against the wall behind him, threw a few punches in the air and bellowed: ''Secretariat!
That's my Derby horse for next year!''. Two weeks later, when the colt raced to his first victory by six, Florio announced to all the world, ''Secretariat will win the Triple Crown next year.'' He nearly got into a fistfight in the Aqueduct press box that day when Mannie Kalish, a New York handicapper, chided him for making such an outrageously bold assertion: ''Ah, you Maryland guys, you come to New York and see a horse break his maiden and think he's another Citation. We see horses like Secretariat all the time.
I bet he don't even run in the Derby.'' Stung by the put- down ''you Maryland guys,'' Florio came forward and stuck his finger into Kalish's chest, but two writers jumped between them and they never came to blows. Florio was right, of course, and by the end of Secretariat's 2- year- old season, everyone else who had seen him perform knew it. All you had to do was watch the Hopeful Stakes at Saratoga. I was at the races that August afternoon with Arthur Kennedy, an old- time racetracker and handicapper who had been around the horses since the 1. Dropping back to dead last out of the gate, Secretariat trailed eight horses into the far turn, where jockey Ron Turcotte swung him to the outside.
Three jumps past the half- mile pole the colt exploded. He dashed from last to first in 2. It was a performance with style, touched by art. The rest of Secretariat's 2- year- old campaign - - in + which he lost only once, in the Champagne Stakes when he was disqualified from first to second after bumping Stop the Music at the top of the stretch - - was simply a mopping- up operation.