tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69390884915046979222024-03-21T00:13:21.289-05:00GhostsnapperA horse racing photographer's perspective from behind the rail, the backstretch, and the edge of the winner's circle in the greatest sport in the world.Ghostsnapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15031831897418816030noreply@blogger.comBlogger112125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6939088491504697922.post-45137184663447753762016-03-13T10:51:00.001-05:002016-03-13T10:51:48.311-05:00Favorite Photos of 2015<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
For me, 2015 was about moments, days, and memories that will last a lifetime. I hadn't shot this many races since 2010, that crazy year I photographed three Derbies in three weeks, traveled to Saratoga and Monmouth for the first time, and was credentialed for my first Breeders' Cup. All the material I had to comb through made this blog a daunting task, and accounts for its ridiculous tardiness. Yet my favorites photos from 2015 don't sparkle with variety. Most, you can imagine, involve a particular horse. I would apologize for that if the horse was anything but the first Triple Crown winner in thirty-seven years.<br />
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So here, in chronological order, are my ten favorite photos from 2015, without apologies.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCpIvXWYaBfC4o-m1kSVQVAx-U2GVJaw6iryj3YAfIRN4rwW1aVM8EgXuYv4-V8qNeLdtpH_c3pyLzWYTs4VVv0-P0IUiysT8Rr85ygbwCeomN9WSK2yVWIGrH9F3Tx3A9S3MeSH1AazI/s1600/17127307660_a705169eec_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCpIvXWYaBfC4o-m1kSVQVAx-U2GVJaw6iryj3YAfIRN4rwW1aVM8EgXuYv4-V8qNeLdtpH_c3pyLzWYTs4VVv0-P0IUiysT8Rr85ygbwCeomN9WSK2yVWIGrH9F3Tx3A9S3MeSH1AazI/s640/17127307660_a705169eec_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Silver Charm at Old Friends</td></tr>
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As I talked about <a href="http://ghostsnapper.blogspot.com/2015/11/fairytale-ending-how-american-pharoah.html" target="_blank">in my last post</a>, two major things happened in 2015 that brought my racing life full circle. The first of those was finally getting to meet Silver Charm. I'd waited for this moment for eighteen years, not knowing if it would ever happen. I will forever be thankful to his wonderful owners, Bob and Beverly Lewis, for making sure Silver Charm was brought back to the States following his stud duties in Japan. Old Friends is the perfect place for the 1997 Kentucky Derby and Preakness champion to enjoy retirement, and I know there he's in good hands.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_iVCEjzavZsPi9Q-gOI56g2SmKeEo13c2e9sKiDRsRbpUuN6o5sw-DXkYGGyx7GY_M1l2RZwoiunScqrUMxgjGmzBTIzynVnJoKMWKMjiXlvtzz5Wal-IwNY7rEQ6JUkYtPOwZJ1oLFM/s1600/lovelymaria1aSM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_iVCEjzavZsPi9Q-gOI56g2SmKeEo13c2e9sKiDRsRbpUuN6o5sw-DXkYGGyx7GY_M1l2RZwoiunScqrUMxgjGmzBTIzynVnJoKMWKMjiXlvtzz5Wal-IwNY7rEQ6JUkYtPOwZJ1oLFM/s640/lovelymaria1aSM.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lovely Maria and Kerwin Clark win the Kentucky Oaks</td></tr>
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I wasn't going to include this one on my list due to its imperfections, but kept coming back to it. This year, I really got into the idea of documenting backgrounds. I love I got one of Churchill's historic gables here with the winner of the Kentucky Oaks, a race that doesn't get as much national attention, but has been run 141 times. Along with the Derby, it's America's oldest sporting tradition. In his 40-year career, jockey Kerwin Clark had never won a Grade I race before taking the Ashland with Lovely Maria. Here, he's wiping away tears before having his picture taken in front of the twin spires. The emotional resonance of the moment overrides the slightly skewed framing, which I couldn't correct without cropping off something important. It's the story that wins in the end, which is what matters most of all when photographing these events.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdFuoosSiNebqpX_kk8woOGzBOaP9fYuu9KdcaNX121aDPa-c3j8I8s93AjB8PftS6bMTkHjJK2UgOc9cbeLhYjoszyagxxN7PFyGiJ0nTXe7Hu6rP80tEkJXCdlUzELxVsv-o2ve8mF0/s1600/17348054296_0bc090e273_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdFuoosSiNebqpX_kk8woOGzBOaP9fYuu9KdcaNX121aDPa-c3j8I8s93AjB8PftS6bMTkHjJK2UgOc9cbeLhYjoszyagxxN7PFyGiJ0nTXe7Hu6rP80tEkJXCdlUzELxVsv-o2ve8mF0/s640/17348054296_0bc090e273_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">American Pharoah and Victor Espinoza in the winner's circle following the Kentucky Derby.</td></tr>
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The Kentucky Derby winner's circle is not for the faint of heart. Credentialed photographers are given different colored vests that grant access to different areas, and getting a winner's circle vest is a privilege. It's also the first hurdle in the struggle to capture the iconic image of the Derby winner wearing the garland of roses. The winner's circle vest puts you directly in Derby ground zero with about fifty other photographers who are all vying for the same shot. You would think that would make it easy. But what you're contending with is a waning sun, roughly a hundred people who have popped out of nowhere and are bent on getting in front of you, all while you're stranded without a ladder while the navy is trying to corral you into a holding pen with a rope, while the NBC crew blocks literally everything. There is a lot of yelling going on, because half the people are celebrating and half are on a deadline and just need the photo to be set up while precious minutes are ticking away. The roses are gently laid upon the withers of the horse and are there for all of 60 seconds. Then <i>hurryquicktakethephotobeforeitsalloveraaaaaaaaaaaghhhhhhh</i>. Then the horse is led away, and you can finally breathe and stop hitting the person ducking beneath you with your long lens. Commence playing "We Are the Champions" and shouting, "<i>I'm the king of the wooooooorld!</i>" because that's what it feels like once you check your card and see you captured a clean shot.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwHUKl3foorWI6u54G6FkEMIPJ-XGuJvH_EtAoXdmc_SzTSQ90DonwdOhlmmU2pY3NVylUiYG6_574y1ESNnWOwuH9ymEyH61fBIjBJ87xV7_xTemMl7zvhnJOKzjosS8Gct7FbFzmA20/s1600/20478366760_67c29f6f5d_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwHUKl3foorWI6u54G6FkEMIPJ-XGuJvH_EtAoXdmc_SzTSQ90DonwdOhlmmU2pY3NVylUiYG6_574y1ESNnWOwuH9ymEyH61fBIjBJ87xV7_xTemMl7zvhnJOKzjosS8Gct7FbFzmA20/s640/20478366760_67c29f6f5d_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fast Times at the Cumberland County Fair.</td></tr>
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If pressed, I would say this is my favorite photo from 2015. Taken with a remote camera at the Cumberland County Fair in Greenup, Illinois, I placed the camera at the edge of the grass to get the small field tearing around the first turn. Notice the fence on the right side of the photo. That's where the rail ends, meaning the horses could've run right over my camera if they veered off course. The same goes for any human standing in the way. Things are a bit simpler at these county fair races, and I love them dearly. Here's hoping the tradition continues this year.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpxI3qvFb7CevwqYZsiFdGzZ5gvEvaxTit_Jy73mDzZk2Wbqc9e_N4mn4htUGZ3-BZrnntZkmYr9juAn05I19TLi9g_SRC1gWPXLAq66Z7mPAoWzUgNQhHpkq77co8UQ-J5VDAMON7vpU/s1600/19502457764_b204f01f03_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpxI3qvFb7CevwqYZsiFdGzZ5gvEvaxTit_Jy73mDzZk2Wbqc9e_N4mn4htUGZ3-BZrnntZkmYr9juAn05I19TLi9g_SRC1gWPXLAq66Z7mPAoWzUgNQhHpkq77co8UQ-J5VDAMON7vpU/s640/19502457764_b204f01f03_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">American Pharoah, the newly minted Triple Crown winner.</td></tr>
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I didn't get to see American Pharoah again until he blazed into the history books and struck us all dumb with his easy sweep of the Triple Crown, considered one of the toughest tasks to win in all of sports. The husband and I drove to Oceanport, New Jersey three days early to await the star horse's arrival at Monmouth Park the Wednesday before the Haskell. My goal was to get a nice portrait of Pharoah on the backstretch, since I never got one while at Churchill and hadn't been able to attend Stephen Foster night for his homecoming parade. We were the first ones by his barn and waited in the sun for about two hours before he showed up with a police escort and his name <a href="https://flic.kr/p/wEnQXV" target="_blank">emblazoned across the van</a>. Talk about showing up in style! Pharoah stood outside the barn only briefly and got a quick bath before being led into the shed row, where he stopped and posed for his admirers. We stayed for Pharoah's first look at the track the following morning, then jumped in the car and headed back to Saratoga to shoot the Jim Dandy Stakes.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguoHeX1-WLOLDuQPw9tggOE7LtjgwJGqczBt8Gn_f-jSjJB8nXJFFyk8vJW48xe4Q9wif6TLJiqyUEgGTD5crQU2Cx_C58Nyd3d_Tnf3tYBjtAHcW5lXxd0C-igDH89xs8xpxvYfbhpdw/s1600/20236501591_e6e25edb8d_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguoHeX1-WLOLDuQPw9tggOE7LtjgwJGqczBt8Gn_f-jSjJB8nXJFFyk8vJW48xe4Q9wif6TLJiqyUEgGTD5crQU2Cx_C58Nyd3d_Tnf3tYBjtAHcW5lXxd0C-igDH89xs8xpxvYfbhpdw/s640/20236501591_e6e25edb8d_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Texas Red holds off Frosted to win the Jim Dandy at Saratoga.</td></tr>
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It's nearly impossible to choose a single photo from my trip to Saratoga and claim it as my favorite. Somehow, this was as memorable and fun as my last visit in 2010. I got to hang out with some of my favorite members of the horse racing paparazzi in what I consider racing paradise, had great weather (despite one bizarre tornado threat), and shot off my first remotes at the historic track. If I could stay for any race meet anywhere in the world, it would be at the Spa. They even have good food! (Still thinking about that Shake Shack meal after the Jim Dandy, and the tasty salads from Greenhouse Salads, who came to know me by the end of my trip.) Anyway, you never know how remotes are going to turn out, so I was stoked to get a meaningful stakes race with that iconic gabled roof in the background. Thanks to Texas Red and Frosted for not skimming the rail and giving me a nice postcard-perfect frame.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX0wA_wcQE6YGvKHME5FNpO6Rnh9fiJDko_IAEPWrepvCOZyduMFx8v81nF66DbJ0GOhGfhSXfHsju0xOrQ_zIaQH4gCnyOBdHh3zALeQMARouXwDmplM02S_HQloALIiQiL8RGywzhvQ/s1600/7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX0wA_wcQE6YGvKHME5FNpO6Rnh9fiJDko_IAEPWrepvCOZyduMFx8v81nF66DbJ0GOhGfhSXfHsju0xOrQ_zIaQH4gCnyOBdHh3zALeQMARouXwDmplM02S_HQloALIiQiL8RGywzhvQ/s640/7.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bill Murray hands a fan a glass of champagne before the Haskell at Monmouth Park.</td></tr>
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My love for movies rivals my love for horse racing, so I practically lost my mind when I found out comedy legend Bill Murray was going to call "rider's up" for the Haskell. I mean, this is what they mean by worlds colliding. Haskell day was one of the highlights of my year. The day began by startling a roomful of bettors with my wild cheers as I watched Rachel's Valentina crush in her debut and only got better from there. It was another reunion of horse racing's best folk, and I got to hang out with several of my favorite people over the course of the day. Determined to get a photo of Bill Murray, I chickened out when I had the opportunity to meet him, but was satisfied with getting photos of the actor being his very Murray self in the paddock with fans. American Pharoah's jaw-dropping performance afterwards was the cherry on top of a perfect day at the races.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCGBEVludzmm-UdtKG7SsKJc3OTt3lBYlZydv-9xtKG5Wc7Lu_pmcYtbf-oLr0aNWFHcWrTfoVLMvNZer281pTy3mOqCp1Yfd00qaZxfkpfbsVQULYLM6vt1JzsD0ao_cbc9mRkDE7bKQ/s1600/8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCGBEVludzmm-UdtKG7SsKJc3OTt3lBYlZydv-9xtKG5Wc7Lu_pmcYtbf-oLr0aNWFHcWrTfoVLMvNZer281pTy3mOqCp1Yfd00qaZxfkpfbsVQULYLM6vt1JzsD0ao_cbc9mRkDE7bKQ/s640/8.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Pizza Man wins the Arlington Million.</td></tr>
