by Mark Paul
“No way I’m driving around Tijuana with hundreds of thousands in cash on me in the Hotel Impala. That car is old and not dependable. Even more, I have a terrible sense of direction. I’ll never be able to keep up with you and I know you won’t wait for me. If I get lost, what am I supposed to do? Stop at a gas station? Are you nuts?”
Miami smiled. “You forgot to mention you drive like your grandmother, too. Can they confiscate my car if we don’t claim the cash at the border and get caught? I don’t want to lose that car, man. I love her. I’ve got a lot of history in that baby.”
They agreed to take Miami’s 300Z because it was faster, and Miami’s response was, “What smuggler would be brash enough to smuggle drugs back across the border in a red sports car, for Christ’s sake? They’ll see a blond California-looking guy driving a convertible and wave us right back into the good old USA!” Still smiling, Miami said, “Dino, I need you to dye your hair blond and learn how to talk like a surfer.”
Around eight the next morning, Miami was wearing his usual white, short-sleeved silk jacket when he left to pick up his friend. He found Dino in front of his Santa Monica apartment building holding a big white suitcase. It had a pink handle.
“What the fuck is that? It’ll never fit in my trunk.”
“It’s my mom’s. I told her to bring a suitcase and she brought hers, not my dad’s. What could I do? It was late last night, and we need one for the money, right?”
The suitcase barely fit into the car.
Now Miami was driving fast and being talkative about the day’s adventure. Dino was feeling sick to his stomach.
“Dino! Don’t worry, man! Look, two guys drive to a Tijuana racetrack in a red Z to bet on a filly to win the Kentucky Derby against 16 of the best male horses in the country and if she wins they collect 250 grand from suspected Mexican cartel members. Then they drive the money, like a bat out of hell, from the racetrack to an international border, where they don’t declare the money. Dino, what could possibly go wrong?”
Miami pulled off at a freeway exit south of San Diego to get some cheeseburgers and purchase car insurance for Mexico. Jimmy, the sales manager, was nervous about the fact that Miami wanted to insure the car for over $200,000.
“OK, Jimmy…say the Mexican federales confiscate my car. Will I be insured? How about if the US Customs guys seize my car and I am found not to have drugs? I want it in writing that if that happens I’m fully covered.”
Jimmy asked, “How many days will you be on vacation in Mexico?”
“Like five, maybe six hours.”
Insurance policy done and cheeseburgers consumed, Miami and Dino drove south. Dino had a map of Tijuana in his lap.
Their world changed the instant they were waved through the Mexican border. Miami said, “Apparently, few people sneak things into Mexico.”
The two gamblers kept driving into roundabouts with cars entering from five different entry streets, and the taxis were playing a game of chicken with all the other cars, and even with the trucks. They saw two near misses in one roundabout. Dino named them, “circulos de accidentes.” The trucks did not have mufflers, and each one was louder than a thunderstorm. Miami watched the road signs and exits knowing he would soon have to drive back through these streets. He worried about being chased by criminals at the same time, possibly in the dark.
It took 20 minutes to get from the border crossing to the Agua Caliente parking lot. Dino and Miami had planned to do a dry run practice drive from the track back to the border, but the traffic heading north was already too heavy. They scrapped that plan and Miami told Dino, “The hell with that…I need a drink.”
“Miami,” Dino said, pleading, “take it easy today. I need you at full power, mi amigo.”
They entered the race book about 12:30 p.m., still three hours before the Derby post time. Despite Miami’s request to leave it in the car, Dino wheeled in the pink handled white suitcase with trash bags stuffed inside.
“Think positive, Miami. No negative waves.”
The place was jumping with activity. There were far more horseplayers than when they’d visited four months ago. The betting lines were 20 deep with gamblers making bets on a race 3,000 miles away. Dino studied the racing form then got in line to bet the stakes races offered on the Derby undercard.
