Evening fell slowly at Keeneland, plunging an already freezing day into a dark, frigid night. Even so, a steady trickle of fans, including myself, reluctantly let go of the warm interior of the sales pavilion to stake out a position around the brightly lit walking ring, willing to shoulder the cold for as long as it took to see the horse that had captured the heart and inspiration of people around the world. Patiently we waited, ignoring the involuntary quivering, the runny noses, the appendages that felt like broken glass. We talked to one another, knowing that if nothing else, there was one thing we had in common, and right then, it was the only important thing. It would all be worth it, just for a glimpse of Zenyatta.
As the cold deepened the crowd began to build, and the soft murmur of excitement became more audible. Soon the folks at Keeneland, who went out of their way to accommodate these determined, faithful fans, made steady announcements about her progress. She had landed. She was on the van. She had reached the grounds. She was in a stall and would be coming to the ring shortly. Each time, the crowd stirred a little more, sparking the announcer to implore everyone to keep their emotions in check when she arrived. That would be a tall order. Everything about Zenyatta brings out the starry-eyed dreamer in anyone who meets her, and it’s hard to keep that to yourself.
Finally, outside Barn 15 cameras began to flash. Suddenly there she was, striding into the glow of the walking ring lights as regal and amazing as your wildest dreams. An audible gasp rippled through the crowd like a shiver running down your spine. Her coat gleamed, not a hair out of place, dappled and sleek despite the cold. If she felt it, she did not show. She stepped lightly, quickly, occasionally stretching out her legs into her familiar and beloved dance, stopping occasionally to survey the crowd, all people who had come from opposite ends of the country for one thing: her. Every time she paused, raised her head, pricked her ears you could hear the crowd cry softly with delight, scarcely believing their eyes, forced to believe their hearts.
On the second pass, John Shirreffs took the lead rope from Mario Espinoza and escorted his Queen around the ring, taking his time in spite of the cold, bringing her close enough to the rail for her many onlookers, myself included, to reach out and touch this dream, this fantasy, turn her for a split second into warm, fluid reality. She was here, in front of our eyes, for just those few moments caught between her captivating career and her transcendence into legend. This was Zenyatta, and she was magnificent.
Never has this sport seen something like this mare. The greatest names of the Turf, Secretariat, Man ‘O War, John Henry, Seattle Slew, Ruffian, Foergo, Kelso, and so many more…they astounded us with their brilliance, their athleticism and might, their perfection of a creature that poets and writers have vainly attempted to capture for centuries. But Zenyatta? She was more than those things. Talk about her greatness, how she stacks up to those fabled names that are now all but myth, is largely irrelevant. She is above those things. What she has done is reach out to the hearts of fans, old, new, and some not even fans at all, and gifted us with the embodiment of hope, the thrill of performance, the essence of the horse, not just as it relates to horse racing, but so far beyond it. What is Zenyatta? She is.
I saw her tonight, in her last bow to the public, and I will remember it forever.
