Okay, first of all, Zenyatta was robbed.  Hey Mike Smith, could you have taken her any further back?  The wondrous Z danced her way to the paddock and seemingly all the way to the starting gate.  She seemed to acknowledge the crowd throughout, wanting only to squeeze one more hurrah out of thousands of racing fans, and make good on their winning tickets. Even if a lot of them would never be cashed.  She seemed sure this’d be a walk in the park, another day at the office, sashaying her way to the winners circle while all the boys were still hangin’ by the water fountain.  This would be her 2oth in a row….no problemo.

That was all before her longtime jock strangled her coming out of the gate.  Before she could say “dumbass jock”, she was 20 lengths behind, getting clumps of real dirt pounding into her gorgeous peepers.  But the queen kept her cool, if somewhat surprised by her rider’s strange reluctance, and wondering when he’d pull out a pair of goggles for her?  She cut the lead from 20 to about 12 lengths at the mile pole but by then there was only a quarter mile to go.  And those young colts ahead of her didn’t even seem tired. 

It was about then that Mike finally took her outside where she could turn it on and, in the space of about 11 seconds, the time it took her to charge through that next to last (who says penultimate anymore?) furlong, she had cut that monstrous lead to about two lengths and she could see that finish line (I’m convinced).  She had that chassis moving now with just one horse to beat, but geez, that young stud, a colt named Blame, was rolling too. 

So down the stretch they came, as they say.  That lead became 2 lengths, then 1 ½, then 1 and then just about nothin’ at all.  And there was the pole. 

The crowd was cheering but she could feel her rider’s anguish. She seemed to hang her head and she definitely stopped dancing.  She probably wondered what the crowd was thinking.  Why did thay all still seem so excited? 

It probably didn’t occur to her that she had just gobbled up a 12-length lead in a quarter mile, that she had restored hope to all those bettors and fans whose heads had drooped after seeing her hopes diminishing with each succeeding pole for that first mile or so.  “She’ll never make it”, I had said to my lovely wife, who had almost never watched TV with me before.  She said sumthin’ like “but she always comes from behind, doesn’t she” and I said sumthin’ like “but she’s too far back, she’ll never catch them now”.  I remember thinking about an old stretch-runner named Carry Back, who would sweep the field in the last furlong or so, but that was a long time ago, and Carry Back was a colt.

And then I was yelling, “Go! Go! Go!” as Zenyatta’s profile slowly, inexorably, advanced on that lead colt’s flanks all the way to that damned final pole.  It was the best horse race I had seen in many a year, and I knew I had seen one of the best horses I would ever see. 

They say she had her chance and couldn’t get her head in front.  They say she won’t be the Horse of the Year.  I say she’s been the Horse of the Decade at least and no other horse had evoked as much admiration out of a crowd since, well, Secretariat in that insane Belmont of the early Seventies.  Yeah, there were other big ones too, there was Ruffian of course, and Affirmed and Stevie Cauthen wearin’ out Alydar for the Triple Crown.  But that’s about it.  I wasn’t around for Seabiscuit.  And none of them could dance.  (Actually, Secretariat and Seabiscuit both played to the crowd).

So go ahead, racing intelligentsia, make Blame the Horse of the Year.  After all, he did keep his head in front at that finish line.  It won’t change anybody’s mind, not anyone who had been there at Churchill or anybody who had just watched on TV.  Zenyatta’s the Horse of the Year and one of the horses of the century.

There. All that had to be said.  I feel better now. 

That seemed more important to me than what the Jets or Giants did, or what has developed in the Mets front offices. Of course, all’s quiet on the football front, at least locally, as the Giants have been rolling and the Jets more or less just surviving in good form.  The Mets new guy, Sandy Alderson, will probably wind up being a good hire and he’s supposed to be evaluating fiery coaches. (I have almost no hope in that regard, I liked Jerry Manuel). Oh, and I don’t care what the Yankees do.  Whatever they do, it won’t be enough, not with trying to carry all that dead weight.  (Okay, not dead, just twitching ever more slowly).

The big intrigue in football is in Dallas and Minnesota, what with Wade Phillips finally hitting the dusty trail and Brad Childress hanging on like that cat hangin’ on to that chinning bar in all those cheap reproductions.  Both of their jobs were in trouble going into Week 9.  Favre and Adrian Peterson, Percy Harvin and even Bernard Berrian for Minnesota rallied the Vikings to victory in a thrilling comeback win.  The Boyz flopped historically, and nary a Dallas cornerback or linebacker could be found. They lost 41-7.  Wade Phillips needed a secondary to show up in what would turn out to be his final game.  He didn’t get it.

But the Vikings still breathe, even if they’re way behind and that finish line seems so close.  Down the stretch they come. 

They could take a lesson from a magnificent dancing mare who faced the same odds but fought valiantly to that finish line, despite the bad ride.