First Saturday In May

Ahhh...it's almost officially spring. To some, spring begins on Opening Day with the first crack of a bat. To others, it begins with filling out a March Madness bracket. And to some unlucky souls, it means allergies.

But to me, springtime means looking forward to one thing. The triple crown. No, I'm not some sort of gambling addict. In fact, I've scarcely bet my own money on a horse race. I'm just an equestrian sports junkie, sort of a throwback from my pre-teen years in the horsey set, thanks to watching National Velvet one day and saying to my mother, "I want to do that!" Hence began my love affair with members of the equine family (insert Black Stallion joke here).



What's so magical about the Derby? It's not all the C-list celebrities wearing delightfully tacky hats. It's not drinking enough Mint Julep to to turn your bowels green for a month. It's not mixing Everclear and V8 Splash and eating soggy sandwiches all day. It's not about the brazen "mammalry exhibitions" by sunburnt Kappas. It's not about the inevitable 40+ divorcee wearing a shirt saying, "Talk Derby To Me". It's not picking the winner -- which I've only done once (in 2001 with War Emblem). It's not even about the underdog stories. A freaking Maserati could win the Derby and the media would find some way to spin that as a "triumph over adversity" worthy enough to make most law school admissions committees proud. Maybe it's about all the pretty horses with the cute little names, such as "Sweet Catomine" (f), "Afleet Alex" (m), and even "Rock Hard Ten" (m).

I guess I've never figured out the magic of the Triple Crown, but if you didn't tear up when Charismatic broke his leg in the homestretch of the 1999 Belmont Stakes -- as he was about to win the race -- and gamely finished to come in third, then YOU HAVE NO SOUL, DAMN YOU.

Up in NYC, people don't do much for the Derby. I have a large floppy hat that's sat patiently in its box in my closet, just waiting for me to attend some equestrian sporting event so it can see daylight again. I'm no Third Turn girl, and I'm too prejudiced against the newmoney set to have my shoes defiled by a walk down Millionaires' Row. Just a handle of Maker's, and the Good Doctor Hunter S. Thompson's ghost would be fine company for me.

And PS: Don't bet on the favorite.