Barbaro

(photo copyright Los Angeles Times online/Associated Press)

Yesterday afternoon, on a whim, I flipped on the television and by chance caught the Preakness. The horses were being loaded into the starting gate. Barbaro, the favorite, who recently won the Derby, was frisky and feeling his oats. With a burst of energy he thrust his great chest at his gate, powering his way through in a false start. He was quickly steadied by his jockey and the outriders, and brought back to his place in line.

“They’re off!”

Nine thoroughbreds thundered ahead onto the wide open track, heads straining forward, jockeys working the reins, guiding them forward. Within moments Barbaro was behind, his jockey Edgar Prado fighting to pull him up. Then the diminutive Prado was off and on the turf, calming the great horse with his hands. Barbaro was kicking out his right hind leg, plainly in pain. Later, other jockeys would say they heard the crack of his bone breaking. The cameras focused on the trainer and his wife in the stands, who clapped her hand to her mouth and reached for husband’s arm. Michael Matz spun and strode away, and the cameras lingered on his wife, alone and in tears.

The rest of the race was run in seconds, but the great drama was still going on, as those most closely involved with the horse clustered around him, soothing, stroking. The equine ambulance approached. Prado was in tears. Matz held him.

Within a very short time the news was bad. He had broken his leg both above and below the ankle. Because there is very little muscle in that area, there was a good chance that the blood supply was irreparably compromised. “We’ll know more in the coming days.” If there is no hope, he will have to be killed.

Me? I was sobbing.

Thoroughbred horses are probably my favorite of all animals. In those silly games of “if you could be any animal, what would you be?” I always say racehorse. The powerful, rippling muscles, the speed and beauty are breathtaking. Their command of their environment is palpable. I would love to have that beauty, that presence, that knowledge of the speed I possess and could demonstrate at any moment, as I dance around the paddock. I rode a lot when I was young, and have always loved these creatures. But still, why such emotion for an animal I have never met? Had never even heard of, to be honest, before I flipped on the television moments before the terrible event? For a horse that ran the risk that every racehorse faces, so delicate are those long legs that carry them around the track?

I think I was weeping for the fragility in us all. I think I was reminded of our own vulnerability, of the unexpected that lurks in even the most uplifting of moments. And I was weeping at the distress I saw in the faces of those who loved this magnificent animal. I was weeping for lost hopes and dreams. I was weeping at the physical pain. Even the loneliness of the trainer’s wife, who of course must have understood her husband’s need to leave immediately, but who was left alone in her fear and sadness.

And I was weeping in the knowledge that the horse might die. As we all must. But he is young and strong and proud and beautiful, and had so much still ahead of him. So much.

Makes me think of human beings who are young and strong, and have so much still ahead of them. Who may die.

But that is a topic for another time.