Miami had given Dino $200 and told him to bet it for him. While Dino waited at the window, Miami looked for two seats. It was so crowded, he felt lucky just to elbow his way to the bar to order a double Cuba Libre with premium aged Mexican rum. He looked around for Camila, his favorite waitress. She was serving a huge tray of six grande margaritas to a group of boisterous men. He could tell it was not their first round. He also noticed that there were two super-hot girls wearing Patron Tequila sashes over their tight green mini dresses. Wearing tennis shoes, the girls were serving shots of Patron to the gamblers. The girls allowed customers to lick the salt and lime juice off their skin before taking the tequila shots.
A loud argument broke out in the back of the bar and several beer bottles shattered on the floor. Three rough looking security guards with rifles ran in, got everyone to take a seat, and things calmed down.
An eight-man mariachi band whose members were wearing giant bright red and green straw sombreros, white frilled shirts with red bolo ties, and tight black pants, strolled into the race book while playing Mexican songs on their five guitars and three trumpets. The noise level went from loud to deafening.
Some drunk guy decided to try dancing with Camila as she worked to detach herself from him. The group of guys that had just ordered the six grande margaritas were singing now, and Miami was starting to feel good, too. With the chilled rum in his system, he took a deep breath and relaxed for the first time that day. Miami felt that something about mariachi music made him want to say, “Fuck it! Let’s party!” Dino was still standing in line, watching a television monitor before the fifth race from Churchill Downs.
By the time Dino returned to say, “We have three long shots, numbers three, four, and eight, in the next pre-Derby race,” Miami was swaying to the music.
The crowds at Agua Caliente were drunk, energetic, and loud as the race away showed the pre-Derby tight stretch run and desperate photo finish between horse number five and horse number eight. Moments later, the photo showed that Dino and Miami lost by a nose. Dino did not overreact to the loss. Losing by inches was an occupational hazard. He kept his emotions at an even keel.
Miami was sweating as time for the Derby drew close. He paced large circles around Dino, and Dino had to keep standing next to a floor-to-ceiling column where he had parked his oversized suitcase.
There was not a seat to be had anywhere.
And then, a surprise.
Big Bernie appeared in the race book in a bright yellow silk shirt and black Ray-Ban sunglasses. Dino asked him, “Who are you supposed to be? Madonna?” He also tried giving Big Bernie a hug, but Dino’s arms were not long enough to complete the act.
Another man hug between Big Bernie and Miami happened and then Big Bernie told Dino, “Man, tell me she’s going to win...I am so scared…it’s like my whole life can change on this one race. I may have a heart attack just waiting.”
Dino assured him, “I know she is the best horse, and if she has a clean trip, I believe she will win the race.”
“Should I bet some money on another horse or two, just in case?” Bernie asked. “Who do you fear the most if she doesn’t win?”
Dino said, “I think the only other speed horse is Forty Niner, and I pray he doesn’t try to duel on the lead with her. I think her jockey, Pat Day, is too damn smart to try to sprint with her early and kill his own chances. But, the great thing is, he got a terrible post position outside, in the number 17 post. He has to lose ground into the first turn from way out there.”
“Man, Forty Niner is like 6-1. Why don’t I bet like four grand on him? If he beats her, I get back like 28 grand and lock in a profit even if she gets beat.”
; Miami raised an alarm. “Bernie, you can’t do that,” he said. “It will jinx her! Just stand pat and stay put! You’ve done everything you could do to put yourself in the best position to win. Big Bernie…man…you’re like Winning Colors’ coach! I remember hearing another coach, Jim Valvano, say, ‘My only job is to put my players in position to succeed.’ Big Bernie, man, you’ve done that! Dino has done that…we’ve done that! Just sit back and let it play out. You’ve done all you can do! It’s up to the gods of horseracing now. Go have a mai tai!”
“I would…but my heart is racing too fast in my chest. Really, I’m not sure I can take this.”
May 7, 1988, Churchill Downs Racetrack, Kentucky, 6:30 p.m.
In Louisville, Luis was proud to lead Winning Colors by her white halter onto the track in front of 150,000 fans. Gary Stevens was wearing the usual bright yellow silks with blue sleeves, and the bright yellow cap of the San Diego Chargers and the Klein Stable.
