But I love the ponies!
I've been a horse-girl since I was little. I don't have a horse. I don't know how to ride a horse. I don't even have access to a horse. But I love them.
So...while some people go all out for the 4th of July, St. Patrick's Day or Cinco de Mayo...I pull out all the stops for Derby Day.
By the end of the week, my 4th graders are talking out of the sides of their mouths, gripping programs and weighing odds like bookies. We are immersed in the pomp and pageantry of the 151-year-old Run for the Roses. We speak with familiarity and passion of the greats: Man o'War. Secretariat. Seabiscuit. We researched this year's entries. Did the math but still pinned our hopes on pretty horses, imaginative names, and long shots. We toasted the occasion with Mint Julip milkshakes ("Can we eat the leaf?" my 9-year-olds asked excitedly, referring to the mint garnish that perched elegantly atop the fifty dollars worth of other ingredients that made up their refreshment.). We sang "My Old Kentucky Home." We ran a stick pony relay derby of our own.
The next day...on a wet, rainy, dismal Saturday afternoon, my husband asked if there was anything I
wanted to do. I was just whiling away the hours until post-time. I sighed. I've only been to our nearby racetrack for the wiener dog races. I looked up information on my phone and saw that the Downs had a viewing party package. "Maybe next year, we should plan on going..." I said wistfully. "That's what you said last year," Brad reminded me. Oh my goodness. Do I say it every year? Was The Kentucky Derby my Groundhog's Day?
wanted to do. I was just whiling away the hours until post-time. I sighed. I've only been to our nearby racetrack for the wiener dog races. I looked up information on my phone and saw that the Downs had a viewing party package. "Maybe next year, we should plan on going..." I said wistfully. "That's what you said last year," Brad reminded me. Oh my goodness. Do I say it every year? Was The Kentucky Derby my Groundhog's Day?
I marched out to the car.
Wary but supportive, Brad immediately began breaking down this experience into steps. "We'll see how full the parking lot is," he told me. "If it's packed, we can always get a margarita instead." Determined, I was not seeking an escape clause. "I've never had a real Mint Julip," I said, "I want to watch the Kentucky Derby and drink a Mint Julip." We spent the duration of the drive talking horses as I was a bit ahead of my husband, knowledge-wise on this year's line-up.
We walked into the Downs where I was immediately assaulted by flashing lights, loud noises, milling people, and a bee hive of corridors, levels, and entryways. Brad quickly ushered me to the banquet room where we bought our tickets, received our meal, and ordered our Mint Julips. It was time to make our bets. Journalism was the odds-on favorite and I love to write, having dabbled, ridiculously, in small-town newspaper writing. But there was another horse...similarly named...that called me: Publisher. Undaunted by his 30-1 odds, I placed my bet.
Brad Mosiman had carefully listened to my recommendations. The horses who had never run on a dirt track (and it was a muddy, sloppy track on Derby Day...Think Seinfeld: We needed a mudder. A horse who loves the slop.). The gelding. The non-American horses (Boo...). Toby Keith's horse. Then Brad Mosiman tossed my recommendations out the window and went with Sovereignty.
It was the height of elegance, y'all. Eating my barbeque chicken in a styrofoam take-out container with plastic utensils...Brad finally pulled my chicken apart for me when I snapped my knife in half and then lost one tine off my fork...daintily sipping my Mint Julip from a disposable cup...packed into a low-ceiling-ed room that could double as a BINGO hall while revelers from the gala celebrated upstairs with metal cutlery and souvenir glasses made out of...glass.
I was in my glory. The televisions were as big as walls and, everywhere you looked, I saw the horses we'd been studying all week. Smoky grays. Chestnuts. Roans. We worried about the poor horse who needed a last-minute horseshoe change...hoping it wouldn't rattle him before the race. The pre-race parade had me swooning...trust me, it wasn't the Julip...I believe the alcohol was rationed for the upstairs gala-goers.
And...they're off!
My smoky grays, chestnuts, and roans disappeared beneath coats of mud.
Brad Mosiman suddenly began to rise up out of his stacking chair...racing form clutched in his hand...eyes fixated to the screen. "Go," he coached, "Go!" Wiser counsel had never been delivered.
How could he even tell which horse was his?
Mint Julip. Check.
Winning the Kentucky Derby? Check.
All that way left was to use up the gaming credits that were part of our package.
Yeah. Good luck with that.
Because the Mosimans JUST KEPT WINNING, y'all.
We won back what we spent on the package and the ingredients for my classroom Mint Julips and then left before we bankrupted the casino.
It's all about self-control.
I had such a great time! Yeah...a little bit of tunnel vision. Trouble focusing on conversations. Only checked my exits a dozen or so times. Some labored breathing. Heart flutters. But was that my anxiety or the excitement of being on a real date with my husband? It's hard to tell but one thing is for certain...Derby or no Derby, Brad Mosiman gets this gal's heart racing!
