American Pharoah

by Joe Drape

  Espinoza was especially on edge, which was out of character. Stevens, a friend and a rival, had watched Espinoza grow up in the jockeys’ room and had come to admire him as a rider who “just didn’t give a shit.” He had refused to join the Jockey’s Guild, rode how he wanted, and took the sharp words and hirings and firings by trainers with a smile. In fact, Stevens and Espinoza argued about which of them Baffert had fired the most.

  Espinoza had managed to stay above the fray in California Chrome’s previous year’s Triple Crown bid that began in storybook fashion only to unravel messily. One owner, Steve Coburn, was a hard-drinking cowboy who could not keep his mouth shut; the other, Perry Martin, thought his genius as a first-time breeder was responsible for building a better racehorse.

  The truth was the two of them got lucky, as in blind dumb luck. Espinoza was more astounded than hurt that Martin never said a word to him throughout their Triple Crown saga, not even offering a simple thank you for his efforts.

  It had been a ride of a lifetime that was still paying dividends. The notoriety got him a trip to Royal Ascot, the Queen of England’s home track, where he won a stakes race and got a winner’s circle audience with Queen Elizabeth II. He was awarded the top jockey award at the previous year’s ESPY Award, donning a white dinner jacket for a party where he partied with the likes of the Cleveland Cavaliers’ LeBron James and the New England Patriots’ Tom Brady. He was put on the ballot for the National Museum of Racing Hall of Fame for the first time, though he did not make the final cut.

  “No, I wasn’t disappointed,” Espinoza said. “It was my first time on the ballot, so that’s okay. Maybe voters need me to win another Kentucky Derby or two.”

  Now he was in the position to join a handful of the sport’s giants to win back-to-back Derbies. Only the great Black jockeys Isaac Murphy (1890–1891) and Jimmy Winkfield (1901–1902); as had Secretariat’s rider Ron Turcotte (1972–1973); Eddie Delahoussaye (1982–1983), and Calvin Borel (2009–2010) had done it before. All but Borel are in the Hall of Fame. It was something Eddie Arcaro, Bill Hartack, Laffit Pincay, Angel Cordero, and Bill Shoemaker were unable to do.

  He had fallen even harder for American Pharoah than he had for California Chrome and did not want fate and a lousy post to keep the colt out of the winner’s circle and derail his Triple Crown bid.

  “What are the odds, having a chance to ride the favorite for the Kentucky Derby back-to-back? To come in with more confidence this year than last year is a very good feeling,” he said.

  Halfway through the draw, however, Espinoza was nauseous, and Baffert was having a flashback to Lookin At Lucky. The Numbers 1, 2, and 3 holes were still empty, and all but two outside posts were spoken for. Baffert’s stents were getting a workout. Then they heard American Pharoah’s name matched with the Number 18 pole. It was not ideal. Espinoza would have rather had the Number 8 hole that went to Dortmund and Martin Garcia, but Big Brown had won from the 20 hole and I’ll Have Another won from 19. Espinoza knew he could control the race from the 18 post. He also knew that two of the most dangerous contenders had lost the race here in a banquet room at Churchill Downs before they ever stepped into the starting gate.

  The Blue Grass Stakes champion Carpe Diem and the Florida Derby winner Materiality pulled posts that compromised their chances of finishing the mile-and-a-quarter race ahead of him or anyone else. Mike Battaglia, the Churchill Downs oddsmaker, made Carpe Diem the third morning line betting choice at 8 to 1 despite the fact that he was coming out of the Number 2 hole; Materiality was next door in the Number 3 spot at 12 to 1. The riders of both colts had no choice but to gun their front-running colts early and hope to avoid trouble.

  “This doesn’t change my confidence in the horses at all,” said Todd Pletcher, the trainer of both colts. “You have to work out good trips from any post. It’s part of it. We’ll be fine.”

  Baffert had uttered similar comments after Lookin At Lucky’s draw. He knew that neither Carpe Diem nor Materiality had a chance. He felt bad for Pletcher. No one was surprised when Battaglia made American Pharoah the 5 to 2 morning line favorite and Dortmund, at 3 to 1, the second choice, least of all Baffert.