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Arlington Million Day 2015 will go down in infamy as one of the most miserable rainy days I've ever endured at the track. You might look at this photo and assume I'm joking. <a href="https://flic.kr/p/xxfH6N" target="_blank">I assure you, I'm not</a>. The forecast did not call for rain, so nobody prepared with a raincoat or rain boots. By the end of the day, I could not have been more soaked if I'd jumped in a swimming pool. I don't know how my drenched equipment managed to survive. I didn't bother unbagging my remote camera until the deluge passed. Nobody had any reason to believe it would, but just before the headlining race, the storm rolled over and the day transformed. It was as if the sun came out to watch The Pizza Man, our hometown hero, beat an international field on Arlington's biggest day. As the Illinois-bred came charging down the stretch, the crowd went ballistic. Jockey Florent Geroux's face shows it best in this shot. What a horse. What a day.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkLLMp-yi4BH2S-kbb5xi2funuVhgSFe40ceiYGTPn9nQWMPT98hp55Sh2o7bqI0SYfKB7U-5OfgDpUUeHg8zFJYnr05-1KT9Mgxw78et76JwmUUGz6Z0-fo_LmKgonhM5K5nWERDqAL4/s1600/9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkLLMp-yi4BH2S-kbb5xi2funuVhgSFe40ceiYGTPn9nQWMPT98hp55Sh2o7bqI0SYfKB7U-5OfgDpUUeHg8zFJYnr05-1KT9Mgxw78et76JwmUUGz6Z0-fo_LmKgonhM5K5nWERDqAL4/s640/9.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Got Lucky wins the Spinster Stakes over Untapable and Yahilwa.</td></tr>
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I was hindered by yet another quagmire the opening weekend of Keeneland's fall meet. Fortunately, it cleared up for Sunday. The Spinster was slated as the race of the Kentucky Oaks winners, as Untapable was running against Lovely Maria. In the end, Got Lucky upset them all with a furious finish on the outside. This was my trial and error weekend in preparation for the Breeders' Cup, and I was very happy to finally figure out how to balance the harsh light shooting on the outside. (<a href="https://flic.kr/p/zUnhS8" target="_blank">You can view my hand-held shot here.</a>) I have to favor this remote photo, though, as all three finishers are spread out on the track with Keeneland's grandstand in the background. If you're noticing a pattern here, it's clear I'm a sucker for those sprawling grandstand shots.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7LVBDpmVSej_f2tJRwRljglK6ngSb9PVb63NzfsxKABWCqe49Z5qRYPRyCVDbRpKI3G_AfX3ob59HMLHW2T0x4OQGzCAKLT1Laq7xwvK4C4Jpv0N-M-9gVk2db_B5qIUmQ8U07kRHwbY/s1600/americanpharoahclassic1sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7LVBDpmVSej_f2tJRwRljglK6ngSb9PVb63NzfsxKABWCqe49Z5qRYPRyCVDbRpKI3G_AfX3ob59HMLHW2T0x4OQGzCAKLT1Laq7xwvK4C4Jpv0N-M-9gVk2db_B5qIUmQ8U07kRHwbY/s640/americanpharoahclassic1sm.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">American Pharoah wins the first Grand Slam of racing, capping off his career in the Breeders' Cup Classic.</td></tr>
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Where do I begin with this race? Culminating a year of feats we never thought we'd witness, American Pharoah carried us all to dizzying heights and made us believe our traditions were held for a reason. He then went on to forge a legacy of his own, winning the Breeders' Cup Classic, which became racing's first Grand Slam. As he blazed into the twilight, leaving behind a legacy that may never be matched, it was impossible to not be torn with bittersweet emotion. Swept into this wild ride since May, we were left staggering and stunned after it was all over and Keeneland's grandstand cheered their champion one last time. I don't know how I managed to see through my viewfinder for the tears, and when the race was over, I remember not even caring if the shot turned out. But it did, and was published over at SI.com, so I'm kind of happy it worked out.<br />
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/creepy_coyote/albums/72157651300588367" target="_blank"><br /></a>
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/creepy_coyote/albums/72157651300588367" target="_blank">Click here to see my 2015 Flickr album.</a></div>
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Ghostsnapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15031831897418816030noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6939088491504697922.post-15301159884130544482015-11-08T13:26:00.001-06:002015-11-08T15:21:57.369-06:00Fairytale Ending: How American Pharoah Made My Horse Racing Life Come Full Circle<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;">All the signs pointed to American Pharoah winning the Triple Crown.</span><br />
But I was tired of seeing signs. I’d seen signs my entire life. And not once in my thirty-two years had they amounted to anything. In short, I was tired. Tired of getting my hopes up only for them to crash and burn. Tired of putting my life on hold for five weeks because this one horse might be The One. I thought Silver Charm was he. And Real Quiet. And Charismatic. Smarty Jones. Big Brown. California Chrome. On and on. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice… three times… thirteen times? How could I possibly believe this time should be any different?<br />
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Once you stop wanting something, you get it. Trainer Bob Baffert, who guided three horses through their Kentucky Derby and Preakness victories only to fumble the crown and lose it in the Belmont, seemed to be on the same page. He wasn’t even thinking about the Triple Crown this year. A series of life-altering events seemed to have humbled the white-haired rocker of the racing world. He simply wanted to win one more Kentucky Derby. The Crown was recognized for what it was, a nearly impossible task. Something meant for an earlier, worthier time. Not us in these modern times.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Luck, or Fate, began to move late last year.</span> First being American Pharoah, touted then as one of the brightest stars in his 2-year-old class, picked up a foot bruise that kept him from running in the Breeders’ Cup Juvenile and sidelined him for months. He did not make his first start of 2015 until March in the Rebel Stakes, on a sloppy deluge at Oaklawn Park. None of the other horses could stand the off-track, but Pharoah sailed over it. A sign of things to come.<br />
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This year began with a blessing. Last November, America got one of its champions back. That champ being Baffert’s 1997 Kentucky Derby and Preakness winner, Silver Charm. The stallion had spent the better part of his life at stud in Japan. Thanks to an agreement with his owners, the beloved Beverly and recently departed Robert B. Lewis, Silver Charm was to be shipped back to America following the end of his career at stud. So back he came in one piece, happy and healthy, now snowy-white to spend the rest of his days in retirement on a rolling green Thoroughbred retirement farm in Kentucky. Looking a little like the equine counterpart of his trainer, who came to visit him the week before the 2015 Kentucky Derby. So Baffert had his lucky Charm back in the States. (<a href="http://www.usatoday.com/story/sports/horseracing/2015/05/02/the-latest-keep-black-cats-away-from-baffert/26768719/" target="_blank">Black cats be damned.</a>)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2zLx1hhtPEcY7uWlKX5VxlLRbGmc2KdBHXZrPqFpnitx3pzmIinU7Oi6WDc7Q6LgiJZoNTNgGwxFNNCAd7-Pdz-8f8Gn3_bESQTuxtuVNLpF8AJCtBgupuCpquc0JWvewTkkDEHQL4Iw/s1600/baffertsilvercharmrealquiet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2zLx1hhtPEcY7uWlKX5VxlLRbGmc2KdBHXZrPqFpnitx3pzmIinU7Oi6WDc7Q6LgiJZoNTNgGwxFNNCAd7-Pdz-8f8Gn3_bESQTuxtuVNLpF8AJCtBgupuCpquc0JWvewTkkDEHQL4Iw/s1600/baffertsilvercharmrealquiet.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bob Baffert with his back-to-back Kentucky Derby and Preakness winners, Silver Charm and Real Quiet.</td></tr>
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Baffert’s Triple Crown journey and my own will forever be entwined because of Silver Charm. Though I’d watched horse racing since I could remember, Silver Charm was the one that hooked me for life. It was the first time I really got what it meant for a horse to win the Triple Crown. It was, in a way, the beginning of the thirst. I will never forget the slow-mo replay of Free House eyeballing Silver Charm in the stretch of the Preakness. I will never forget how much I wanted to see Bob and Beverly Lewis win the Triple Crown. It would forever harken back to this. Every time a horse won the Derby and Preakness, I would think of that year and the next, when I fell even harder for Real Quiet, another Baffert horse. The one who lost the Crown by a nose. And then in 1999, we went through it all again with Charismatic. It was a lesson in broken hearts. A lesson in the number of ways you could lose the Crown.<br />
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Yet, instead of learning these lessons, it fueled the thirst. It was a bastard product of obsession and yearning. I wanted to see the impossible made possible. I wanted to see an immortal. Really, what I wanted was Secretariat.<br />
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I wouldn’t have appreciated it. Not then. Maybe that’s why the racing gods made us wait. They wanted us to truly appreciate this gift when it came.<br />
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The Wednesday before the 2015 Kentucky Derby, I finally got to meet Silver Charm in person. I fed him carrots and relished every second of his presence. When he was a race horse, I was just a fourteen-year-old girl drooling over every photo of him on the newswire. Now I was in his world, with many thanks to him. That Saturday, I found myself in the center of the media semi-circle as American Pharoah posed for his win photo, roses cascading down his shoulders. Right in front of me, Bob Baffert raised four fingers in honor of his fourth Derby victory. It was too surreal to be true, like a Hollywood movie. He looked straight at my camera. I snapped the picture. My life had come full-circle.<br />
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And that was just the beginning.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I watched the clock</span> as I drove down the Interstate, teeth set as I imagined the horses going into the gate at Pimlico. There was no way I would make it home by post time. I didn’t want to know the outcome of the race, so I put my phone on airplane mode so I could avoid spoilers and watch the recording when I got home. But I was still keenly aware of the post time. I could sense the tension of the crowd, what was on the line, the energy and anxiety of my fellow photographers as the clock ticked down the minutes until another question was answered. Three minutes till post time, I saw a bird fly over the Interstate with something in its claws—a hawk with a snake, I assumed. As the bird flew over the car, I stuttered. I let off the gas. A bald eagle. It was a bald eagle carrying a small tree branch. I looked at the clock. The Preakness was about to go off. I’d never seen a bald eagle in the wild. Not in my entire life. But it was unmistakable.<br />
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It was too odd. Too obvious. No, surely this wasn’t some sign that American Pharoah was going to win the Preakness. It verged on cartoonish. I had no clue at that moment, the racing gods were baptizing Pharoah with the mother of all downpours. That the track at Old Hilltop was being turned to soup. That everything was being handed to the Derby winner on a silver platter. It was just like the eagle—too dramatic, too Hollywood. All it needed was the soundtrack of a howling church choir.<br />
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But it happened anyway. When I finally watched the race, I was sick. Sick because I knew I had little chance of seeing the Belmont Stakes live, let alone in person. There was no getting out of my job of shooting a wedding on June 6th, and this damn horse was going to string along my emotions like all the other ones, only to get my hopes up and let me down. I knew he was going to let me down because everything had been too easy for him. And there were too many signs he was The One.<br />
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It was too obvious. So obvious, I didn’t want to believe it.<br />
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I had a meltdown the week of the Belmont. Mercury was in retrograde. My nerves were at their grating limit. I was sure I would miss the race, and Pharoah would lose, or worse, I would miss the race, and Pharoah would win. My husband, bless him, helped me rig a plan so the day of coverage wouldn’t be a bust. He came up in my car with a laptop and created a hotspot so we could watch the Belmont coverage in my car after I got off work.<br />
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At the wedding, I saw a man dressed in a navy blue suit with a shock of white hair and sunglasses. Minus a yellow tie, he could’ve been Bob Baffert’s stunt double. I shrugged it off. There were tons of tanned men with blue suits and white hair, after all. What mattered was making it home before the race went off. After the wedding, I practically sprinted to my car. The laptop was already playing Belmont coverage in the seat. My husband floored it. We got home in exactly fifty-five minutes, twenty minutes till post time.<br />
