by William Nack
Tony Leonard, the photographer, approaches Laurin with a proposal for pictures. Lucien is beginning to fret and pace the floor. “The Blood-Horse is putting out a special supplement—twenty-four pages—that they’re going to send to every racetrack around the world,” said Leonard. “They want me to get pictures of you, Secretariat, the groom. Do you think I can get some of those?” The question is inappropriate for the moment, and Lucien’s voice seems to teeter on his words, his voice dry with impatience.
“No one under the shed!” he says. “No one! I’m lucky I can get under the shed today.”
There are still the big and small decisions to be made. Sweat knocks on the door. “Which of these nose bands do you want to wear—the blue or the white one?”
“The white,” says Lucien.
The day’s pressing work is done. It is 10:30. The horses eat a normal lunch, though Secretariat’s is cut to one quart of dry oats from the regular regimen of three. Ed Sweat turns inward. He crushes out a cigarette.
“He’s in the back of the stall. He knows. He knows and he don’t want to bother. He’s thinkin’ about it.” Excusing himself, he walks to the middle of the shed and turns on the spigot, and for the next hour sits cleaning the leather halters and lead shanks with soap and water. The morning lurches on toward noon. Lucien has borne up well under the strain, and now he is giving a tour of his barn to a visiting dignitary. Moments later he is raving about a horse he had just sold who, he has just discovered, is a cribber given to gulping air. Secretariat gazes impassively at Laurin as he passes the stall. He pricks his ears and listens, then calmly turns to his hay. Fifteen minutes later the shed is empty and cool again, and the wind is moving through it and waving the manes of the horses looking out their stalls, though Secretariat remains at the back of his. Sweat washes towels. Outside the crowd is coming to Belmont Park in endless caravans of cars and buses strung along Hempstead Avenue and the parkway. The lots fill quickly. From the shed you can hear the lot attendants hollering and directing lines of traffic.
There are 67,605 persons coming to Belmont Park—the Taj Mahal of American racing—and they come fully expecting to see a coronation. They jostle through the clubhouse and the dining rooms, among the grandstand seats and across the lawns. An oomppah band plays music at the eighth pole. Back at the barn, two years after breaking Secretariat under saddle in the indoor training ring, Meredith Bailes is back at the shed and talking to those visiting. “He was beautiful to train,” he is saying. “No problem. A perfect gentleman. We thought the world of him, you know, because of his breeding. I been wrong with a lot of them, but I really felt he was special when we had him. So did Mr. Gentry. We live right off Route 95, between Washington and Richmond, and I felt we could have galloped him right down the road. Nothing bothered him.”
The races begin at 1:30. Horses are now moving along the stable pavement to the racetrack, and thirty minutes later returning through the tunnel bespattered with sand and heaving out of breath. Cars are now packed bumper to fender throughout the expanses of the lots. Lucien goes to the races. And now Penny is in her box seat with Jack Tweedy and sister Margaret and brother Hollis. There is something almost monarchical about her, a sense inspired by the way she smiles and dips her head. She is standing now in the second-floor box seat above the grandstand, as if on a balcony overlooking multitudes seeking absolution. She is dressed in a blue and white dress over whose sleeveless top hangs a golden pendant, and her hair is teased and drawn in puffs in the shape of a turban. She raises her arms, and her cheeks are flushed. The crowds below her shout her name and wave and carry signs—“Good Luck Secretariat,” one of them proclaims—and she beams and waves back and shouts her thank-yous to the left and to the right. The tumult builds throughout the afternoon at the racetrack, while at the barn the mood grows solemn.
There is a crowd of people—grooms, hot walkers, assistant trainers, news reporters—waiting at the barn for Sweat and Secretariat. Pigeons flutter about the eaves, roosting in the straw bales above the stalls. Every half hour, from the distance, the grandstand builds in a tremendous roar of sound as the races, one by one, are run. Minutes later, the horses who drew the roars come dripping with sweat and panting back to the barns, like gladiators returning from the Roman Circus.
It is four o’clock, and Sweat is working casually around the colt, who stands at ease, quietly.
