I'm not really sure where this came from. I've always been a huge Big Red fan, but I never thought of writing anything about him. I may have fudged the truth a little-some merely take their liberties, I elope with them-but I hope anyone that's a Secretariat fan too will appreciate this little piece. For those of you that aren't, please, for the love of God, at least watch the 1973 Belmont Stakes. That, my friends, is poetry in motion.
2:24
Three overheated bodies stood between them, but they somehow shared each other's thoughts through the confines of the jaw-like structure. A mutual understanding broke with them as the gates flew open. The others faded away as they found one another through the haze of dirt. Together they set the pace.
He'd never been so close to the lead at the start. Usually he prowled behind the rest of the field, waiting to pounce as they turned for home. He pricked his ears forward to listen to the competition behind him and the monstrous snorts of his rival's breath escaping in bullets. He couldn't see the dark warrior charging alongside him, but he felt him there, felt his familiar threat pressing at his throatlatch. He felt him as his eyes traced the stark white line of the rail that twisted like a river along the track. He felt him as their steps flowed into a torrent of limbs. He did not feel fear or the slightest hint of exhaustion. Excitement overwhelmed them both. He sensed that things would be different for them, he and the dark warrior, that they would pass or fail this test of champions together. Neck and neck, they entered the backstretch.
Then his beloved Ronnie leaned forward, urging him to come alive. "Come on, Red," Ronnie whispered, his tone light and playful. "Come on."
They picked up speed with each graceful stride. On and on. The dark warrior abandoned his pursuit and dropped back in defeat, weary from his valiant chase. The hounds overtook him and surged past, but they didn't dare challenge the leaders. He and Ronnie were all alone. Time was theirs. The world was theirs. They had only but to want it.
There was no longer a question of faith in Ronnie's mind after that day. God existed in his desperate grip on the reigns and in their fluid motion. The three of them hugged the rail on the far turn and poured into the stretch. His heavy presence carried them over the compact earth, lifting them up rather than weighing them down. The tremendous machine beneath Ronnie quickened its tempo. Ronnie smiled and tugged the last pair of goggles up over his head. He needn't fear the kick back any longer.
The awe-struck crowd merged into one being. Their voices grew in a frantic chorus. They swayed and broke against the fence in waves as they watched their crimson prince storming past the grandstand. They would cling to their tickets, cherishing the fragments of his triumph in the hopes of putting it together for their children and their grandchildren, but mostly for themselves. It was so much more than a race—they more than spectators-he more than a jockey—he more than a horse.
They crowned them kings at the finish, but to Ronnie, the race was won at the top of the stretch, when the drumming of his partner's hooves drowned out the roar of the crowd. As they streaked towards the wire, Ronnie Turcotte looked back and saw nothing but Secretariat's flame-red tail streaming out like a comet behind him.