"Go, Bob," they yelled, first just a few, and then more and more taking
on the cheer from their spots along the fences, cellphones snapping the
moment.
It built more through the tunnel, following Bob Baffert as he wound his
way up the stairs and through what became a phalanx of humanity in the
box seat area, the cheers by then turning into almost a chant.
And then, just as American Pharoah's trainer was entering his seating
area, Frank Sinatra neared his own crescendo of "New York, New York."
"I'm king of the hill," Sinatra sang. "Top of the heap."
Minutes later, American Pharoah turned Sinatra's lyrics into prophecy
when he crossed the finish line 5½ lengths ahead of second-place
finisher Frosted to become the first horse in 37 years to win the Triple
Crown.
The horse now joins a select fraternity of champions, his name forever
linked with the game's superhorses such as Secretariat, Seattle Slew and
Citation.
And his trainer, who was 0-for-3 since making his first attempt at the
sport's elusive prize 18 years ago, is now the king of the sport of
kings, at the top of the heap.
Baffert and his horse achieved what had become one of sport's most
elusive accomplishments, delivering not only another chapter of history
to the record books but a much-needed shot of adrenaline to their sport.
"Well, I mean, I really wanted to see it happen, but to me I really
don't, I don't look at it as me," Baffert said. "I think the Triple
Crown is about the horse."
Nearly stoic, with only the hint of a smirk betraying his mood as he
watched the race, Baffert punched the air with his fist as the crowd
exploded around him and then hugged his wife, Jill, and enveloped his
10-year-old son, Bode.
A good hour later, Baffert sat behind a table at a news conference, Bode
perched on his lap -- "If Steph Curry can get away with it, so can I,"
Baffert quipped -- and tried to explain what had just happened.
He couldn't. How could he? Three times he sat at the same place and
tried to describe what it was like to be so close to the impossible, but
miss.
Turns out, putting history into words was even more difficult. Baffert's
California cool was still there, the laid-back, almost surfer-dude way
of talking, but the words that came out never felt quite adequate.
"Turning for home, I was prepared for somebody coming because I've gone
through this so many times and I was just hoping for once ... I could
just tell by the eighth pole that it was going to happen," he said.
"The crowd was just thundering, and I was just enjoying the call and the crowd, the noise, and everything happening."
Baffert didn't need a Triple Crown to prove anything. With four Kentucky
Derby wins, six more in the Preakness and now two in the Belmont, he
long ago cemented himself as one of the best at his job.
But the man who grew up in Nogales, Arizona, and started his career
training quarter horses can not only appreciate the magnitude of the
history of the Triple Crown, but the improbability of his own history,
too.
"This is not supposed to happen," he said, shaking his head at the idea of it all.
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