Rags Rocks!

By now, everyone who's not living in a cave knows that Rags to Riches won the Belmont Stakes on Saturday, June 9th, 2007--102 years since the last filly won the Belmont.

As a writer in this sport, a woman and one who's acutely aware of language and the subtle nuances--well, I'm out-of-my-mind thrilled that a filly took the Belmont. But I'm aware that language can build a prison--so I'm living for the day when horses like Rags aren't subject to adjectives like, "female." ("The great female Thoroughbred, Rags to Riches...")

Why can't we just say or write, "The great Thoroughbred..."?

Think of it this way: doesn't it drive you nuts when you hear a reporter--who happens to be a female--referred to as, "cute," "blonde," etc.?

Would anyone refer to Tom Brokaw as "The ruggedly-handsome anchor..." or "The brunette Tom Brokaw..."??

The answer is no, of course. Women subjects are always described for their physical attributes; men are not.

So I think--from a writer's perspective--that it diminishes Rags' accomplishments when anyone describes her as a "female Thoroughbred." NOT that I abhor being a female, or that I'm not thrilled that she's a filly! But if they wouldn't describe Curlin as a "male Thoroughbred" in common conversation--then they shouldn't do it when referring to Rags.

It's one thing to describe a horse as a "filly," "mare," or "colt." It's another, entirely, to use their gender as an adjective: "The female Thoroughbred, Rags to Riches, won the Belmont Stakes yesterday..." They'd never have written, "The male Thoroughbred, Secretariat."

It may not sound like much, but...from my seat as a writer...and knowing the power of language...believe me. It'll help perpetuate the myths about fillies and mares. One little word can fell a nation, or hold back an entire gender.

I'd like your feedback on language and this sport...any takers??

Women, Street Sense and Racing Savvy

Well, well, well. I won't even get into it, about my beloved Curlin showing in the Derby. (Next time, boy!) So I'll lick my wounds and move on.

It occurs to me that Street Sense--his jockey, actually--gives us a great example of our roles as horsewomen, fans and new fans in the sport. Jockey Calvin Borel did not give Street Sense his head, and let him blast to the front of the pack at the beginning of the race.

A mile-and-a-quarter race is long (by today's American standards; another topic for another blog!)--and many jocks, wanting to make a good show for their owners, trainers and audience--too often give in to the pressure to "look good out there," and take the horse to the lead from the get-go.

But Borel knew that the horse who leads the pack at the first quarter in the Derby is probably not going to win. The horse will lose steam, and crap out by the homestretch.

And it's the homestretch that counts.


Photo of Street Sense at the Finish Line
in the Kentucky Derby © 2007 Joe Gleason

Women in Thoroughbred racing. That's us. There have been some spectacular women standing in the winner's circle over the years, but a disproportionately low number, indeed. But that's OK, because, like Street Sense...we've been riding the back of the pack, waiting for our chance to shift into fifth gear, and MOVE. We are now poised to move, to see that golden opportunity to capitalize on the relative exhaustion of the rest of the pack--and move to the front for the win.

Street Sense is a great name: it bespeaks a savvy that can't be taught at a university. It's savvy, a knowledge of what's happening at the most-basic, fundamental level. If we women take our...street sense...and apply it to Thoroughbred racing...the winner's circle will be ours.

Run fast, turn left. Run to the front of the pack, and take your rightful place at the finish line--first, fresh and dancing toward the roses that await you.

Azeri's Go for Wand

At 11AM on August 1, 2004, I met Azeri for the first time in her stall at D. Wayne Lukas' barn in Saratoga. The hottest, most evilly humid day in American history, it seemed—but the Queen was placid, calm and perfectly poised. After a ritual of peppermints (hers); joyous tears (mine) and red-lipstick-kisses (ours), she bounced out onto the track to win the Go for Wand. I was certain that my good luck kiss on her star, in concert with my hysterical screaming and clutching of the finish line pole, had helped launch her over that finish line first. Ah, but no: Azeri, the Queen of Thoroughbred racing, would have won the Go for Wand with or without my loving lunacy. The best of the best, she danced into the winner's circle again, greeted by 50,000 wild-eyed fans who gave her a standing ovation in gratitude for her Saratoga win. Marion Altieri