And so the bagpipes played

It was a beautiful day for racing. The rain cleared, the track dried, and the climactic moment came. The DERBY! Thousands of us pressed against the fence, waiting as the horses loaded into the gate. Oh, the anticipation! Then the sound of bagpipes began to float through the air, and I looked to see a lone man walking the infield playing a mournful song. All crowd noise ceased as we watched, 100,000 people simultaneously moved. Was it for Barbaro? Chelokee? Commemorating Affirmed? Winning Colors? Or just a terrible omen?

I turned my camera over to Jon and, clutching the fence for support, began to cheer as the starting gate opened. My heart surged, adrenaline flowed and I shouted with delight as they came running past. Pyro was far back, trapped. But Eight Belles... Big Brown... oh, they were moving very, very well. And for a moment I dared to hope that maybe Big Brown was going to win by a mile with Eight Belles giving him a mighty run for his money. My cynical "not enough experience" heart would be treated to it's wildest dream- a superhorse, a superhero, a TRIPLE CROWN WINNER, with a mighty filly as his main rival. When they crossed the finish line 1-2, there was a sharp intake of breath; tears sprung to my eyes and my hands shook. He did it! They did it! The superhorse! THE FILLY! Oh, the screaming, the celebration, the cries of, "30 years we've waited!"

But then there was the wave of panic. Confusion. Something had happened, it rippled across the infield. Then a man behind my said, "What? Eight Belles is dead? Crossed the finish line and died???" It wasn't true, it couldn't be true, there was no way! Less than a minute before she'd run by me, full of life and power. I craned my head as hard as I could down the track, but I was a good 200 yards further from the turn than I usually was and I couldn't see a thing. I reached for my phone to call my close friend watching from home, so that he could tell me that it was just the rantings of some drunken jackass. But the text message was already there. If that didn't convince me, seeing the horse ambulance drive by me with no sign of movement inside made it abundantly clear.

Then I was shaking for a whole other reason. Everyone around me was in tears, even the men. Why had this happened while she was pulling up? The race was over, she was cooling out, the freakiest of all freak accidents- the unfairness of it all stung. Slowly, the crowd dissipated, and still I stood, clinging to the fence and staring at the track willing that moment to undo itself. A cold front brought a chilling wind, scattering papers and other remnants of what had been the most perfect day. As the post parade for race 11 started, I finally let go of the fence and sat in my chair. The wind carried a discarded section of the Daily Racing Form to my feet; it was muddy and trampled upon, but still I picked it up. Staring at me with a wad of grass in her mouth was Eight Belles. I tucked the photo into my program, nestled between the Derby pages. Because I could.