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The Goo Goo Dolls were at Belmont, a band that had been at the height of their popularity in the late 90s, when I was in high school and fell so hard for Silver Charm and Real Quiet. When “Slide” played during the coverage, I almost choked. I’ve long believed in the power of music. Something about the melody of “Slide” always soothed me when I was growing up. It felt like a security blanket. Every time I heard it on the radio, I took it as a sign everything was going to be okay. That things would come together. I always thought God spoke through music. <br />
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At what point do we start believing in the signs?<br />
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I thought about the last album I listened to on the way up to shoot the wedding that day. The last song I heard before I turned off the car. It was <a href="https://youtu.be/ZDwotNLyz10" target="_blank">“Kashmir”</a> on Led Zeppelin’s “Physical Graffiti.”<br />
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<i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Oh let the sun beat down upon my face,</i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Stars to fill my dream</i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I am a traveler of both time and space, to</i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Be where I have been</i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>To sit with elders of the gentle race, this</i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>World has seldom seen</i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>They talk of days for which they sit and</i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Wait and all will be revealed.</i>”</div>
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I watched the 2015 Belmont Stakes the same way I watched the 1997 Belmont Stakes: from the comfort of my living room. What was different this time? Tom Durkin, the official announcer of the Triple Crown, had just retired, replaced by Larry Collmus. I had been to Belmont Park three times. I knew the people on the track, shooting at ground zero. I had taken a picture of the Kentucky Derby winner wearing roses at Churchill Downs. I’d witnessed the last collective crush of a broken dream at Belmont. Also, I’d pet Silver Charm.<br />
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And just like that, the spell was broken.<br />
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I don’t remember breathing until American Pharoah reached the middle of the final turn. And then I started to hyperventilate. He wasn’t weakening. Victor Espinoza was sitting like a statue in the irons. He wasn’t cocking the whip. They were cruising, with no sign of slowing down. “Oh my God,” I said between frantic gasps. Somehow, I ended up on my knees in the middle of the living room in front of my TV. As Pharoah rounded the turn into the stretch, sobs started to bubble out of my chest. It was happening. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It was actually happening right before my eyes.<br />
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Frosted gave one last surge at the quarter pole, but Pharoah spurted away from him. Unlike the twelve horses before him who began to falter at this stage. Unlike Spectacular Bid, Pleasant Colony, Alysheba, Sunday Silence, Silver Charm, Real Quiet, Charismatic, War Emblem, Funny Cide, Smarty Jones, Big Brown, and California Chrome, there was nobody coming to catch him. American Pharoah was home free.<br />
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I only saw bits and pieces of him finishing the race. My face dropped into my hands, sobs heaving out of me like I was purging every frustration from the past thirty-seven years. I’d never cried this hard in my life. My dog slinked into the room, surely expecting to find me in my death throes. Larry Collmus’s voice trumpeted above me, “And here it is! The thirty-seven year wait is over! American Pharoah is finally the one!”<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">When you’re in love</span>, almost every song on the radio is telling the story of your life. I have found the same can be said when your wildest dream has come true.<br />
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On my way to pick up a newspaper and champagne, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eBG7P-K-r1Y" target="_blank">Dave Grohl sang</a> on my car radio, “<i>And I wonder if anything would ever feel this good forever. If anything would ever be this good again</i>.” I didn’t leave my car until the song was over, letting the words soak in. Reveling in the finite afterglow of what we’d witnessed. Knowing that no, nothing would probably ever feel like this again. And why should it? How many times in our lives can we be granted our deepest wish? If it happened more than once, it would never feel so potent, so monumental, even life-changing. <br />
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Ghostsnapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15031831897418816030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6939088491504697922.post-84800763476063053912015-01-06T15:17:00.001-06:002015-01-06T15:17:16.014-06:00Favorite Photos of 2014<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
While I didn't make it to as many races as I preferred in 2014, I had the privilege of witnessing plenty of history on the track. 2014 marked the first time I was credentialed for both the Kentucky Derby and Belmont Stakes in the same year. It was my fourth credentialed Derby, my second Belmont Stakes, and a return to the place where it all began for me professionally. While not everything went as planned, I was still so fortunate to capture many memorable moments. A few of which might be my best.<br />
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Without further ado, here are ten of my favorite shots from my year at the races in chronological order.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0aRjOs_OcwjsHZxC4-rwQ9yB9K2nI7Pfu7DffoqW5pGG9p-3kvigIoHqzQp-QZ-7E3lno-m90TqmSeoqEE7ntt1ZD4sO7_S94HoOdcqPZPA4mHa7NF7hG6mg1pwxSmZH_bvsQaKgnijQ/s1600/14093170354_6074c4c7cf_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0aRjOs_OcwjsHZxC4-rwQ9yB9K2nI7Pfu7DffoqW5pGG9p-3kvigIoHqzQp-QZ-7E3lno-m90TqmSeoqEE7ntt1ZD4sO7_S94HoOdcqPZPA4mHa7NF7hG6mg1pwxSmZH_bvsQaKgnijQ/s1600/14093170354_6074c4c7cf_o.jpg" height="425" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kentucky Oaks Victors: Untapable and Rosie Napravnik</td></tr>
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I really couldn't have asked for a luckier moment than the one I got after Rosie guided Untapable to a stellar victory in the Kentucky Oaks. Assigned to the winner's circle, which was held in the traditional brick enclosure attached to the grandstand, I found myself unable to actually fit inside for the swarm of press and connections after the race. (A symptom of too many passes, too little room. Can we go back to the grass next year?) As the lilies were draped over the filly's shoulders, I found a tiny window between a couple photographer's legs and dove in for a low, wide shot. Rosie looked right at me as Untapable picked those elegant hoofs between the crowd. One of my most memorable moments of the year is seeing those feet inches from my own as the Oaks winner strode into the winner's circle.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnhXeJNo4IoRDz_lbdvKWJuvsDt4Ee0WWz8ZPqPRQywUpKjdvzLuhVSVJ31P131Q5weCHDa8kGN_7QvpsQG1WABzKA5aE6rPgbob5qM2_iMlmh7b1uz3YBQ61377elJZBpKTeWHozePpk/s1600/13930403120_fd33eb3fb7_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnhXeJNo4IoRDz_lbdvKWJuvsDt4Ee0WWz8ZPqPRQywUpKjdvzLuhVSVJ31P131Q5weCHDa8kGN_7QvpsQG1WABzKA5aE6rPgbob5qM2_iMlmh7b1uz3YBQ61377elJZBpKTeWHozePpk/s1600/13930403120_fd33eb3fb7_o.jpg" height="640" width="548" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Appropriate Attire Required</td></tr>
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Derby Day is a grand madness, a swirling mass of mayhem that must be embraced for its many-faceted stories. It's impossible to take in everything, but I have disciplined myself to seek out at least one moment each year that encapsulates this spirit. This one was only a few steps from the press area. A single race fan pitched a picnic blanket in the corner next to the entryway for the Jockey Club Suites and surrounded himself with an array of libations. He lined this makeshift nest with empty Derby glasses, eight-packs of soda, kettle corn, and racing programs like an apocalyptic survivalist. Above him reads a sign: "Appropriate Attire Required." If this isn't Derby, I don't know what is.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFhnG6epTEWFHc0tvTE1i0NF-iTwZSnBgu126kClmtNiSXZZYWlpPZqsmIFvBE1PrxN0qT6t2LF0IAEjTcfUBoQrF_97sd0o4qkQO6LQ6ppQVHaC-hCbr1UZsPSmrAIPgwglNrJ2kU0mQ/s1600/14120221953_4a13d92c39_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFhnG6epTEWFHc0tvTE1i0NF-iTwZSnBgu126kClmtNiSXZZYWlpPZqsmIFvBE1PrxN0qT6t2LF0IAEjTcfUBoQrF_97sd0o4qkQO6LQ6ppQVHaC-hCbr1UZsPSmrAIPgwglNrJ2kU0mQ/s1600/14120221953_4a13d92c39_o.jpg" height="424" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">California Chrome Wins the Kentucky Derby</td></tr>
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If there's anything I learned this year, it's never take a win shot for granted. You never know what you're going to get at the finish line, and Victor Espinoza helped make this shot an instant favorite. Really, what more could you ask for in a Kentucky Derby photo? The jockey is actually celebrating, and the winner is resplendent. I'm just grateful I didn't find a way to mess up this perfect moment. I also have a frame where all four of Chrome's feet are off the ground, but I prefer the full-out stride. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJMOrxzjQz_fumiYIB0L_PdTOc3SIZHqumJtcxZ4_jB2UMTgIt3_oWG8OgcqBpdWfJsiIXx5R7tJUcu1sUnbI0aplHDlvWKxvLhHY789EFPY91cV64VONF8EFOuJGvcardYpn9kiTMRQw/s1600/14357353291_e17bb5117b_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJMOrxzjQz_fumiYIB0L_PdTOc3SIZHqumJtcxZ4_jB2UMTgIt3_oWG8OgcqBpdWfJsiIXx5R7tJUcu1sUnbI0aplHDlvWKxvLhHY789EFPY91cV64VONF8EFOuJGvcardYpn9kiTMRQw/s1600/14357353291_e17bb5117b_o.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Commissioner Shakes It Like a Polaroid</td></tr>
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Walking from one side of Belmont's backstretch to the other with camera equipment in tow made me feel like Sam carrying Frodo up Mount Doom to dispose of a certain ring. So when I found a barn that lo and behold, actually had Belmont contenders out and about that you could adequately see, I felt like I hit the jackpot. As it happened, Pletcher's string was being bathed in the most gorgeous lighting. I was so enamored with it, another of my favorite shots was taken in the exact same spot in that short window, Princess of Sylmar.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2dvefo7t8vFGkidOFXRw_P-MF3AMxWrpJt38jCjq3kGvTbtByWuCRhvGOAaS1Nkie6zFQtB7d0EepYAOxewEPJPAWoXnC9LsZwekvBiobk3ItTAv5kCiowAtoICK4vTPhR3Ti3kNIUY8/s1600/14359182852_2bb1c641b6_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2dvefo7t8vFGkidOFXRw_P-MF3AMxWrpJt38jCjq3kGvTbtByWuCRhvGOAaS1Nkie6zFQtB7d0EepYAOxewEPJPAWoXnC9LsZwekvBiobk3ItTAv5kCiowAtoICK4vTPhR3Ti3kNIUY8/s1600/14359182852_2bb1c641b6_o.jpg" height="640" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Princess of Sylmar</td></tr>
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The 2013 Kentucky Oaks winner was one of many stars I got to see during my trip to New York. Is there anything as pretty as a champion filly on a spring morning?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV8mbIffxqpsDY4WOhnqdG6__hSYGizUizL-CW6nkBJoCG-pG46hBZYwv1eu3gLKbR3vtdN97LzcGwYpIQ9-pZelOalvWSarhIjBe3SX6D8R3bDFy7BcDdPx8TOR_vLpH4AQLl-LMirBg/s1600/14174270178_308027a7d2_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV8mbIffxqpsDY4WOhnqdG6__hSYGizUizL-CW6nkBJoCG-pG46hBZYwv1eu3gLKbR3vtdN97LzcGwYpIQ9-pZelOalvWSarhIjBe3SX6D8R3bDFy7BcDdPx8TOR_vLpH4AQLl-LMirBg/s1600/14174270178_308027a7d2_o.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's Chrome's World. We're All Just Living In It.</td></tr>