From the tunnel, suddenly, the horses return following the fifth race on the card, a one-mile sprint for older horses. The track is not as fast as it has been. Four of the fastest older horses on the grounds—including Tap the Tree and Spanish Riddle—have needed 1:36 to run a mile. Spanish Riddle has won the race by a half length. The first four finishers are all stakes winners. Two races later, around the corner of the tunnel leading to the racetrack, comes the badly beaten Angle Light. He is puffing and moving wearily, his head down and his legs and eyes spackled with sand thrown up in his face by the eight horses to finish in front of him just moments earlier. He has not been the same colt since the Wood Memorial. He ran poorly in the Derby, and on Belmont Stakes Day he has run even worse, taking the lead early and then fading badly. For the moment he is just another spear carrier in the spectacle to come. At the age of three, he has already passed his youth and prime. Few seem to notice him as he heads up the shed toward Secretariat, and no one asks his name.
At 4:07, Charlie Davis rides up on Billy Silver and reins him quickly to a stop. The Appaloosa gelding is no longer sore. He is standing still and waiting for Secretariat. Sweat has just fitted on the bridle. Now all is set.
From the crowd, then, there is a murmuring. “Here he comes,” someone says. Edward Sweat is leading Secretariat up the aisle of Barn 5, past the rows of stalls, and toward the doorway at the end. The colt’s head is down, he is moving relaxed. Ted McClain walks in front of him.
“Y’all are gonna have to step back from here now,” says Ted.
It is 5:10, just a half hour to post time.
Leaving the shed, Secretariat’s head comes up, as if he wants to stop, but he advances next to Sweat, his eyes flicking and his neck and head turned slightly to the left, his ears not playing and his teeth chewing on the bit, rolling it with his tongue and grinding down on it. He looks almost predatory. As he turns out of the shed, Sham and Pancho Martin cross the road in front of him and head through the tunnel to the paddock. Sweat’s expression is stern. He says nothing to anyone, holding the bridle with his right hand. He is wearing his victory hat.
Racing official Frank Tours is walking directly behind Secretariat, five feet away, and blocking people from stepping on the heels of the colt. There are people all around him. A ten-year-old boy, darting in and out of the moving crowd, runs into Tours, who has his arms spread out.
“Stay behind!” shouts Tours.
The entourage scuffs down the rubber-floored tunnel and rises to the paddock 200 yards away. Crowds line the fences. Sweat passes through the cyclone fence by the racing secretary’s office, up the top of the incline to the paddock.
He enters the walking ring, which is lined twenty-deep in a circle around it, and there is applause as he makes the circuit. Owners and trainers and syndicate members cluster in the grassy paddock shaded by a giant old white pine that is encircled by a row of park benches. The atmosphere is that of a garden party—women draped in chiffons and silks. Penny has descended, too, and so has Lucien, who is rubbing his hands nervously. A television camera beams down. Secretariat makes a circuit of the walking ring. Sweat takes him to his stall for saddling. Lucien fits on the blinkers and adjusts the bridle while CBS’s Frank Wright comes by. “Lucien, the heat doesn’t seem to be bothering him too much, does it?”
“No, I think . . .” What follows remains unclear. Caught shifting mentally between French and English, Lucien momentarily loses his capacity for articulate speech. He speaks unintelligibly, then regains command and says, “He used to be a little on edge and kick but today he’s acting very good. Very quiet and very wonde
rful.”
The jockeys come to the paddock—Danny Gargan for Pvt. Smiles, Braulio Baeza for Twice a Prince, Angel Cordero, Jr., for My Gallant, Laffit Pincay, Jr., for Sham, and Turcotte.
Turcotte and Laurin meet in the ring. They have already discussed the race, and Laurin is going over briefly what they have already talked about. “Now don’t take him back too much, Ronnie. See how they’re going. I’ve been looking at the record and many Belmonts have been won on the lead. If he wants to run early, let him. But don’t send him. Don’t choke him, either. . . . Use ton propre jugement.”
“Riders up!” yells the paddock judge.
Laurin lifts Turcotte aboard, wishing him luck, while the crowd around the ring ebbs back to the grandstand. The horses make one circuit and turn out of the ring and head through the tunnel to the track. Secretariat appears cool and dry, even in this heat, a contrast to Sham, who is washy and wringing wet with perspiration.
At once they emerge in the clear light of the racetrack.
“Here he comes!” Jack Whitaker tells 30 million people.
As he leaves the tunnel, there are boos and applause following him up the racetrack, and then the band strikes up the Belmont song, “Sidewalks of New York,” and the crowd stands and sings.
Looking around, Turcotte sees that none of the jockeys are warming up their horses. They are trying to relax them, he thinks, to keep them cool. Now he feels Secretariat moving almost dully, so he taps the colt with his whip and tries to wake him up. But Secretariat responds indifferently. Turcotte taps him again. The colt again reacts without enthusiasm.
