Spectator sports rarely traumatize us. If they did, they wouldn’t last long as spectator sports. But I was indeed traumatized on August 5th when Maple Leaf Mel fell less than two strides from victory in the Test Stakes, a thoroughbred race in Saratoga Springs, New York. Witnessing the beauty, strength, and speed of a racehorse in full flight has been a joy for most of my 54 years, but to see a 3-year-old filly collapse — crash is the better word — rips every ounce of joy from the experience. And the trauma lingers. (Maple Leaf Mel, having shattered her right foreleg, was euthanized shortly after her fall.)
This year being the 50th anniversary of Secretariat’s Triple Crown — the greatest season any American thoroughbred has ever had — I made plans last spring to visit the resting place of “Big Red” at Claiborne Farm in Paris, Kentucky. In the aftermath of Maple Leaf Mel’s tragic demise, my wife and I plotted the course for the heart of thoroughbred country. The trip would become not just a tribute to the greatest champion “the sport of kings” will ever know, but a tribute to the far too many who leave us way too soon. Champions like Maple Leaf Mel.
With apologies to Babe Ruth, Wayne Gretzky, and Michael Jordan, I believe Secretariat’s 31-length victory in the 1973 Belmont Stakes was the single most dominant athletic performance of the 20th century. He was expected to win. A $100 bet would have earned you 10 bucks. Only four other horses raced for second place. Yet when I watch replays of the race, my eyes get damp as Big Red pulls away … five lengths, 10 lengths, 20. There’s something about seeing unequivocal greatness on the largest of stages that makes you feel part of something beyond human (or equine) reach. This is why Claiborne Farm called to me, why Secretariat — gone for more than three decades — inspires me, somehow, in an active sense.
For those who love horses, the 15-mile drive from Lexington to Paris delivers a distinctive form of oxygen. One farm after another, pastures of a green best appreciated in impressionist art. And a safe distance from the road … barns and stables. Claiborne Farm has been breeding thoroughbreds for more than a century and today occupies 3,000 acres. For merely $100,000, your favorite mare can cozy up to Claiborne’s current star, a 21-year-old stallion named War Front, son of Danzig and grandson of 1964 Kentucky Derby champion Northern Dancer.
Secretariat is one of an astounding six Triple Crown winners (there have only been 13) to have been conceived at Claiborne Farm. His former stall is not much more than 100 square feet, one of 10 in a nondescript white stable a short walk from Claiborne’s visitors center. To stand in that space — with precisely two bales of hay awaiting its current occupant — and consider the giant who once slept there is a mind-leap and somewhat of a statement on the way we humans tend to consider only bigger accommodations better.
Secretariat died on October 14, 1989, victimized by a painful hoof condition called laminitis. He was only 19; not young, but not that old for a horse. A necropsy revealed that Secretariat’s heart weighed more than 20 pounds, twice the size of a typical thoroughbred’s ticker. I love this part of Secretariat’s story, not so much for the physical blessing he utilized in becoming a champion, but for the metaphor it provides all of us humans. A big heart matters, more so than Hollywood looks or a Wall Street bank account.
The great horse was buried in full, and embalmed, royal treatment above the standard (and space-saving) head/heart/hooves of a deceased champion. People leave coins on Secretariat’s tombstone, as you might see at the resting place of a fallen soldier, a human soldier. Me, I waited until those in our tour group left the cemetery, took a picture of the posthumous symbol, and touched the engraved name of the greatest racehorse we’ll ever know. And yes, I thought of Maple Leaf Mel. Sport of kings? Maybe. Sport of heart? Absolutely.
People around the world travel to Memphis every August to salute an icon whose legend has only grown across generations since his death. This is precisely what I did last month in paying my semicentennial respects to Secretariat. I don’t think I’ll ever go back to Claiborne Farm. But I’ll watch the 1973 Belmont Stakes many more times. And I’ll feel a long stride closer to greatness.
Frank Murtaugh is the managing editor of Memphis magazine. He writes the columns “From My Seat” and “Tiger Blue” for the Flyer.