Grindstone Polished Off
He had run almost the full distance, a mile and a quarter, and at one point he had languished a disinterested 15th in a field of 19, and surely he must have felt like packing it in at that moment, just loping on out, heading for the barn, and kicking back and waiting for another day.
But some athletes don’t have the good sense to quit. For them, the thought of surrender is intolerable.
And to them we hand over our hearts, glorying in the knowledge that such majestic creatures still exist in this little world that we keep muddying.
So Grindstone dug in. And the little man on his back, Jerry Bailey, thrilled to the surge of power when he asked for it. And at the very last jump to the wire, Grindstone caught the one remaining horse in front of him, Cavonnier, and won the Kentucky Derby. By the length of your index finger.
That was one week ago. Five days later, Grindstone’s athletic career was over. Meteors don’t flame out that fast.
He began to limp during a gentle jog Thursday, and X-rays showed a bone chip in his right front knee, the knee that had been scoped last summer. Somewhere in Florida, Darren Daulton, in the midst of another 5-hour rehab workout, must have winced in sympathy.
Grindstone has twice as many knees as Daulton, of course, but it is no advantage. When one goes on a racehorse, that’s it. This isn’t like flying an airplane; you can’t get home on three engines.
It happens a lot in this sport, legs giving out, and the wonder is that it doesn’t happen even more frequently. Every law of physics screams that this is dangerous: You ask a thousand-pound brute to run at speeds up to 40 miles an hour and with each thunderous step have all that weight come crashing down on legs that are thinner than a human’s.
They do it, of course, because that’s what they are bred for, but the fact is there are elements of barbarism in racing that would give boxing a good name.
The inbreeding is shameful. So is the administration of drugs - diuretics and steroids and coagulants, pharmaceuticals that will get you disqualified from the Olympics, banned from football, and suspended in boxing, but that are freely dispensed at the racetrack. And, of course, the patient is given no option. His consent is never sought. He has no right of refusal.
I have heard veterinarians argue that in our arrogance, we tamper with nature. It is nature, not man, that should be determining which are the stronger, the sounder. Natural selection, in other words.
I grew up on a farm, rode horses, was instantly mesmerized by their majesty, and I have always been torn with ambivalence. I love to see them race. There is a wild grace about them that will make you stop breathing.
Every trainer, every jock, will tell you that the best of them know precisely what they are doing. On race day they sense what is coming, and their ears prick and their nostrils flare and the muscles along their haunches begin to ripple in anticipation.
But one misstep, one jump over a late-afternoon shadow, is enough to end it all. Those legs are not much bigger around than twigs, and even more brittle.
Grindstone’s competitive career lasted all of six races. He won half of them, and a million and a quarter dollars along the way. At that, he is one of the lucky ones. He will be retired to stud, and isn’t that the fantasy of young males everywhere? His remaining days will be spent on roomy pastures, lazing in the sun, free from almost all of our inhumanity.
The owner of Grindstone, William Young, said retiring the animal was “in the best interest of the health of the horse. The injury is not life-threatening. It’s simply the right thing to do.”
Yes, it is the right thing to do, but the motivation is not nearly so much sentimental as it is financial. The worry is not so much that Grindstone might break down in his next race, but that if he did he would be perceived as damaged goods and his value as a stallion prospect would drop precipitously.
Translation: Grindstone is expected to continue to earn his keep.
Just like the two-legged athletes.