“There’s something wrong with him, Charlie,” says Turcotte. “I tap him and he doesn’t seem to want to move.”
The other jockeys continue to go easy with their horses, not warming them up in the heat. So Turcotte decides to go to the front, if no one else wants to set the pace. He decides to prompt the pace from the outset. He has been thinking that Sham or My Gallant would be trying for the lead, but now he thinks they’ll be taking back. So, he decides, he will press the issue. He will let the red horse go to the front.
He gallops Secretariat around the turn and back into the stretch. The horses are now filing toward the gate. The crowds are all out on the pavement, shoulder to shoulder, and there is a crackling excitement in the air. More applause builds, rises, ebbs.
This is what they’ve come to see, not only those at the racetrack but those watching on television. The horses load into the metal starting gates. Starter George Cassidy stands on a green platform by the rail twenty feet in front of the gate, and watches as the horses move one by one. The assistant starter takes Secretariat into the stall gate, then slams closed the door behind him. The colt stands calmly. They load Pvt. Smiles and My Gallant next to him and Twice a Prince. Then Sham. Anticipating the start, Secretariat drops into a crouch, lowering himself about six inches back on his hindlegs. They are all ready.
It is 5:38.
The five colts vault from the gate head and head, Secretariat leaving with them in three giant strides in which his forelegs and chest rise fully four feet in the air, breaking more sharply than he has ever broken in his life. The crowd is on its feet howling. Secretariat isn’t falling back today, not as he usually does at the break, but rather picking up speed quickly and running with My Gallant through the first half dozen strides. He is racing with the field from the first jump. Looking to his left quickly Cordero sees the red horse grabbing the bit and running powerfully against it, and decides not to make an issue of the pace. Taking hold of My Gallant, Cordero drops the colt behind the red horse going to the turn. Other riders follow his lead. Baeza, outrun from the gate on Twice a Prince, lets the colt settle to find his stride. Gargan drops way out of it on Pvt. Smiles. But not Sham. Pincay hustles. He has been told to try for the lead on Sham, so he rouses Sham from the outside post to loom up for the lead. The Belmont Stakes develops with a rush to the turn.
Folding up and keeping his hands still, Turcotte at once takes a snug hold of Secretariat. Glancing right, he sees Sham going for the lead and Cordero taking back on My Gallant. Now he has room on the rail. A hole stays open in front of him. Seeing the space, Turcotte keeps ahold of the colt while chirping to him. Secretariat responds, surging and accelerating to the turn. Sham joins him on the outside. Slipping to the left as the others fall back, Sham comes to the flanks of Secretariat. The crowd stays on its feet. The Belmont is a match race at the first turn. Sham is a head in front of Secretariat as they race past the 1 3/8 pole, 220 yards out of the gate, and the jockeys are letting them go. The pair draws away, racing the opening eighth in 0:12 1/5. They appear to be on their way to the beat of twelve, to that opening half-mile in 0:48 seconds that is the throne in the Belmont Stakes.
But then they pick up more speed, gathering momentum around the turn. Pincay seeks the lead, and now he moves to make an issue of it. Chirping, he urges Sham to keep pace with Secretariat. Turcotte, seeing Sham thrusting his head in front, and responding with more speed, sits and waits on Secretariat. The battle joined, Secretariat skimming the rail with Sham lapped right on him, the two begin to pull away from My Gallant.
They drive the bend as one. The crowd senses a fight and they roar them on. They’re running as if it’s a six-furlong sprint: they rush the second eighth in 0:11 2/5. Pincay knows they’re going too fast, senses Sham working too hard, but he presses on. He is under orders to challenge for the lead. Martin wants the red horse to run at Sham. Sommers’s bay moves up faster on the turn, challenging and probing at Secretariat. The red horse forces the pace. He is sailing beside Sham. Pincay is waiting for Turcotte to take back on the red horse. But Turcotte is conceding nothing. He feels his colt is running easily so he gives him his head and lets him roll for the turn.
Together they race the opening quarter in 0:23 3/5, sharp time.
Now is the time to take back. Now they can give the colts a breather, time to settle down through two more eighths in 0:12 for that half in 0:48. But Pincay has not given up on gaining the lead. He tries for it again around the turn, urging Sham on. He goes to the lead by a full head. Then he is a neck in front. Then almost a half-length. They power past the 1 1/8-pole. It is Sham’s longest lead, and he battles to keep it. Secretariat gives him no time to relax. He contests every step of ground. He presses at Sham, keeping the pressure on him. And presses again. He’s not letting him get away. They race the third furlong in 0:11 2/5, still a sprinting pace, far too fast for this distance.