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Make no mistake, I traveled to New York with the hopes I would see something that's never been accomplished in my lifetime. I wanted to see a horse win the Triple Crown. Even though I was well aware the odds were stacked against Chrome, it had been my dream to witness a Triple Crown attempt in person. I'm not going to lie; I had a exhausting, stressful trip. I didn't sleep the first night at all, and I don't function without sleep. Chrome went out at a punishing hour each morning before most of the other Belmont contenders (save Tonalist), and it did me in. Over the course of a few days, I shot pretty much the same galloping pictures as everybody else. But the morning before the Belmont, I heard Chrome was schooling in the paddock, and took off to the chute to see if I could get anything on his return. I missed him inside the paddock, and the horse paparazzi were parked outside the tunnel like they were waiting for a hoofed Leonardo DiCaprio. Again I found myself with nowhere else to go, so I ducked in a wedge between long lenses and shot from below. When finally the big horse came out of the paddock, he stood at the mouth of the tunnel and surveyed the task before him. Shutters snapped frantically, but he took everything in stride as his exercise rider smiled and patted him on his coppery neck. Chrome eyeballed me as they took off onto the track. This was the shot that made all those tortured mornings worth it for me, just a portrait of the golden boy with an impossible task hovering overhead.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMwGuW7Uq0uU18avjX7995LmdUx2lsjX03pZU1DWfmcJ5mdzGdMxBplz359fKW2cD07vZ5nHkHulspcrLWvgEKLEQ1YgxS5Dz_Q9IFcCEdFrKyI52HeQoKB5mxMwDyEimYU15z36ESfMA/s1600/14412403872_d2dc7aa102_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMwGuW7Uq0uU18avjX7995LmdUx2lsjX03pZU1DWfmcJ5mdzGdMxBplz359fKW2cD07vZ5nHkHulspcrLWvgEKLEQ1YgxS5Dz_Q9IFcCEdFrKyI52HeQoKB5mxMwDyEimYU15z36ESfMA/s1600/14412403872_d2dc7aa102_o.jpg" height="424" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tonalist Before the Belmont</td></tr>
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I had the worst luck I've ever had as a photographer on Belmont Day. Due to equipment malfunction, my camera failed to write the images I was shooting onto my memory card for several races, including the Belmont Stakes. Later, I found out the contacts on my rental equipment were dirty. I was pretty much in shambles by the end of the day. I'd carried two cameras with me all day long, so it was not a total loss. Just the end of the races! For this shot, I put myself in a specific location at the edge of the tunnel to get a picture of California Chrome walking onto the track for his date with destiny. Unfortunately, his handlers blocked him, and the shot didn't turn out as I'd envisioned. It did, however, work for the eventual spoiler, Tonalist. Take a look at Joel Rosario giving the thumbs-up. He knew what was about to go down. Too bad the rest of us didn't.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4s3yJMs7F9dCODQ-sH9RTnHJK9OlRU01eNqAOzPvB8fWLSY5HZNbp4hEfd64BW-AR9N7mVfjkIP_0wOz_F-OtDzAWdvkyVplXZ1061LDPTAgOFxTCFErC2L8pcAWDqJqI9pTEyJgLjHQ/s1600/14542635804_ceeb00cf7b_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4s3yJMs7F9dCODQ-sH9RTnHJK9OlRU01eNqAOzPvB8fWLSY5HZNbp4hEfd64BW-AR9N7mVfjkIP_0wOz_F-OtDzAWdvkyVplXZ1061LDPTAgOFxTCFErC2L8pcAWDqJqI9pTEyJgLjHQ/s1600/14542635804_ceeb00cf7b_o.jpg" height="640" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tapiture</td></tr>
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I have this thing where I want to make every horse portrait look like an oil painting, because any horse naturally lends itself to the medium. They're just freaking gorgeous animals. Add sweat, grit, and flared nostrils, and you have yourself a portrait of the equine heart. After winning the Matt Winn Stakes at Churchill Downs, Tapiture threw me a look before he stepped out of the winner's circle. What a beautiful boy.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNTLIeyCwIj5RymfSYnsiQ0taULgC0OkHFuGHbefqW6JGvrfiaM01cfgdBPYtm2dGhnbv_z-fmbN65T6u7y_5eMOfgeoa8ACd1C7AcFC5kff7NqOcjFHhbgsQVnr6tSWxpzpsCI6HlHd4/s1600/14591044969_c78ecbdf91_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNTLIeyCwIj5RymfSYnsiQ0taULgC0OkHFuGHbefqW6JGvrfiaM01cfgdBPYtm2dGhnbv_z-fmbN65T6u7y_5eMOfgeoa8ACd1C7AcFC5kff7NqOcjFHhbgsQVnr6tSWxpzpsCI6HlHd4/s1600/14591044969_c78ecbdf91_o.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Living Carousel</td></tr>
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One of my new favorite things is to shoot the county fair races. To be honest, they're kind of hairy, but they make for some fantastic subject matter. This was the first race I shot at the Clark County Fair in the small town of Marshall, Illinois. Here I was standing on the grass at the clubhouse turn, and the number four decided to take flight. He proceeded to charge onto the grass just past me before he rounded back out onto the track. Behind us (I was standing next to the ambulance crew) was a shallow fence and a street, so everyone felt pretty lucky to stay out of his path. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnnaeXm19hZ8VPJQOZPeSGpCwGp0S_GdcRM37STTaZqOWdp5diconJNYIZdKmDyxZqN_drZ6PzIYJc-NAMocXVMB6Ea4ditB6KDiT3GyiSATKLSNAqaZGkScADgezhJcmeA7shSZ5ld6E/s1600/15906888121_660d1f159e_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnnaeXm19hZ8VPJQOZPeSGpCwGp0S_GdcRM37STTaZqOWdp5diconJNYIZdKmDyxZqN_drZ6PzIYJc-NAMocXVMB6Ea4ditB6KDiT3GyiSATKLSNAqaZGkScADgezhJcmeA7shSZ5ld6E/s1600/15906888121_660d1f159e_o.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">El Kabeir Wins the Kentucky Jockey Club Stakes</td></tr>
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Because I rarely get a chance to practice with my remote camera, I still get excited anytime something comes out of it. I only use one, so I have a single chance to make it work. I got a new camera this year, so I now put my Nikon D700 under the rail for remotes, and the quality is a jump up from years past. This race took place on Clark Handicap Day in November, under the frosty lights. I still can't believe I didn't cut off El Kabeir on the inside. Thanks for being just one path off the rail, buddy. Good luck to you in 2015!</div>
Ghostsnapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15031831897418816030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6939088491504697922.post-58527543335231574812014-07-11T10:16:00.001-05:002014-07-11T10:16:40.757-05:00A day at the races, county fair style.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLdHwBM6klUoRmHmSOvzd_jjofTA7Dq7f0GpcYJ2rkDYm3RA5qYnDOnV_xy_EtlYkRJWxo5zT5qPPIJXbHHIXTFHCRmqjO1TxJhaCiuoP1UfJsEFGaEdy8d-q8KK8e3dCAfCKKts1c8xc/s1600/9273105572_f9b24a52d8_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLdHwBM6klUoRmHmSOvzd_jjofTA7Dq7f0GpcYJ2rkDYm3RA5qYnDOnV_xy_EtlYkRJWxo5zT5qPPIJXbHHIXTFHCRmqjO1TxJhaCiuoP1UfJsEFGaEdy8d-q8KK8e3dCAfCKKts1c8xc/s1600/9273105572_f9b24a52d8_o.jpg" height="425" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Horses break at the 2013 Martinsville Agricultural Fair.</td></tr>
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The aroma of corn dogs and funnel cakes wafts through the air as the horses are loaded into the gate. A tall, oversized man in overalls approaches from behind and takes a rope between his hands. As the horses settle into silent coils, the man suddenly jerks on the rope, bringing it down between his knees, and the gates spring open with a bang. All at once, the horses leap into the air. There are only four or five of them, and none of them could give California Chrome a run for his money, but we are a long way from the Kentucky Derby here.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJSQaSVZ9gLEsRykbFgsXFo8hrVWIJhio4G56YWA5U0Sf1Kpstek-dfGB16W2BcRNwp1TXRh8_xoAsjKwHn8is2G6aepfuw59PjN7LQoF7vlpKSIBrD-TdDPDYTyzJu_kTNsF_Z9QONdA/s1600/9273311402_f9110db952_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJSQaSVZ9gLEsRykbFgsXFo8hrVWIJhio4G56YWA5U0Sf1Kpstek-dfGB16W2BcRNwp1TXRh8_xoAsjKwHn8is2G6aepfuw59PjN7LQoF7vlpKSIBrD-TdDPDYTyzJu_kTNsF_Z9QONdA/s1600/9273311402_f9110db952_o.jpg" height="427" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Schwarzkoph leads the field the first time by. Martinsville Agricultural Fair, 2013.</td></tr>
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The ground is hard, like packed concrete, and it leaves a dust cloud trailing behind the field as they thunder past the carousel and the open-air grandstand to the whoops and hollers of a small afternoon crowd. There is no room for fickle competition, no place for plodders or tender feet. The track is a bull ring, and the pace is surely erring on suicidal, though no one is keeping time. There are no odds, no wagering, either. People only come to watch, and perhaps claim a t-shirt if their winning pick is pulled out of a Styrofoam cup. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXkdwTq69cXXaQ8D4LqpKqMLeC0_2qY16AixP1o96rOWeoOo5nn6Hg3vfjcSGd_0gCHRtjDBYil_5oxPYtx3zjaULn_zvg4juGR9hLsKqp1z7iHHxiGcGhCBBkxwdiwzzLQoTnVGARcjQ/s1600/14223437574_d8817aae27_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXkdwTq69cXXaQ8D4LqpKqMLeC0_2qY16AixP1o96rOWeoOo5nn6Hg3vfjcSGd_0gCHRtjDBYil_5oxPYtx3zjaULn_zvg4juGR9hLsKqp1z7iHHxiGcGhCBBkxwdiwzzLQoTnVGARcjQ/s1600/14223437574_d8817aae27_o.jpg" height="424" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Horses round the clubhouse turn at the Cumberland County Fair in Greenup.</td></tr>
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The leader is tiring now, his legs wobbling after Quarter Horsing to the first turn, and he gives up his advantage to his challengers on the turn for home. By this point, the rest of the horses are more or less cooked in different degrees. Now it’s a jock’s race. Two of them hook up in the lane, one of them wearing the traditional jockey’s garb of white pants and black silks; the other is wearing blue jeans and a motorcycle helmet. You would be able to hear them yelling if the crowd wasn’t on their feet, calling for their charge to come home first. It’s close, and tough to call—the finish line is painted on the concrete stage in the infield—but the man at the microphone consults with the race caller in the bird’s nest at the top of the grandstand, and they come to an agreement. The winner is decreed, and the horse gallops back to have his picture taken with the fair queen.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO2KI_QiC6LFsuWLdg0JIIdwuMcFJkFIHf_1V5WSkT_HnZVYI0LqbFkzaH_8pbHN-jEioOGsZXADryRvJMbGGFmP6rmDfn9vuMVn3SOuvF-Nb_D1lLXJUOoVlDoNEwVE9RpxvWX2ODfSg/s1600/9658452670_eed9885a98_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO2KI_QiC6LFsuWLdg0JIIdwuMcFJkFIHf_1V5WSkT_HnZVYI0LqbFkzaH_8pbHN-jEioOGsZXADryRvJMbGGFmP6rmDfn9vuMVn3SOuvF-Nb_D1lLXJUOoVlDoNEwVE9RpxvWX2ODfSg/s1600/9658452670_eed9885a98_o.jpg" height="424" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bushler and Paddle Wheel Mary hook up at the 2013 Effingham County Fair in Altamont, IL.</td></tr>
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All of this makes for quite an exciting day in Martinsville, Illinois. The Illinois County Fair Circuit makes six stops over the course of the summer, beginning in June at McLeansboro and ending in August at Pana. The meet is mainly for state-bred Thoroughbreds, though there’s usually one Quarter Horse race on the card, as well as an all-breed “pony” race, and if you’re lucky, one for mules. The Thoroughbreds can compete in the Old National Road Derby, a tournament of three races, like a county fair Triple Crown. The first leg is at the Martinsville Agricultural Fair, the second at the Clark County Fair in Marshall, and the third is in Greenup at the Cumberland County Fair. The winner of two legs gets a bonus of $600, and if the same horse should win all three, he gets $1,200.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg592wZFvbtkmDxg6RtdOIeWocUuAAmZRL__xc4GXmH6CBYNFWWluk_JxbC_domTHYRRaQUxkjNgkvG7TgJ76A8ha6306EYkuhLisQCBksi_vWT_Iyo-tLSUSBqz6gBptI0fvu3TRau_U0/s1600/9496129451_60585767b7_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg592wZFvbtkmDxg6RtdOIeWocUuAAmZRL__xc4GXmH6CBYNFWWluk_JxbC_domTHYRRaQUxkjNgkvG7TgJ76A8ha6306EYkuhLisQCBksi_vWT_Iyo-tLSUSBqz6gBptI0fvu3TRau_U0/s1600/9496129451_60585767b7_o.jpg" height="424" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Schwarzkoph, with Carl Dodd up, and Extrella Royal Rap and Noah Cruz round the final turn at the Effingham Co Fair.</td></tr>
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If you’re only interested in top-class Thoroughbred racing, this is not the place for you. These horses will never see Churchill Downs, Saratoga, or Santa Anita. Most of the horses are home-bred and home-trained. A couple might be ridden by both. But the fair circuit isn’t about knocking heads with the country’s best horses. It’s about enjoying a small-town summer fair and simply watching the races. (And, God willing, sipping on a lemon shake-up.) There are prizes for the winners, even trophies, but it boils down to the most fundamental, age-old adage:<br />
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“My horse is faster than yours.”<br />
“Oh really? Prove it.” <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyYjYn0CJUB44osN0NV8RDiWHqYRNW1QRI0MfMDknt85fpkHF9Fz2_BykJ9-kHuv-QKKyBOWOZrUxyafe9c9icRB5BFw_cktzGZpAhcsYq0ZG3Gz-gnkBtVscs2tps6MQKrEMbzqumK80/s1600/9273470998_c88f1b3b45_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyYjYn0CJUB44osN0NV8RDiWHqYRNW1QRI0MfMDknt85fpkHF9Fz2_BykJ9-kHuv-QKKyBOWOZrUxyafe9c9icRB5BFw_cktzGZpAhcsYq0ZG3Gz-gnkBtVscs2tps6MQKrEMbzqumK80/s1600/9273470998_c88f1b3b45_o.jpg" height="424" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Scenic farms provide the backdrop at the Martinsville Agricultural Fair.</td></tr>
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The Martinsville Agricultural Fair races run today, July 11th starting at 1pm. For more dates and times, click on the link below.</div>
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<a href="http://www.agr.state.il.us/HorseRace/cfraceschedule.pdf" target="_blank">See the county fair circuit schedule and rules and conditions for Illinois horsemen here.</a></div>
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<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/creepy_coyote/sets/72157635221098513/" target="_blank">Click here to see more photos from last year's Illinois County Fair circuit. </a></div>
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Ghostsnapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15031831897418816030noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6939088491504697922.post-44621061401179957442014-06-13T17:37:00.001-05:002014-06-13T17:37:10.850-05:00This was supposed to be a recap of my trip to the Belmont Stakes, but it turned into something else. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzAc4fgHhUACqpPMnN0Jg-j9RTAeAuL0Co6Doui-GgZnUMulZGVbLM7Xtpm9mw8kRwe7rC37d89BKOAs1Z9jNRpswbmXvebZpV1TyJKlXhCSnJvOqTTmnXhVXGvmhPDYfZOZ1Qeb6IfCQ/s1600/californiachrome227SM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzAc4fgHhUACqpPMnN0Jg-j9RTAeAuL0Co6Doui-GgZnUMulZGVbLM7Xtpm9mw8kRwe7rC37d89BKOAs1Z9jNRpswbmXvebZpV1TyJKlXhCSnJvOqTTmnXhVXGvmhPDYfZOZ1Qeb6IfCQ/s1600/californiachrome227SM.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
I embarked on a week-long trip to cover the Belmont Stakes and California Chrome’s shot at Triple Crown immortality knowing he was probably going to lose.<br />
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Pardon my rationalism (or pessimism, as some may see it). But as much as I love that flashy chestnut with the big white blaze and four white stockings, there was little to convince me that out of all of the last three decades’ attempts at Triple Crowns, this would be the one. That he was more worthy than Real Quiet, more tenacious than Silver Charm, more favored than Funny Cide or Smarty Jones, or <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2014/06/07/sports/belmont-stakes-twelve-triple-crown-contenders.html?_r=0" target="_blank">luckier than Spectacular Bid</a>.<br />
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See, this may be the Chinese Year of the Horse, but it has been far from a banner year for horse racing. More equine casualties have rocked 2014 than its fair share, from the valiant Breeders’ Cup champion St Nicholas Abbey to most recently, Derby wiseguy horse Intense Holiday. And although this year’s Kentucky Derby felt like some kind of golden miracle when the favorite pulled away to a decisive win, and the Preakness was akin to outlasting a relay race of foes, I knew too well the challenge that lay before him in the Belmont. Indeed, so did we all.<br />
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Deep down, I felt Chrome’s hourglass of good fortune had drained its final sands. You can only have so much of it, and win streaks usually only last with careful handling.<br />
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But let me be clear. Some people think the dates of the Triple Crown’s three races need to be moved to make the feat more attainable. I scoff at this, because changing it won’t make it any easier. Sure, more time in between races will give the Derby winner a longer break and more time to prepare, but it will also give the competition more time to regroup. The Triple Crown is about a single horse being at a level above the competition and being fit with divine providence. The thing about horses is they can only maintain their peak, not to mention luck, for so long. Some may peak early, before the Derby, and when the rest of their crop catch up, they level out in mediocrity. Some horses might not run in the Derby because it’s too early for them to run against heavy competition, so they wait for the Belmont in June.<br />
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The variables being thrown at a single race horse are infinite. When it comes down to it, the Triple Crown isn’t meant to be easy. Horses aren’t machines. Well, there might have been one, but even Secretariat lost a few during his legendary campaign; everyone seems to forget he finished third in his last start before the Derby. For Chrome and his record, it was simply time for his streak to end.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Iod9DMmqsas8ugiYJRr8v501xiJu4IxkxaBcphcCTXrFTXqXvx4o4bXhvuzV2QjSrvURf63Qy3AuGfL5RZXiXNLJkUxPrf8N-F-OnLsNP3I3l-nuBjLxT-6MC6uRNLusqqkQtV9-ptU/s1600/californiachrome222SM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Iod9DMmqsas8ugiYJRr8v501xiJu4IxkxaBcphcCTXrFTXqXvx4o4bXhvuzV2QjSrvURf63Qy3AuGfL5RZXiXNLJkUxPrf8N-F-OnLsNP3I3l-nuBjLxT-6MC6uRNLusqqkQtV9-ptU/s1600/californiachrome222SM.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
And you know what? That’s fine. Because he’s done enough. He’s done more than we can rightly ask for. <br />
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Horses are miraculous creatures. They carry our hopes, they emulate our dreams, they give everything they have for us. But with this gift comes a price. This sport of ours is about the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. Woe be the person who gives a horse their heart, because they will shatter it. Every single time. It might not be on the track. It could be the day they retire. Or they day they draw their last breath on a rolling green hill some thirty years after they’ve crossed their last finish line. But it will happen.<br />
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Yet we keep coming back. Because those who know what it’s like to have your heart carried by a horse knows no greater thrill. At the end of the day, it’s about them doing for us what we cannot. Whether it be an underdog winning against the odds, or maintaining a perfect record, or simply clenching that one day in your life when everything goes exactly right. It’s adoring the creature that fights her guts out, that refuses to give up, even if she misses. If only we could be just like them.<br />
<br />
I love California Chrome even more after the Belmont Stakes. For one thing, he’s the first Triple Crown hopeful to finish the race since Smarty Jones in 2004, and lost by only 1 ¾ lengths. He ran every race, and gave us everything he had, even with a gouged foot. In a sense, he’s a throwback horse for simply doing that much. His incredible blue collar story notwithstanding, California Chrome is a dream horse. It’s been a privilege to pin my hopes to his saddle and be a part of the ride. If we are lucky enough to see him race again, I’ll be first in line to lend him my patchwork heart. And when he eventually breaks it again, I won’t adore him any less.<br />
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</div>
Ghostsnapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15031831897418816030noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6939088491504697922.post-19817180884275194802014-05-24T20:38:00.000-05:002014-05-24T20:38:06.833-05:00Favorite Photos from 2013<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Okay, so I have a reasonable excuse for why this post is so tardy. Until last week, I didn't actually have all of my racing photos from 2013 edited. That's right--there were pictures from an entire race day that had never seen the light of day until just now. I do apologize to the masses starving for my photos from the Cumberland County Fair. Being a professional photographer can sometimes mean putting "fun" photos on the back-burner for months at a time.<br />
<br />
I shot more races than usual last year, mostly due to the fact I discovered Thoroughbred racing at local Illinois county fairs. These small-time races made for a ton of fun, and I came away with a deep affection for the fair circuit. So much so, don't be surprised if they get their own post as a preview for this summer.<br />
<br />
Anyway! Without further ado, here's a look back at my favorite racing pictures from 2013. It was a pretty good year.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Ob4lU6zALSif4muhlIOM6nm-lMDXtbanrw4qrTnsnRRrv529vcWRLBxjz5igaNuOS_ArzUMEIQToYc_9UeN3CnGohGgbaBIvrmNz5ab6Md9uT88aN4RoQ5yeneZ1hgvCulC3ZYYdXV8/s1600/2013r01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Ob4lU6zALSif4muhlIOM6nm-lMDXtbanrw4qrTnsnRRrv529vcWRLBxjz5igaNuOS_ArzUMEIQToYc_9UeN3CnGohGgbaBIvrmNz5ab6Md9uT88aN4RoQ5yeneZ1hgvCulC3ZYYdXV8/s1600/2013r01.jpg" height="640" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Ooh. That's the spot."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<a name='more'></a>Here is Point of Entry being a total dork on the Keeneland backstretch, using a bale of hay to scratch his head. Point of Entry scored some major sentimental points with me after I visited him for the first time at his barn. Before this, I thought of him as the lean, mean rival of Animal Kingdom. This is the moment he made me melt. Even monster athletes are goofballs, too.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGMIsOkld_YdNOR66u04Lm8_JsIRf0fTQoLqWB1ttu1a2_Jyi6TqGQCznvAWzS2XL5K1nZBUcitBpyqrj0CQGeEd3MXY4z9HTCTN5EY-08vfEhyY5PuIBD7eJXYsEC6ytUu8DQpMNNXtE/s1600/2013r02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGMIsOkld_YdNOR66u04Lm8_JsIRf0fTQoLqWB1ttu1a2_Jyi6TqGQCznvAWzS2XL5K1nZBUcitBpyqrj0CQGeEd3MXY4z9HTCTN5EY-08vfEhyY5PuIBD7eJXYsEC6ytUu8DQpMNNXtE/s1600/2013r02.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Make way for the Derby winners."</td></tr>
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I can't say this is a sight I, or anyone else, will ever see again: two Kentucky Derby winners being escorted through the main walking area of the paddock by policemen. Talk about a royal entourage. 2003 winner Funny Cide was visiting from the Hall of Champions, where he resides at the Kentucky Horse Park in Lexington, and 2009 winner Mine That Bird was taking a vacation from him home in New Mexico. The two champs took up residence at the Kentucky Derby museum amidst the Derby festivities and created quite the stir as they paraded in the paddock and greeted fans at the stables.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-6iuLd_vv4A_qW4PPZ-J8WkFQw8CdbGFPRWrwBXSNQNIIkHXMP_1D67STmRNRV3Qz7L5oo-eZH-jJ-pdlAarUw2YGSJ9YTafL4Aj4rP0XKnXsaKzmVW97fZiwAVdz1qyPC3pmLPvYGJs/s1600/2013r03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-6iuLd_vv4A_qW4PPZ-J8WkFQw8CdbGFPRWrwBXSNQNIIkHXMP_1D67STmRNRV3Qz7L5oo-eZH-jJ-pdlAarUw2YGSJ9YTafL4Aj4rP0XKnXsaKzmVW97fZiwAVdz1qyPC3pmLPvYGJs/s1600/2013r03.jpg" height="640" width="483" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"A kiss for Princess of Sylmar."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Here's owner Ed Stanco planting a kiss on his filly after her gritty victory in the Kentucky Oaks. After taking pictures of them on the turf winner's circle, I got caught up in the connections' victory parade to the press conference. A couple of young guys threw the garland of lilies over their shoulders and cheered down the tunnel, "Best three-year-old filly in the <i>world</i>!" It was impossible to keep from floating off their victory high. One of my favorite group of winners ever.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNn4mpwDeAwnh03FFV1_T2OZtZOtYK65uoy6BTN_MyZsUFLeGnyHZK5vGdhlYaKvXC6-9A5GAYfo2Hw1NBsRegYeWHElbV8jvq8eGO74hV28VhqmyUNK6CGv46xozvQ9E5Dpej7F-jgGY/s1600/2013r04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNn4mpwDeAwnh03FFV1_T2OZtZOtYK65uoy6BTN_MyZsUFLeGnyHZK5vGdhlYaKvXC6-9A5GAYfo2Hw1NBsRegYeWHElbV8jvq8eGO74hV28VhqmyUNK6CGv46xozvQ9E5Dpej7F-jgGY/s1600/2013r04.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Postcards from the Kentucky Derby: Finding a Dry Spot."</td></tr>
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It rained a lot on Kentucky Derby day 2013. A soaking, clearing rain that drove out the fickle photographers who only covered races on big days like this. My raincoat croaked and I had to borrow a dry shirt from my boss before half the day was through. But it was awesome. I made a trek to the infield to see how the depraved masses were coping with the muck and mire, and on the way stumbled across these two members of the band hunkering in a tuba chest in an attempt to escape the elements. These are the images that make the Derby the wonderful circus it is. This was a Derby day I will always remember. Just before one of the turf races, I stood looking at the stuffed grandstands with the biggest smile on my face. It was one of those rare moments when you stop and appreciate the fact the fact you're exactly where you belong, and you couldn't possibly be happier.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuultS01e4A4MhdEZ01iLIiv6Ab2WHkbPLqFArzgZjT6VQS6buoFpmiRt7pedAS5GDLZWy1uUfo-sS-2C20uljxmnP3I2UXPaPYYMdrSBbi0Eg77A6fmTtaROJ8IqP37D1aYJY3QcCnj4/s1600/2013r05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuultS01e4A4MhdEZ01iLIiv6Ab2WHkbPLqFArzgZjT6VQS6buoFpmiRt7pedAS5GDLZWy1uUfo-sS-2C20uljxmnP3I2UXPaPYYMdrSBbi0Eg77A6fmTtaROJ8IqP37D1aYJY3QcCnj4/s1600/2013r05.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Orb gets his roses."</td></tr>