  “We just have to contain ourselves,” Baffert told the assembled media throng. “It’s exciting to be here with two good horses, him and Dortmund. In a stampede like the Derby, it’s all about the break, so whichever one of them gets out first, I’ll focus on. There’s more ways to lose this than win it.”

  It only took about an hour alone for him to churn the possibilities through his head. Yes, he believed in fate. Yes, he had a bad feeling. He believed Pharoah was the one, but he could also make a case for Dortmund. Now he knew how old Ben Jones felt when he was going to walk Citation and Coaltown over there. As his thoughts raced, Baffert barely made sense.

  “I believe that something really good is about to happen, or else it’s going to be disappointing,” he started. “Destiny. Maybe Dortmund is the horse. I don’t know how good he is. The farther the better it’s going to be for him. He loves this track. He’s tough.

  “We know Pharoah is brilliant from what he’s done. He gallops around there and he really hasn’t had to break a sweat. Turning for home, I’d love to see them in first and second. Then see what they’re made of.

  “Maybe there is another horse. Maybe Carpe Diem is better than them. Or somebody else. That’s why we have this race.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE FIRST SATURDAY IN MAY

  May 2, 2015

  It was an hour drive on I-64, and Baffert knew he was going to make it as soon as he learned that Silver Charm was coming home from Japan after a decade to take up residence at Old Friends, a retirement farm for accomplished racehorses in Georgetown, Kentucky. He had two other horses there as well—Danthebluegrassman and Game On Dude. He wanted Jill and Bode to meet him as well. They were not yet a family when Silver Charm gave Baffert his first Kentucky Derby and launched his Hall of Fame career. It was Silver Charm, really, that had given them all they had now.

  Baffert teared up as soon as the horse trotted over to the fence, looking every bit as tough as he did two decades ago. Baffert found himself tearing up more often these days. Silver Charm was twenty-one years old and was more white than silver. Like his trainer, he had aged and moved slower than he once did. Jill put her arm around her husband. She understood what this meant.

  “He’s like your first love,” she said.

  Baffert believed in fate. He thought back to 1996, his first Derby with Cavonnier and how he bought Silver Charm that week and had him in his barn at Churchill. When Cavonnier hit the stretch with a length lead, Baffert thought that he was going to get one over on the racing gods, bringing home the roses on his very first try. Instead a horse named Grindstone, one of five D. Wayne Lukas trainees in the race, came from the clouds and caught Cavonnier by a nose. Baffert swore right then he was coming back to the Derby. As soon as he did, he worried that he might never have another horse worthy of the race. He needn’t have.

  Silver Charm was the most competitive horse that had ever come through his barn. Baffert knew that when he led him over to the track, the colt was going to give him everything he had every time.

  “He was a fighter, and that was hard on him,” Baffert said.

  Silver Charm brought him back to the Derby, and in a replay of the previous year before, the colt was in front and looking like a winner when the field hit the stretch. Gary Stevens and Silver Charm had finally shaken off another gray horse named Free House that had beaten him the previous month in the Santa Anita Derby. Now, however, the Derby favorite, Captain Bodgit, was gearing up and the two were head-to-head.

  “I thought, ‘Here we go again. I’m going to get beat right on the wire,’” Baffert said.

  When he saw Silver Charm digging in, however, he knew that he was wrong to doubt his colt. Silver Charm was not going to let Captain Bodgit by him. They matched strides for seventy-five yards.

  “He fought and he ju
st dug in,” he said. “He was just a tough, tough horse. He didn’t want to win by a lot, but he was a true competitor. It’s something you can’t measure when you buy them. Like any great athlete, you don’t know until they get in that situation.”

  Two weeks later in Baltimore, Free House, Captain Bodgit, and Silver Charm knocked heads again, thundering down the stretch once more, three wide and inches apart. Free House was inside, Captain Bodgit outside, with Silver Charm between them. When they hit the wire, it took a photo finish to sort out the winner. Silver Charm had gotten the bob.

