In honor of this column's name, Kentucky Derby disappointment Bellamy Road will narrate this week's column. So, today, it's "Straight from the Horse's Mouth" instead.
"All merry, all happy and bright,
By'n by Hard Times comes a-knocking at the door"
-- My Old Kentucky Home
I can faintly hear the crowd singing along with the music over the clamor of my competition, but I'm trying not to pay attention.
Nick and Mr. Steinbrenner made it very clear that the upcoming mile and a quarter stretch is the most important run I'll ever make.
"Don't spit the bit," Mr. Steinbrenner keeps saying. All these people think the pressure is on them, but it's actually my race to lose.
I'm the favorite, and everyone is counting on me to deliver. What they don't think I know is that only two favorites have won this race in 25 years. I hear people talking and doubting, but I can handle this pressure. I will be the third.
My knees are numb and my saliva tastes like baking soda.
Nick was talking about a "milkshake" earlier, but I don't remember ever getting one. Maybe he was referring to that tube in my throat.
I got a little bit scared when he started talking about "venom 1,000 times stronger than morphine" while he was sticking needles in the back of my knees.
It's okay though; running was a lot more painful without the shots.
We're coming up to the gate now. I feel bad for the other horses with strange names like "Andromeda's Hero," "Sort it Out" and "Flower Alley" because no one is talking about them.
One name I have heard a lot of is "Spanish Chestnut," the one expected to lead the pack. I like to start fast too, so I'm supposed to run with him as long as he can last.
I'm the favorite, so I can last longer.
The doors are open.
I'm used to hearing a bell, but this race is different because all I can hear is silence. It's only me, Javier, the horses in front of me and the track. There is no looking back.
We've passed three-fourths of a mile, and though I'm maintaining my spot up front, I'm starting to feel tired.
Maybe I started running a little bit too fast. Maybe running from the gate with Chestnut wasn't the best plan.
Javier is starting to use his whip more, but he doesn't understand that I'm already pushing as hard as I can. I wish my left hip were as numb as my knees.
We're in the final straightaway, and I can't get my legs to move any faster.
The two horses to my left are inching away, and someone has made a very quick pass on my right.
Who is that? Where did all his speed come from? He looks like he just started trying.
My muscles are getting tight and I can't seem to move as quickly as the others.
I'm losing ground, and Javier is getting frantic with the whip. But there is nothing I can do. Like a tired racecar, I'm out of gas.
I just crossed the line in seventh place. Cameras are flashing everywhere.
I hear people applauding "Giacomo" for a victory that was supposed to be mine. Everyone is talking about money and long shots beating the odds.
Mr. Steinbrenner was in a horrible mood all week, and he's so hard to please.
Things may get uncomfortable between us. I wish he understood my potential, but he doesn't like that word.
The only thing he notices is the price tag.
I should have listened to that anthem more closely. Things were so happy and bright! It looks like Hard Times just knocked at the door.
But, hey, there's always the
Preakness.