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Until 2013, I'd never come close to seeing the Kentucky Derby winner in his garland of roses. You have to get lucky, and some years, you only get the opportunity if you're one of the few photographers wearing a winner's circle vest. This was the first year I was given the opportunity to shoot the winner's circle, and I took on the mission like it was decreed from the racing gods. For a tense moment, I thought I wasn't going to get the shot. Not only do you have to stay corralled behind a rope held by the National Guard (seriously), you have to get lucky enough the NBC cameramen happen to step out of your line of vision. There was a break in the crowd, and then I got this moment. I took in my breath and held it as the shutter fired. If all of your dreams could be developed in an image, it might look just like this. Best Kentucky Derby ever.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxJ8Yy4W9DOdiowaVIjNqkuzncQmYTe0Nw9RzGeH4E38aNlNaVLnQ2aCJk0eYuLhhXYB6UgKxB9bRharYL1wODxgLwbeG369J4ABceabz1kHuGbxmFQ7EegynOumaDPbygSKYjK3-vQjY/s1600/2013r06.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxJ8Yy4W9DOdiowaVIjNqkuzncQmYTe0Nw9RzGeH4E38aNlNaVLnQ2aCJk0eYuLhhXYB6UgKxB9bRharYL1wODxgLwbeG369J4ABceabz1kHuGbxmFQ7EegynOumaDPbygSKYjK3-vQjY/s1600/2013r06.jpg" height="640" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Royal Delta"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Hard to believe, but I'd never seen Royal Delta race in person before she came to Louisville to run on the undercard of the 2013 Stephen Foster. I'd missed the 2012 edition of Foster Day, so I was hoping she would turn in a similar winning performance in the Fleur de Lis for me this year. Unfortunately, that didn't end up happening, as she was upset by Funny Proposition. At least I was able to get a nice head shot before she was retired. What a gorgeous gal.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJJJn-B6vGvT9eHaOKIEqi5BU6kmHmrcGsstKBWPn50xHmXdgrnouGu92g8T19_-S1en3Nq74z4W45Ko1i0pWQEd-v7rOEx_URLbq1GCdI_Amw5MzETwF3e-cdQ_wBPnT7IQy6rLzNzbk/s1600/2013r07.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJJJn-B6vGvT9eHaOKIEqi5BU6kmHmrcGsstKBWPn50xHmXdgrnouGu92g8T19_-S1en3Nq74z4W45Ko1i0pWQEd-v7rOEx_URLbq1GCdI_Amw5MzETwF3e-cdQ_wBPnT7IQy6rLzNzbk/s1600/2013r07.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Valiant Boy SBFAR wins the PUAE Cup"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Much to my excitement, Churchill Downs carded a Grade I Arabian race to run at night after the Stephen Foster. How many opportunities do you get to shoot Arabian races? At Churchill Downs? At night? This was a first for me, and I was determined to catch a decent remote of it. Well, this one could not have gone down any better. A gray horse, like a ghost, emerging out of the dark well ahead of the rest of the field. Ye olde D200 may not have tripped for Fort Larned in the Foster, but it did well for me here. And if I had to choose, I think this is the one I would've picked to fire.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFZmYqt0XOi_QMBm6IzoMHlWXl0kU6lQnby6ya1K0sF2U7qZ64nQ6beLHRwg-jyv5M_EbFWSj3VYH7bfgjH8jBxynC8gWT6Lgdgxubu70MsXhLA0TVQ4RvnO-30bfasz0SnUlCKA7GGYs/s1600/2013r08.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFZmYqt0XOi_QMBm6IzoMHlWXl0kU6lQnby6ya1K0sF2U7qZ64nQ6beLHRwg-jyv5M_EbFWSj3VYH7bfgjH8jBxynC8gWT6Lgdgxubu70MsXhLA0TVQ4RvnO-30bfasz0SnUlCKA7GGYs/s1600/2013r08.jpg" height="425" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Martinsville Agricultural Fair"</td></tr>
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Thanks to my friend Joe Nevills, I dove headlong into the world of county fair racing over the summer. I'd never even realized there was Thoroughbred racing going on near my own backyard. My parents, who took me to fairs growing up, totally let me down on this. All total, I made it to the Martinsville Agricultural Fair, the Effingham County Fair, and the Cumberland County Fair. Three glorious race days all within an hour's drive of me, featuring all of the red velvet funnel cake I could eat. I loved the country scenes and the not-so regal furnishings of the old fair tracks. It's a different world than I'm used to, but it's also simpler and more laid back. There's no betting, just people coming out to watch horses roll over the hard-packed earth. My kind of people.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7_q7fS6FAwHm9jVcnjyp3FA7ChmAmisqpUGjKnJZG7XuyTgWpeZjK9eLfvIPXMp77M2kVjn2Pp8p6zYm121AN20JtsI0rGd8H-JiZ57J1lN3j22HeWTVku8ohbPFSByPkOtcib4q9icU/s1600/2013r09.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7_q7fS6FAwHm9jVcnjyp3FA7ChmAmisqpUGjKnJZG7XuyTgWpeZjK9eLfvIPXMp77M2kVjn2Pp8p6zYm121AN20JtsI0rGd8H-JiZ57J1lN3j22HeWTVku8ohbPFSByPkOtcib4q9icU/s1600/2013r09.jpg" height="424" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Spokane's Round Barn"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Summer vacation took me out west to the great state of Montana. Here I was able to take my racing tourism to a whole 'nother level. I found the red round barn the 1889 Kentucky Derby winner was born and raised in. Spokane is the only Montana-bred to ever win the Kentucky Derby, boasting an incredible story on his rise to prominence from ages two to three. In 1889, Montana was not even a state yet, and the Derby was run at 1 1/2 miles. Spokane still holds the record time for winning the Derby at that distance. (2:34.50)<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvRXbbIN9m6HNh_0NzyQEvX_JI_MD0_jYk70v8iMmqXZUWZeV8xsIuRC3lnZ-5FiLtepZNcdNgZJGSLmTOt-9_1pH2kZ_gE72wYMaNKFgw7HhA-UaubLWEGa_mNdM7QcOAhYipnNVnXho/s1600/2013r010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvRXbbIN9m6HNh_0NzyQEvX_JI_MD0_jYk70v8iMmqXZUWZeV8xsIuRC3lnZ-5FiLtepZNcdNgZJGSLmTOt-9_1pH2kZ_gE72wYMaNKFgw7HhA-UaubLWEGa_mNdM7QcOAhYipnNVnXho/s1600/2013r010.jpg" height="640" width="424" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Fiftyshadesofhay finds out her name is a bad pun."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I never seem to be in the right place at the right time within the right distance and with the right lens when a horse is doing a spectacular job of acting up. Here is one of the exceptions. Prior to the Indiana Oaks at Indiana Downs, the Baffert trainee raised up on two legs in the paddock and left her race there. She would be beaten by Pure Fun, who is a good filly in her own right. This was the first year the Indiana Derby and Oaks were moved from Hoosier Park to Indiana Downs. I was pleased with the facilities, especially when I saw they have a nice turf course. Hopefully the next time I return, <a href="https://flic.kr/p/gqCC1z" target="_blank">it won't be quite so muddy.</a><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTdjmAcdzpB0W1fdOmY4qw1Q1eELJf4myjIK1fEAUnSOVJ9KNyIPrBdo2qU3Xsa7r8nS8Pt9Uk6qdLYFIO3Qs35HYvD4dpDaVB95amrepDQWGoRBLQ84IvWwKEvXI4-9XIe-SqnI23Ha0/s1600/2013r11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTdjmAcdzpB0W1fdOmY4qw1Q1eELJf4myjIK1fEAUnSOVJ9KNyIPrBdo2qU3Xsa7r8nS8Pt9Uk6qdLYFIO3Qs35HYvD4dpDaVB95amrepDQWGoRBLQ84IvWwKEvXI4-9XIe-SqnI23Ha0/s1600/2013r11.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Will Take Charge guns down Game On Dude in the Clark Handicap"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I <i>love </i>Will Take Charge. The big, flashy chestnut with a bigger heart is a thrilling closer. I'd rooted for him to win the Breeders' Cup Classic, and boy, did he put on a show, missing the win by a nostril. Later that month, he wheeled back to duke it out with the gritty Game On Dude in the last big handicap of the year, and Willie nailed him in the final jumps. It was a sweet victory to close out his 2013, cinching him the Eclipse Award for Champion 3-year-old Male.</div>
Ghostsnapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15031831897418816030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6939088491504697922.post-58790693900851598552013-03-25T16:15:00.001-05:002013-03-25T16:15:05.408-05:00Favorite photos from 2012<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Why does it feel like 2012 lingered on a month or two past its welcome? I guess that's just a symptom of winter, and me not going on a trip over the break. So while this post may technically be "late" in the realm of year-end lists, it <i>is </i>coming two full months earlier than last year's tragically tardy summary of 2011. <i>Perspective</i>, people.<div>
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2012 was hot and cold, and definitely an earth-shaker for me thanks to a sudden decision to move to a new town. While the spring granted me the excitement of a new favorite horse in Union Rags, the post-Triple Crown trail was less stellar than years past. Since I moved in July, even further away from any racetrack, I had a fairly good excuse for being more disconnected. (Side note: I truly envy every one of you who live closer than 3 hours away from a track. <i>Be grateful for what you have</i>.) Also, I put a stipulation in the event of this move, I would get to see the 11-time world champion Kelly Slater surf in person--<i>and it totally worked</i> and made up for the lack of races I got to see in the surrounding months. (I'm still feeling the effects of that trip, in fact.)</div>
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So, because I like to keep a record of things, here's a list of my favorite shots I took during the 2012 racing calendar. (And maybe a bonus Kelly Slater shot because it <i>totally </i>qualifies according to the criteria in my head.)</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAIUYoqj5S_ytYx5mO1QaJqTduyy1A7VWXFG93GGbwlh9OXj5-DWfu-n4u443HBZ0RKM0hxI2tb_lB_oNBLG1-oYpxxgvepQZ3YKb79dV3dGCl2iOB1jgPENQqkezqEFFNBq7xIlZ4IL4/s1600/8420678021_2b4a7f2105_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAIUYoqj5S_ytYx5mO1QaJqTduyy1A7VWXFG93GGbwlh9OXj5-DWfu-n4u443HBZ0RKM0hxI2tb_lB_oNBLG1-oYpxxgvepQZ3YKb79dV3dGCl2iOB1jgPENQqkezqEFFNBq7xIlZ4IL4/s1600/8420678021_2b4a7f2105_b.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"So are you guys comin, or what?"</td></tr>
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My first day of 2012 was an eventful one, because it marked my first trip to Gulfstream Park in Hallendale Beach, Florida. And I got to spend it with my best track buddy, the newly-minted Eclipse winner, Mighty Mayberger. For those of you who don't realize it, he's a human. Though that would make a great horse name, come to think of it. (Somebody get on that, m'kay?) Any day you get to spend with a great friend makes for a great time. The day before, we'd celebrated his award at the beautiful Hialeah Park, so we were hitting both the Miami-area tracks for their New Year's cards. I was pleasantly surprised by the art deco style of the paddock at Gulfstream, and though I didn't catch any drool-worthy photos during the stakes, I was blown away by the saturation of the turf shots. I am officially in love with Gulfstream's spongey turf course purely because of how my pictures turned out. Gulfstream in general was fun, albeit small, and I would love to come back for the Florida Derby someday. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijr3HU31yacPVmEWHPCJfWr2EtC0ab7bivRBWiCTGATDQmHdbmi0J8NRZ4_gSskrAWtOm6fOxlReps-vi1ossAZtVyAL5IrQtUWctn9v816lMRCKNDbRYYxmi9vR3nwDqrfiLssunQJ7k/s1600/7033618555_cab4026c6a_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijr3HU31yacPVmEWHPCJfWr2EtC0ab7bivRBWiCTGATDQmHdbmi0J8NRZ4_gSskrAWtOm6fOxlReps-vi1ossAZtVyAL5IrQtUWctn9v816lMRCKNDbRYYxmi9vR3nwDqrfiLssunQJ7k/s1600/7033618555_cab4026c6a_o.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Believe You Can wins the Fair Grounds Oaks</td></tr>
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I love Fair Grounds. It helps it's in New Orleans, one of my favorite cities; the people are great, it's full of history, and somehow, it's more laid back than other tracks. I always seem to take away at least one memorable shot or experience from my trip there. In 2012, I shot my first remote off at Fair Grounds, and magically got this Oaks remote to work even after I barely had time to adjust it. Another cool bit of trivia about this is it's the only remote photo of this race that exists. Of course, Believe You Can went on to win the Kentucky Oaks, making this race all the more special.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvI8pdkRC5vNAT7sHHBS-4WdVbbXA6l0niaNDKc8LAHmKe5cYNJeken-I3vN8tw4ZOCVR9uPetg5DkqT4wxXj7x7QhgCeH6wdghLC9ygxwYK1EQxP85azuhvls7VcwKWxtlsgUcsbjraQ/s1600/unionrags41sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvI8pdkRC5vNAT7sHHBS-4WdVbbXA6l0niaNDKc8LAHmKe5cYNJeken-I3vN8tw4ZOCVR9uPetg5DkqT4wxXj7x7QhgCeH6wdghLC9ygxwYK1EQxP85azuhvls7VcwKWxtlsgUcsbjraQ/s1600/unionrags41sm.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Union Rags</td></tr>