  They were bound for New York and a rare attempt at the Triple Crown, something that Baffert had not really considered a goal. He had not thought much beyond the Derby. He tried to treat it as a free roll, but he felt the weight of not only the sport, but also sports fans who had been waiting nineteen years to witness a transcendent performance that would go in the history books.

  In Silver Charm, Baffert knew he had a gutsy colt and a fighting chance. Was it enough? No, it was not. Baffert had the colt ready, and Silver Charm ran his heart out. Both were beaten, however, by the crafty ride of Hall of Fame jockey Chris McCarron on a talented colt named Touch Gold.

  They had skipped the Derby and then lost all chance in the Preakness when Touch Gold stumbled out of the gate and went to his knees. He still managed to finish fourth. Everyone thought Touch Gold was a closer, but McCarron had a fresh, tractable horse and believed that the only way he was going to get by Silver Charm was to outfox him. So in the Belmont, he sent Touch Gold to the lead early and then dropped back in the backstretch as if he were spent. He waited and watched as Kent Desormeaux and Free House went throatlatch-to-throatlatch with Silver Charm for the fourth straight race. Behind them, McCarron swung Touch Gold outside, beyond their vision, and cranked his colt up. Silver Charm didn’t see the horse charging on the outside of Free House. By the time Stevens did, with seventy yards to go, it was too late.

  “Chris McCarron rode the most brilliant Belmont,” Baffert said. “When Free House took off after Silver Charm, he just let them go. Gary thought Touch Gold quit. He decided to take Free House on and once he beat him, here came McCarron. He waited, saved horse, rode a tremendous race.”

  It was neither of their faults. Eighteen years later, we were all still waiting for a Triple Crown winner. Twice more, Baffert had failed to close the deal. He could have another opportunity this year, but he needed to take the first step on Saturday and win the Derby.

  Baffert rubbed the nose of his old friend and thanked him for putting him in this position once again.

  Ahmed Zayat kept him and his family busy as they counted down the days and hours until post time. In the mornings, Zayat bounced between the barns where the Derby horses were housed. Mr. Z was with Lukas near the gap to the racetrack. El Kabeir and John Terranova were in borrowed space and grouped with the other out-of-towners. He looked like a man on the verge of a heart attack, but then again he always did. He was either “relaxed, nervous or scared,” depending on which media outlet caught him at what part of the day. He was either “confident” like he would grace the winner’s circle finally or “afraid” he would forever be a bridesmaid on the first Saturday in May.

  Zayat had taken to calling American Pharoah “the Beast” and told anyone within earshot or with a Twitter account that the Beast was “kicking down the barn, jumping out of his skin.” He just needed Saturday and the starting gate to get here. The family did make an excursion to WinStar Farm, where Paynter, Bodemeister, and Pioneerof the Nile stood as stallions. When Pioneerof the Nile was brought out of his stall and circled for the group to behold, Zayat went over to him and whispered in his ear, “Your son is going to do it for you.”

  The reality that no Derby horse (or owner) was assured a place in the Derby until a saddle and rider were on his back in the gate was driven home to Zayat on Friday, the day before the race, when his colt El Kabeir was scratched with swelling in his ankle. Justin had a soft spot for the horse and both he and his father felt bad for John Terranova. He was a young trainer, new to Zayat Stables, and El Kabeir was supposed to be his second ever Kentucky Derby starter. The gray colt was a gritty competitor who had endured one of the worst winters in New York, often training in the snow, to win the Kentucky Jockey Club Stakes here at Churchill as well as the Jerome and Gotham at Aqueduct. Now they were missing the entire Triple Crown.

  There was another scratch on the morning of the race when a chip was discovered in the ankle of International Star, the Louisiana Derby winner. The colt’s owners, Ken and Sarah Ramsey, were staying at the same hotel as the Zayats, the Hilton near the racetrack. Three Derby dreams were dead. Zayat offered Ken Ramsey a word of comfort in the lobby as they headed for the track.