Luis had taken care of his gray filly nearly every day of her life and she was now calm in his presence.
The crowd sang, “My Old Kentucky Home,” as the horses paraded in front of the fans. Singing the Kentucky state song has been a tradition since 1921, despite references in the lyrics to slavery. Just two years prior, in 1986, the Kentucky legislators replaced the song’s original words “darky” and “darkies” with the word “people.” Few singers were paying attention to such details.
In the moments before this race, the jockeys were more focused than they’d ever been in their lives, knowing the danger of piloting 17 animals, all 1,000-pounds-plus, all running simultaneously at 40 miles an hour. Stevens, now perched on top of Winning Colors, felt the enormity of the moment for himself and for his trainer, but he stayed focused on the proper way to warm up this filly. He wanted her on edge, to break and be alert; he did not want her to be nervous. His vision was to get her in front and out of traffic trouble in the huge field, and then rate her enough to conserve energy for the long stretch run to come down the stretch.
Gene Klein stood with Joyce in Millionaires Row. Oozing confidence, Klein remained fearless, believing he could win a Derby if his heart condition didn’t flare. A representative from Dubai’s ruling family, The Maktoum’s, had offered $7,000,000 for the filly the previous week and he had responded with laughter telling Lukas, “The hell with them.”
D. Wayne Lukas looked reserved and cool in his Armani suit, but he felt butterflies in his stomach. A Kentucky Derby win was the only professional goal he had yet to achieve. As he’d walked to the paddock, a fan called to Lukas: “You’re zero for 13! Zero for 13!” Another race failure would be personally tough to endure, as would the professional criticism.
After saddling his filly, Lukas was too nervous to watch the two-minute race in a crowded area, which was in a private box with his wife, family, and the Kleins. He ducked into an alcove no bigger than a janitor’s closet located near the racing secretary’s office. It had a small, low-quality television screen.
A determined reporter who had been tracking him all day crammed himself in next to Lukas and asked, “How are you going to watch the race on that little screen?”
“She’s gray. And she’ll be in front the whole way,” Lukas replied.
Stevens looked up into the stands. He saw women and girls holding up dozens of signs encouraging Winning Colors—and him!—to “Beat the Boys!” He heard their voices: “Go, Gary! You can do it!” Stevens felt a calm come over him as he led her in the post parade from the paddock onto the track in front of the fans. He looked down on his left sleeve, noticing a ladybug had landed on his yellow and blue silks. Strange…he thought. He then jogged Winning Colors vigorously to keep her focused and ready to break alert and take the lead.
The late afternoon sun was soft as the 17 Derby horses took time to enter the two gates set at the far-left end of the grandstand. Winning Colors loaded calmly into the number eight gate, as Stevens noticed that despite their warm-up run, the ladybug remained attached to his jersey.
Forty Niner was also in yellow silks in the number 17 post position, the second gate farthest out from the rail. Pat Day thought about how Forty Niner must not lose too much ground from this terrible post position closer to the fans than to the inside of the damn racetrack. Only one horse in Derby history had ever won from the outside auxiliary gate.
The final outside gates were loaded, the noise from 150,000 fans elevated to a growing low roar, and the flag was up. The gates popped open at the bell. The start resembled a cavalry charge with 68 hooves pawing at the Churchill Downs dirt, moving to establish positions for the long run into the first turn.
Winning Colors dug in her hindquarters and hurled herself onto the track, clawing and pulling the ground with her front legs, working to get to the front of the thundering wave of charging colts. Stevens hunched over her shoulders, urging her with his arms to accelerate. She was charging on the lead, sprinting away from the colts. She opened up a three-and-a-half-length lead past the grandstands the first time. Gary Stevens smiled as she took a commanding lead.
They were going to let her sneak away to a lonely lead!
Forty Niner broke fast as well and Pat Day steered him toward the filly, guiding his colt closer toward the inside part of the track, but still losing ground. He was forced to move from the number 17 lane to the number two lane. Forty Niner was now running in second position, just outside the huge gray filly, and she was skimming the rail.
Winning Colors was running away from them on the lead.