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Every time I shoot the morning works during Kentucky Derby week, I'm like a squealing groupie clambering for a photo of a rock star. I mean, really, there isn't much difference, except horses poop in front of you and kind of spoil the <i>mystique</i>. I went to the morning works bent on shooting as many photos of Union Rags as possible, because I was convinced he was so talented and beautiful--with the bonus of a classic name--he was destined to <i>at least</i> win the Kentucky Derby, if not the Triple Crown. [insert riotous laughter here] So when he turned to look right at me the first time I saw him on the track, I pretty much reacted like those hyperventilating girls you see in the early Beatles videos. <i>Privately</i>, of course. Though the closest person to me may have been grabbed to steady myself, I can't be sure. After Union Rags jogged, I did the most natural thing in the world--stalked him back to his barn, where I watched him circle the shedrow twenty times before his bath. It was there I witnessed a classic moment, when he stuck his head out of his stall and took a big sniff when his Breeders' Cup Juvenile rival, Hansen, walked by, as if to say, "I know you..."</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcB-Yx9RbW6VUX5HoyiKX8uGjSl6MB9_3J4imJHbiJTXVSSqpqMOXEazMDMTF5RHJjvniJD5NQA43vIZHPVljxnxtDaNw_yHnZJJBYZ5RsfJn0XnHW0EfNdtLG0eCjAGc12lpPfeV_Xgk/s1600/hansen70sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcB-Yx9RbW6VUX5HoyiKX8uGjSl6MB9_3J4imJHbiJTXVSSqpqMOXEazMDMTF5RHJjvniJD5NQA43vIZHPVljxnxtDaNw_yHnZJJBYZ5RsfJn0XnHW0EfNdtLG0eCjAGc12lpPfeV_Xgk/s1600/hansen70sm.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hansen</td></tr>
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It was soon after Union Rags began to follow Hansen in the shedrow, they led the White Wonder out to the grass to be bathed. The crush of media forced me closer the colt, and I caught this hilarious bird-like expression as I squat on the ground. That was when I really crushed on Hansen. I mean, how could you not fall for that nose? Those white eyelashes? What a goofnut.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXQ8vXQhkvugdBlx-CVHJCCWMl_orTw53JSjHN1ziDLDPcRfjsMDaPF4JsDiBrmhTkz-OqXkeFarlP71C6CbBWM4ikLhLl4twMKwLIK9mU4hHuEBtl3LxSV9XhRkiXoT4XnnWd1oHZGYA/s1600/illhaveanother04sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXQ8vXQhkvugdBlx-CVHJCCWMl_orTw53JSjHN1ziDLDPcRfjsMDaPF4JsDiBrmhTkz-OqXkeFarlP71C6CbBWM4ikLhLl4twMKwLIK9mU4hHuEBtl3LxSV9XhRkiXoT4XnnWd1oHZGYA/s1600/illhaveanother04sm.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'll Have Another wins the Kentucky Derby</td></tr>
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This is one of those shots you thank God for, because my camera went <i>completely out of focus </i>for three frames after this and I had an outright meltdown immediately following the event. What freaks me out is I have no idea why my camera went out of focus after this--possibly it was shooter error, as I saw Dullahan coming strong on the outside and I hesitated for<i> just enough</i> of a split second to lose the tracking focus. You might wonder how I could possibly misinterpret that, as Dullahan ended up in third. When you've got 150,000 people screaming at your back and exactly five seconds to get a shot of who may or may not be the eventual winner, a new definition of "pressure" is born. Either way, I secured the win shot, and that's all that matters. Live and learn, and trust your gut. Hell of a way to gain that lesson, though. I'm going to probably have a heart attack if I ever shoot a Derby with two horses nose-bobbing at the wire.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn2IZrG7VJHaGyvlEusl93XbzCTUnyEVmuvDOi-2KIlcN_iDIM9K0wpl4ioipgDll1il_U4BHMgb_ldojWEm_nX8fnEjrjeAXoy9KPEh9Fp55RnXBhPMpO6H8BkoZ6fUnBbUCVjsAb7FY/s1600/bodemeister02sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn2IZrG7VJHaGyvlEusl93XbzCTUnyEVmuvDOi-2KIlcN_iDIM9K0wpl4ioipgDll1il_U4BHMgb_ldojWEm_nX8fnEjrjeAXoy9KPEh9Fp55RnXBhPMpO6H8BkoZ6fUnBbUCVjsAb7FY/s1600/bodemeister02sm.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"The agony of defeat..."</td></tr>
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If ever there was a face for that famous line in the Wide World of Sports, this would be it. I don't think I've seen Mike Smith so crushed since the infamous 2010 Breeders' Cup Classic. In his attempt to win the Kentucky Derby wire-to-wire, Bode put in a brave fight--I don't love this photo because Bodemeister lost, but because this moment told the story of his effort. Faraway, so close.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlfMYUkxVO8S-IUvz_USLvCQzv4KfN3fhKLbhNMDIF0HNWmtHZX8DYDZP3U_mLyZ5Z0i5P796EkvHX1u0Ruw-MlmUodi4nmrKtnHbnU_pT1KLbJz3laYNJr9TCPNUf-dlvwfT2VNBiRJ4/s1600/7483452606_1102d034bb_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlfMYUkxVO8S-IUvz_USLvCQzv4KfN3fhKLbhNMDIF0HNWmtHZX8DYDZP3U_mLyZ5Z0i5P796EkvHX1u0Ruw-MlmUodi4nmrKtnHbnU_pT1KLbJz3laYNJr9TCPNUf-dlvwfT2VNBiRJ4/s640/7483452606_1102d034bb_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thunderstorm at Churchill Downs</td></tr>
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The thunderclap that made all of us in the press box think, for a split second, we were<i> all dead</i>. This isn't the best picture of a thunderstorm you'll ever see, but I'm a novice at lightning pictures so dumb luck won out this time. This happened on July 1st during the "Downs After Dark" night racing program.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVpFlJlasIPcMz0qKTj8KiCrq-XDWkYLW_PXnpSu9ykJfLStmSpRFCmqYBP8BO4huXphyphenhyphenb5L38gBQcW_meAFoXXQHKD-pamru4qVVvrismJCzooMIS4bGZHEGe1tL3kO5USzvZh5XqF2s/s1600/2kelly6sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVpFlJlasIPcMz0qKTj8KiCrq-XDWkYLW_PXnpSu9ykJfLStmSpRFCmqYBP8BO4huXphyphenhyphenb5L38gBQcW_meAFoXXQHKD-pamru4qVVvrismJCzooMIS4bGZHEGe1tL3kO5USzvZh5XqF2s/s640/2kelly6sm.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Slater slaying waves</td></tr>
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Hah! Told you I was going to throw a Kelly Slater photo in here! Shooting Lowers was absolutely amazing. The waves are bigger in person than they look on the telecast--it's almost like they're carving mountain ranges and not undulating ocean ripples. Seeing Kelly battle in person, not to mention win his 50th world tour event, was one of the most special moments of my year. This guy is a <i>living legend</i>, people, and you should be watching him.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPWtiIU6YjelKOBAFFsqrCRs9Tm-hS3XTIsvMvwy29nxozStYpTrdYKT1X9yXag_z_62O2Klzhz8mhKN8a9oFUNW-J89LmzDYr2NirEKpE6pUyzloKishS7mqrGuhiaCEuM07-al-_xe4/s1600/8087805202_5cf7706822_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPWtiIU6YjelKOBAFFsqrCRs9Tm-hS3XTIsvMvwy29nxozStYpTrdYKT1X9yXag_z_62O2Klzhz8mhKN8a9oFUNW-J89LmzDYr2NirEKpE6pUyzloKishS7mqrGuhiaCEuM07-al-_xe4/s640/8087805202_5cf7706822_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pool Play wins the Hawthorne Gold Cup</td></tr>
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Pool Play gifted me with one of my first-ever remote shots that ever turned out in the Stephen Foster back in 2011. Here he gives me another <i>cracker</i>, as the Aussies would say. (Black Caviar has me working on my Oz-slang, don't judge me.) This was my maiden Hawthorne Gold Cup, which was at dusk, making the shot even trickier and therefore a ton more exciting when it came out. I hated to see Alternation fair so poorly in this race, but at least one of my groupie horses came away with the trophy.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif_6IN_1yt_OydI4j8URZcSgWmcA2p3blv2Oph2D-sGwsaAlU2Px0iKNrhMyI8M5BuOabQB2bGPh1iFK3eQZ9geNzftsOdbg5RHmtYSbi2ClPVlRxqrQzxdry9vYMcfsnRTYDN69cuv3g/s1600/8219287492_235d899fbf_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif_6IN_1yt_OydI4j8URZcSgWmcA2p3blv2Oph2D-sGwsaAlU2Px0iKNrhMyI8M5BuOabQB2bGPh1iFK3eQZ9geNzftsOdbg5RHmtYSbi2ClPVlRxqrQzxdry9vYMcfsnRTYDN69cuv3g/s1600/8219287492_235d899fbf_b.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shackleford wins the Clark Handicap</td></tr>
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The 2012 Clark Handicap stands out to me as one of my favorite races of the year. Fan favorite Shackleford was running in his last race, and the crowd came out to see him. When he turned for home and started to run away from the rest of the field, I got the whole goosebump/chills/tears trifecta. The roaring grandstand gave him a standing ovation, and he received a hero's welcome. To make it even better, his buddy Jesus Castanon was back in the irons, giving this iron horse a storybook ending. This was the kind of race that reminds you why you stick around and love the game. Kudos to the connections for keeping Shack in training and giving him a chance to shine.</div>
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Ghostsnapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15031831897418816030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6939088491504697922.post-6650396454580589002013-01-15T11:21:00.000-06:002013-01-15T11:22:29.531-06:00And the Wowie goes to...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Congratulations to Natalie Voss of Lexington, Kentucky, for winning my camera phone photo contest with her picture of a race horse on the track at Keeneland. I received several great entries this year, making the judging incredibly difficult on my end, but it came down to the degree of difficulty in using a camera phone to capture a horse in motion. Not only does Natalie's picture capture a horse in a fully-extended trot with perfect sharpness, her photo also displayed the simple beauty of a race horse going to the post under a striking blue sky. This is the kind of picture that just makes you want to hop in the car and go to the track.<br />
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Here is Natalie's winning entry:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq0vZm2vZEA6R2gWaWGWPCZsENvUpddSaH9xehMFLdzmdh3gCmQL4ueOIcmUdRdtBAmYD8t9RJ0O20X4TPY0kXYjFgFLCnEE8a-nqRD7-9EazzSmwniJH3iH6-GRkS1erLulKBP7-l9z0/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq0vZm2vZEA6R2gWaWGWPCZsENvUpddSaH9xehMFLdzmdh3gCmQL4ueOIcmUdRdtBAmYD8t9RJ0O20X4TPY0kXYjFgFLCnEE8a-nqRD7-9EazzSmwniJH3iH6-GRkS1erLulKBP7-l9z0/s320/photo.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Here's what the photographer had to say about her photo:<br />
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"I had never been on the turn at Keeneland like this before, and was lamenting that I hadn't brought my point and shoot camera to try to capture how beautiful the colors were that day. I was pleased and a little surprised that they came through so well on my cell phone." </blockquote>
Thanks to everyone who participated in my photo contest! There are a lot of great phone-wielding photographers out there, and you made judging this contest extremely challenging. I'm only sorry I didn't have more calendars to give away!<br />
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Follow Natalie on Twitter at @flysofree. Congratulations, Natalie! </div>
Ghostsnapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15031831897418816030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6939088491504697922.post-51129663509917427382012-12-29T14:51:00.000-06:002013-01-02T21:46:42.322-06:00Return of the "Wowies!"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoNj4gzZ10JpQkl1e-S5JP56_O8gN6nT2oosSpSvzbKyXhf2xTY6_dEfK4ZgYoJRHlijgHj0DNhe_bZCi3gxTiDltfgAqocUF8Qpi8K-SJ505pJ2T1V5kUadz3kSMStKleExFtzVCskQs/s1600/2013calendar2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoNj4gzZ10JpQkl1e-S5JP56_O8gN6nT2oosSpSvzbKyXhf2xTY6_dEfK4ZgYoJRHlijgHj0DNhe_bZCi3gxTiDltfgAqocUF8Qpi8K-SJ505pJ2T1V5kUadz3kSMStKleExFtzVCskQs/s320/2013calendar2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #430152; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, Palatino Linotype, Palatino, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Last year, I held a camera phone photo contest which was lovingly dubbed by some Twitter friends as "The Wowies." I received a number of great entries and thought the contest was successful enough to try it again this year. Because I'm lazy, and because it seemed to work smoothly, I'm keeping the same rules as last year. The only change is that the contest is now open to everyone, no matter where you live in the world! Here's the scoop:</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #430152; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, Palatino Linotype, Palatino, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Horsephotos.com puts out a racing calendar every year, and as I am one of their photographers, I get a complimentary calendar for my contributions. Since I get extra calendars, I thought it would only be appropriate to give one away as a thank-you to my followers on social media. (My mom got the other free calendar, or I'd give away more than one. Sorry.)</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #430152; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, Palatino Linotype, Palatino, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">To put things on a level playing field, I decided to make the subject matter limited not just to racing, but to all animals. (I wasn't able to journey to my first horse racing track until I was a senior in high school, after all--how would 17-year-old me feel?) Even though technically, humans are animals, please no people shots.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #430152; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, Palatino Linotype, Palatino, serif;">THE RULES (YOU SHOULD PROBABLY READ THESE):</span></div>