  Frances Relihan looked like one of those women she used to watch as a little girl during the Listowel races. No barn clothes for the Kentucky Derby. She wore a light blue dress beneath a string of pearls and a wide-brimmed hat in a slightly darker shade of blue. She was hewing as close to the color of the Zayat silks as possible. She and her husband, Dr. Joe Schneider, were their guests. Zayat had remembered the young Irish girl who had taken such care of his horses and was the first to tell him that the Littleprincessemma colt was special. The race was still two hours away, but she and Joe had been invited to barn 33 to watch Baffert prepare American Pharoah and Dortmund for the race. The backside had been transformed into picnic grounds as many of the horsemen based at Churchill Downs rolled out barbecue grills and coolers to entertain and watch and bet the races from where they spent the majority of their time: their barns.

  There were thousands of people milling around in shorts and flip-flops with beers in their hands, but they were careful to stay clear of where the Kentucky Derby horses were getting ready. Frances watched as American Pharoah gazed above the crowd gathered around him, turning left, then right, and nodding his head slightly. He was something to behold with his rich, velvety bay coat pulled tight over rippling muscles. American Pharoah walked as she remembered him—all precision and purpose without one wasted motion. Dortmund was handsome as well and was tall and long. It was too bad one of them was going to have to lose today and Frances knew which one it was going to be.

  “Horsemen, please bring your horses to the paddock for the eleventh race, the Kentucky Derby,” came the announcement over a scratchy loudspeaker.

  It was delivered in a monotone that failed to capture what those words meant to the dozens of owners and trainers sweating through their suits and beneath their floppy hats. They were about to walk their horses (all of whom they had spent hundreds of thousands, even millions, of dollars on) a quarter mile to the racetrack and perhaps into the record books.

  As the Zayats left the barn area, Frances and Joe trailed behind them as they passed through a gauntlet of noisy well-wishers lined up five deep before the gap on the backstretch. They stood in the beds of pickup trucks and cheered them on as they took their first steps onto the racetrack. Frances was honored to be asked to make “the Walk,” as it was known, an exhilarating experience for a horseman, second only to winning the Derby itself. It meant you had bred or bought, you had raised or trained, a horse worthy of the sport’s grandest stage. It was like being asked to perform at the Grand Ole Opry if you are a country music artist.

  Her first steps on the track were wobbly because ahead of them was a never ending line of human bodies—more than 170,000 of them—erecting a wall of sound from deep within their lungs. To the right, the infield was packed with more than 50,000 people and was a rowdy city unto itself, kids mostly, more concerned with the mint juleps than fancy hats. The roar began there and rippled through the grandstands and was sustained as one horse and its entourage after another began the promenade clockwise around the track’s first turn, to the stretch, and through a tunnel into the paddock. Frances blinked back tears and took in the kaleidoscope of smudged pastels that rendered Churchill Downs and its twin spires something out of a Monet painting.

 
“This is surreal,” she said.

  The Zayats flanked American Pharoah. Paul Shanahan and some of the Coolmore lads were in their wake, hoping that the colt was going to win and increase the value of the stallion rights it now owned. Baffert stayed close by his side, a bodyguard daring anyone to get too close. He had traded the cotton balls for the soft, cotton earplugs that show horses often wore. Still American Pharoah was hearing and seeing too much. He was the favorite, the superhorse, and the ovation that he was receiving was deafening. Fans were crushed against the rail with their cell phones, and television camera crews weaved on the racetrack between horses.

  American Pharoah fought his groom, Eduardo Luna, for the entire walk, tossing his head, balking, and skittering. He was agitated, working himself into a lather. Baffert did not like what he saw and was getting agitated himself.

  He felt like he was walking his horse through Times Square at midnight on New Year’s Eve with people yelling and screaming and running next to him.

  When they finally arrived in the paddock, American Pharoah was doused with water to soothe and cool him off. Baffert kept him in his stall to unwind. Every other horse was limbering up, circling a postage stamp–sized opening of paddock that was overflowing with people. Baffert backed everyone but Zayat away from the colt. He needed to get him quieted down.

  By the time Espinoza showed up in the paddock, the colt was cooling off and Baffert was distracted. The night before, Baffert had given his rider some instructions via text.

  “Just send it,” he told him. “I don’t care. Just go to the front.”