Pat Day had done the impossible already in getting Forty Niner to break perfectly and gently, without forcing his mount, and positioning just outside Winning Colors. Both horses saved some ground into the first left-hand turn.
Big Bernie, Miami, and Dino were staring at the television monitor surrounded by the surreal party crowd in Tijuana as Miami pumped his fist and yelled, “She’s in front!” What would be the first quarter-mile time fraction? The three men wanted to see a time of 24 and change. When they saw it was 23 seconds flat, they were furious and worried.
Dino yelled at the screen, “What the hell is Stevens doing? Dammit, she can’t run that fast early! It’s suicide!”
Like Dino, Big Bernie and Miami knew this was terrible. This was one of their two worst fears. The first was she would break poorly and get shuffled back into traffic. She broke great, so they could check that off the nightmare list. Their second fear was the pace would be too fast early and she would just labor in the stretch like she had in her lone loss against Goodbye Halo. Winning Colors had now just set an insane opening quarter-mile fraction, so fast that the field was stretched out behind her 35 lengths from first to last, behind her torrid pace!
Day could tell the gray filly was going ridiculously fast and grabbed hold of Forty Niner, letting Winning Colors blast away to the lead on her own. He dropped Forty Niner back into the first turn.
The betting favorite was Private Terms, as the last flash on the betting tote board showed that Winning Colors was now just under 3.5-1 and Private Terms at 3-1. Private Terms had moved up into contention, but he was carried five horses wide into the first turn.
The Derby fans were rooting and cheering; especially the women. Fans had set a Derby record, betting $41 million on the race.
Again, Pat Day was aware Winning Colors was running too fast to survive the stretch, and he did an amazing thing, unseen in racing. He pulled Forty Niner back even more and allowed another horse to charge up inside of him and take over second place. Day had raced too many times in the Kentucky Derby to try to win now, so he had decided to save Forty Niner for when the real running began in the last quarter-mile.
Winning Colors was barreling down the backstretch now, distancing herself from the nearest males behind her by four open lengths! Forty Niner was losing ground to the other charging horses, as long shot Proper Reality also passed him on the inside. Day’s mount dropped back to fourth.
Dave Johnson called over the public address syst
em, “Winning Colors is in front and no one has challenged her yet! She has led from the start.”
Miami and Dino noticed Forty Niner dropping back. Miami yelled, “Forty Niner is done! He spit the bit.”
The time flashed up on the screen for the half-mile: 46-and-four-fifths seconds. Extremely fast, but not insane…better.
“Stevens is rating her,” Dino yelled. There was still three-quarters-of-a-mile to run and she had to reserve her energy. Proper Reality was chasing her on the rail, moving strong. Stevens continued to sit still on Winning Colors. She was cruising fast and smooth. He sensed she was happy and was running within herself.
Stevens remembered the plan he and Lukas had made; a crazy, gutsy, unique plan—to try to steal the Kentucky Derby by winning it on the turn. Winning Colors had shown them she could run faster than the other champion 3-year-olds, and she was especially faster than them while running on the turns! This tall, leggy, athletic animal could accelerate in the turns when the other horses were spinning out and wasting energy.
In a moment that horserace fans still talk about, Winning Colors re-accelerated in the stretch turn, as if she has just broken away from the gate anew. She opened by six lengths on the 16 colts. Every woman and girl in the crowd screamed for the filly that was embarrassing the Derby colts as they entered the long, deep, tiring stretch for home.
Stevens urged Winning Colors with his arms and chirped to her in her left ear, “Let’s go, girl! Now, girl! Now, girl. Go!” This was a bold move and could backfire if she couldn’t build enough of a lead.
“She’s led from the start…every pole a winning one!” the track announcer said.
The undefeated favorite, Private Terms, now gathered himself. His jockey, Chris Antley, set him down for a charge into the stretch.
Day, on Forty Niner, had gambled. He gambled that no filly could go this fast and last, and now he asked for all Forty Niner had! His colt was seasoned and a veteran of battles against the best colts in the world. He counted on the fact that Forty Niner would respond with courage and talent.