They have nine furlongs to go and they should be galloping. At this moment Turcotte could ease the pressure, but he does not. Turning for the backside, he lets Secretariat come to Sham again. Neither lets up. Unrestrained, they are sizzling along better than twelves to the eighth down the backside. The fractions pile up. Pincay keeps looking and hoping for Turcotte to take back on Secretariat. Turcotte, for himself, looks for Pincay to take back, letting Secretariat roll. He comes back to within a neck of Sham, picking up speed, then closes to a head-bobbing nose of him.
John Finney, standing in a box seat with syndicate member Bertram Firestone, senses what is happening now. As the two colts race to the mile-pole at the head of the backstretch, following the half-mile, his eyes turn to the tote-board teletimer. Finney blinks. And so does Lucien, who grows grim as the teletimer flashes frantically its message:
0:46 1/5.
“They’re going too fast!” Finney hollers to Firestone above the din. They have rushed through the fastest opening half-mile in the history of the Belmont Stakes.
What is Turcotte doing? What is he thinking about?
He is not thinking about the clock. He is simply sitting on Secretariat. He does not know how fast he’s going. He knows he’s rolling, yes—but he thinks the colt is running 12 seconds to the eighth, as Riva Ridge had run the year before, galloping the first half in 0:48. Secretariat is moving so effortlessly under him, not straining but moving well and doing it all on his own. The colt is awesome in the way he runs. He has been on
the left lead around the turn, and as he banks and straightens into the backstretch, Turcotte feels the hitch in Secretariat’s rhythmic stride: nine jumps into the backside straight, Secretariat has switched to the right lead—machinelike in the ease with which he does it—and levels out into long, smooth, and powerful strides. The pressure of the pace becomes intense. Neither colt has eased off an instant from the start.
They race in tandem for the seven-eighths pole. Ahead of them, the backstretch opens to the far turn 800 yards away, wavering in furrows in the heat, wide and flat and empty. Turcotte feels the wind rushing his face, his silks billowing out behind him. Looking to the right, he sees the wet and lathering neck of Sham, whose nose is thrust out in a drive. Turcotte thinks Sham looks as if he’s under strain. And he is. Pincay feels the colt not striding well. Ten lengths behind them, My Gallant and Twice a Prince are running head and head down the backside in a race of their own. Baeza, on Twice a Prince, looks ahead and sees the hindlegs of Sham beginning to come apart, swimming and rubbery, and for the first time thinks he might have a chance for the $33,000 in second money. It is only a matter of time, Baeza thinks, before Sham will drop back to him. Cordero has seen Sham in distress, too, and now he’s trying hard for second money. So Baeza hollers to Cordero, who is riding next to him.
“I’m going to be second, man!”
“Screw you, man,” Cordero says to Baeza. “You gotta beat me!”
Their race is on down the backstretch.
Secretariat races the fifth furlong in 0:12, giving him five-eighths of a mile in a sensational 0:58 1/5. That eighth begins to pry him loose from Sham. Sham is already suffering. They are still running as if in a dash, faster than Spanish Riddle raced five furlongs in the fifth that day, faster than Man o’ War and Count Fleet and Citation ran the first five furlongs in the Belmont Stakes. Secretariat is almost a length in front coming to the seven-eighths pole, with 1540 yards to go. He has just dragged Sham through a second quarter-mile of the Belmont Stakes in 0:22 3/5, then taken him out a fifth furlong in 0:12. He cannot maintain that clip. Yet what has been seen is still only preliminary. Now he is delivering the coup de grace, the cruncher. Secretariat rushes through the sixth furlong and under the pressure of it Sham begins to disintegrate almost visibly. The crowd can see it, clamoring and shouting as Secretariat begins to pull away from Sham, opening a length and a half. He is picking up speed again, charging down the backside, his form flawless through the twenty-five-foot sweep of his strides—forelegs folding and snapping at the ground, the hindlegs scooting far under him and propelling him forward, the breathing deep and regular, the head and neck rising and dipping with the thrust and motion of the legs. Having chirped just once to force the pace at the first turn, Turcotte has done nothing since then to bring him where he is. Yet, he is racing through the sixth furlong in 0:11 3/5, the crunching eighth, and opening two and a half lengths on Sham. Sham is finished with that eighth. He has been asked for more than he has. Secretariat sweeps past the three-quarter pole. Eyes swing to the teletimer: