Copyright
1991
Dale McClare
dmcclare@mail.com
(Aeneid I, 405)
Defined the temper of the race—
The clash predicted entered on
Before the quarter mile was gone.
The
Queen
was not unhappy, though,
To see you, Princess, hurry so;
She rated kindly at your side
Throughout the next two quarters ride.
She challenged midway round the turn
And you
switched into
afterburn;
So, though her move was deadly fast,
She wasn't able to get past.
And
now,
as one, you turn for home,
Each one flying on her own:
The Princess
leading at the rail,
The Queen
determined
not to fail.
She
really
isn't too concerned—
A champion, she awaits her turn;
But still she turns a widened eye
To check the speed she can't get by.
Is
she
a little bit surprised
To see you in such humble guise:
A blaze that straggles off your face,
Your head held low throughout the
race?
Or
does
she go beyond the weeds
And seek to penetrate the deeds:
Your calm devotion to the bout,
Your champion's fire flashing out?
The
eighth
pole passes in a blur,
And still you haven't looked at her,
The champion champing in your ear
And forging up to passing gear.
Her
ardor
is a thing to see
And still you're striding fluidly;
She gathers up to make a move
And you're as tranquil as a dove.
Whence
this,
Princess, settled calm
Before the monarch of the realm?
Is it 'cause you own the course—
Or does it have a deeper source?
(Your
one
and forty-five and four
Will have a place in racing lore;
No filly's ever faster sped
Nor colt, save
legendary Red.)
You're
coming
to the sixteenth pole
And still you have it in control
And still you're poised and full of
class
And still your action's smooth as
glass.
A
world of dazzled fans is up
To cheer the champions to the Cup,
But no one's heard the fatal crack
A dozen paces further back.
And
as
you purchase for the run
Your fractured ankle comes undone;
Your forelegs meld into the track,
You topple headlong to your back.
The
image
penetrates the brain:
A million minds are seared with pain.
The camera tracks the victor through,
The viewer's eye sees only you.
You're
up
and limping for the side,
Your ankle hanging by some hide;
The jockey, lifeless, on his face,
Will up and ride a later race.
But,
Princess,
your career is done
Your brilliant jewels in the sun;
The Fates have deigned to bring you
down
A dozen paces from the crown.
Like
other
heroes you must go
To tour the nether world below;
You'll learn of heartbreak, greatness,
zeal,
Of crippled hoof and wounded heel.
You'll
hear
the fate Achilles bore,
The hero of the Trojan War;
His epithet was "swift of foot,"
A flaw was 'neath his ankle put.
Like
you
and others of your time
This prince was smitten in his prime
(Like Oedipus, whose foot was lame,
And Troy's
famed prince
who horses tamed).
Great
Secretariat
you'll find
Grand Canyon, Fappiano's pride,
That sire too, The Minstrel—all
By tragic laminitis galled.
You'll
follow Mr.
Nickerson
And, after, Shaker
Knit
will come,
And shortly after, two more stars:
Greats Northern Dancer, Alydar.
This
last
just short of triumph raced
In Derby, Preakness, Belmont Stakes;
And as he caught the sires' crown
The Fates saw fit to strike him down.
But
think
him not by heaven scorned,
Whom nature lavishly adorned
With steel persistence to the last;
We've seen his mettle, know his class.
For
know
that even Superhorse
Had seen misfortune's awful course:
His pilot
hurtled
from the game,
Himself defiled by fatal
pain.
But
(not
to turn our eyes away,
Or sidestep sorrow's grieving day)
We'll carry always in our heart
His stirring drive at Belmont Park:
The
jockey,
with his vision peeled,
Looking back to find the field;
The Legend, in a world his own,
Reaching,
snapping,
pounding home.
Nor
shall
we, Princess, overlook
The regent of
the sire
book;
His Vice your
sire's
sire is,
Your blaze the
mirror
is of his.
A
David only fifteen hands
But tempered like a firebrand,
He took two jewels from the Crown
Before his
birthday
rolled around.
And
still
the Dancer crossed the line
In Derby's swiftest
ever
time,
Till Red and Sham attacked the course
And worked their
stunning
tour de force.
All
these
you'll see, and countless more
From Ruffian down to Man O'War;
In her a kindred spirit flames
Who'll know the measure of your pain.
A
brilliant champ at two and three,
Her every stakes a record
spree,
She never ran behind the pace
And never lost a single race...
Till,
matched
with Foolish Pleasure's grit,
She smashed her sesamoids to bits
While streaking just two quarters out
A half a length before the colt.
Her
talent
so prodigious proved
She'd never had to fend a move;
Her final chance to show her will
Was shattered when her blood was
spilled.
But,
Princess,
you had time to flash
Your game commitment to the task
When, tested hard throughout the race,
Your courage held the Queen in place.
We
loved
this, Princess, and your art,
And loved great Bayakoa's heart;
You both a humbling lesson are
In dedication and desire.
(Like
greats
Affirmed and Alydar,
Sunday Silence—Easy Goer,
You are, as famous duellists seem,
Not so much rivals as a team.
A
team that death has deigned to part:
The Queen, to earth; for you, the
stars;
A kind of Gemini
you'll
be,
Like Castor,
mortal;
Pollux, free.)
Your
tour
completed, take your place
Among the legends of your race;
Who long have soared to higher climes,
Their shadows only left behind.
Ascend
like
Pegasus the sky
And join their stellar company—
While every place you've ever been
Your life continues on again:
You're
charging
down the homestretch
In the Breeders'
Juvenile;
You're taking honors in the Test
In record matching style.
You're
romping
in the Alabam,
The fastest ever raced;
And sizzling in the Beldame
At world record pace.
You've
got
the Ashland, Mother
Goose;
You've run the Maskette
down;
You've beat your double
champion
sib
Who wears the Triple Crown.
And
still
you're holding off the Queen
And still she's forging forth,
And still you're all serenity—
A goddess come to earth.
And
still
you're digging deeper down
To make the final drive,
Your spirit never
wavering,
All sinew stretched to fly.
The
End