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<span style="color: #430152; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, Palatino Linotype, Palatino, serif;">1.) Photo must be taken with a camera phone. Please be honest about this and DON'T CHEAT. I will more than likely be able to tell if you are fibbing and I will throw out your entry if I suspect you're trying to pull one over on me.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #430152; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, Palatino Linotype, Palatino, serif;">2.) Photo must be of an animal. It doesn't matter who owns the animal, just as long as I don't get any pictures of your Uncle Ted sleeping after Thanksgiving or something. Pictures of people will be tossed. This probably goes without saying, but if you send me any pictures of animal abuse, I will call the police on your ass and additionally, not be very nice.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #430152; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, Palatino Linotype, Palatino, serif;">3.) Pictures must be submitted in high-resolution. A tiny cropped photo is simply hard to see and probably means you're trying to hide the fact it's of poor quality. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #430152; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, Palatino Linotype, Palatino, serif;">4.) Pictures may be edited using Instagram, etc. But, in all honesty, the less Photoshopped the picture is, the better chance it has of winning. I'm not crazy about excessive use of photo editing. So don't send me a picture of Rachel and Zenyatta in a match race, cuz that didn't happen.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #430152; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, Palatino Linotype, Palatino, serif;">5.) You must be <a href="https://twitter.com/wowhorse" target="_blank">following me on Twitter</a> or be a fan of <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/Jamie-Newell-Photography/341608233986" target="_blank">my photography on Facebook</a>. (I don't know how you would find out about this contest if you aren't already doing one of these, anyway...)</span></div>
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<span style="color: #430152; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, Palatino Linotype, Palatino, serif;">6.) <b>Only one entry per person</b>. Make it count!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #430152; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, Palatino Linotype, Palatino, serif;">7.) Entries must be sent to me at wowhorse@gmail.com by midnight Central Time on January 11, 2013. Please include your first and last name in your email and put PHOTO CALENDAR CONTEST in the subject of the email.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #430152; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, Palatino Linotype, Palatino, serif;">8.) Contest is open to everyone this year! I don't care who you are, where you're from... wait, this is starting to sound like a Backstreet Boys song... </span></div>
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<span style="color: #430152; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, Palatino Linotype, Palatino, serif;">Pictures inside this 12-month calendar include Frankel, Monterosso, I'll Have Another/Bodemeister, Union Rags/Paynter, Dullahan, Alpha/Golden Ticket, Little Mike, My Miss Aurelia/Questing, and Flat Out.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #430152; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, Palatino Linotype, Palatino, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">I'll post the winning photo here on my blog. Good luck to all the entrants! May the Horse be with You!</span></span><br />
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Ghostsnapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15031831897418816030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6939088491504697922.post-6266373467629984632012-12-10T17:31:00.000-06:002012-12-10T17:57:21.221-06:00At long last, my epic Trestles blog<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Unlike in horse racing, you don't get too many chances to see ASP events come to America. With my window to witness the greatest surfer of all time closing fast, I had but a few chances to see Kelly Slater this year without having to cross an ocean. My first choice was to see him compete at Trestles.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The San Clemente Pier</td></tr>
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Considered a holy place for surfers, Trestles is located at San Onofre State Beach in San Clemente, California. Ironic my first encounter with surfers was in San Clemente, watching amateurs flounder near the pier, when one of the best surf spots in America was just a couple miles down the beach. While there are several great surf spots along this stretch of sand, the best and most consistent wave is at Lower Trestles, or as those in the know call it, Lowers.<br />
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The thing about Lowers? It just happens to be one of Kelly Slater's favorite playgrounds. Before going into the 2012 Hurley Pro, Kelly had won the world tour event at Lowers five times before, more than any other professional surfer. If Kelly is King of Surfing, Lower Trestles would be his kingdom. So, yeah, the first place I got to see Kelly Slater surf in person was at his home away from home.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Santa Fe Railroad next to Trestles</td></tr>
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What's crazy, and kind of awesome, about a surf spot like Lowers is you have to really want to be there to even get to the location. The only public parking is a 40-minute walk along an off-ramp to the interstate, and then down a dirt path through a natural environment and across a railroad track to get to the beach. Sure, you could just walk the three miles down the beach to get there, but I'd like to see the poor sap try who thought that would be a fun idea. The old public parking area is normally closed, but is open strictly for the athletes and some of the Hurley employees running the event. Even then, the parking area is still a 10-15 minute walk to the event location. Oh, and you're "not supposed to cross the railroad track," which everybody does, otherwise you'd have to come from Upper Trestles, across the beach like Lawrence of freakin' Arabia.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Hurley Pro oasis</td></tr>
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Once you actually arrive at the event location, with its temporary tents and towers brandished with sponsorship logos erected for the athletes and media, you kind of feel like you've discovered life on Mars. It's just a mini city sitting out on a natural beach with nothing else around it for a mile either way, except for aspiring surfers leaping into the waves outside of the event buoys warding off non-competitors. What's nice is they have ample porta-potties set up with a water and sanitizing station outside, as well as a couple food shacks with honest-to-God good food. Surfers, I have become aware, are not only environmentally-conscience, abiding to the rule of "leave no trace behind," but also have excellent taste in food. These guys aren't stuffing themselves with corndogs and fried chicken, so you get to partake in the same healthy choices they get. (On a semi-related note, I'm now obsessed with acai bowls.)<br />
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The beach itself serves as bleachers for the rabble of spectators toting their own fold-up chairs, beach towels, and umbrellas. (Note to self: buy a cheap beach umbrella if you plan to attend any future surf event.) The sun managed to burn me to a crisp the first day, even when I had on sunscreen. Think of yourself as a naked clam-blob slowly frying on a hotplate. Since the event stretches on for hours each day, with the rise and fall of the sun, that's plenty of time to accidentally turn yourself into a lobster. The event staff would coyly plant several free umbrellas along the beach during the day, but you had to get lucky to find yourself beneath one. They do allow you to take your umbrella at the end of the day and bring it back for the next day. I almost made it home with a Spyglass umbrella, but had no way of taking it home on the flight. <i>Wah-wah.</i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking out at Lowers, and a seaweed monster.</td></tr>
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Back to the even itself. The Hurley Pro was a big deal in the race to secure the world title, because the top four surfers were all a chess match away from rank-leaping. At the start of the event, the world #1 was Mick Fanning, followed by Joel Parkinson, John John Florence, and at #4, thanks to missing Brazil with an injury and a throw-out placing at Teahupoo, Kelly Slater. Up to this event, Mick had won the most events on the world tour so far (two), while Kelly and John John had each won one. While Joel had yet to win an event, he also had yet to finish worse than 9th place in any event, making him more consistent than the other three. As the sixth spot on the tour, the Hurley Pro would serve as a crucial turning point for one of these top surfers--someone would either keep their world title dream alive or have it wiped away by their result here.<br />
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I'm gonna be frank. I wanted to see Mick Fanning go down. I'm sure he's a perfectly nice guy. I follow him on Instagram and he posts cute pictures of his dog and family--he can't be all that bad, right? But I hold grudges, and I could not (and still cannot) get over the final at Bells Beach (the second stop on the tour), where Mick and Kelly battled it out like Titans, only for Kelly to pull out a heart-stopping 10-point air and back it up with a plethora of scintillating maneuvers, only to lose to the homebred. I maintain the only way Kelly was going to win that final was if he suddenly started speaking with an Aussie accent. Mick ended up with the trophy at Bells, and I ended up with a thirst for revenge. Maybe so too did Kelly.<br />
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The only way Kelly had a chance to stay in the race for world title was to win the Hurley Pro at Lowers, and everybody knew it. Every single heat counted. The tension was palpable. Also, I may have been radiating more nerves than anybody, because I was bound and determined to seize my only opportunity to snap photos of a living legend. The first round consisted of 3-man heats, which meant nobody would be eliminated from the competition, so I was guaranteed to see Kelly surf at least twice. If tragedy struck and Kelly somehow lost his second heat, he would be out of the event. Basically, I knew I had at least two times to see him surf, so I was practically puking with anxiety by the time his first heat came around. I mean, I had flown all the way to California <i>just to see him</i>.<br />
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So. Taking pictures of a surfer isn't exactly like stalking a Thoroughbred race horse. Cause, you know, you're just feet away from them, and they can actually tell if you're taking a picture of them, or are following them. So even though I'm a proud member of the Horse Paparazzi, I didn't want to be <i>that </i>nagging photographer who stuck to the surfers like glue and messed up their concentration. But I still wanted my picture, so I did do a little stealth-following, at a distance.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An apt introduction to Kelly Slater.</td></tr>
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Thanks to my faithful watching of every event on the world tour via webcast, I had a vague idea of how the surfers would emerge from their tent and come running down the beach to hop in the water. I camped out along the dirt path at the top of the beach with my 300mm lens, waiting for my first glimpse of Kelly, practically trembling with anxiety. I saw the <i>reaction </i>to Kelly before he first came into view. Unlike the other surfers, who pass through the masses of people almost unnoticed, a cheer went up when the champ stepped onto the sand. A crowd had formed near the tent, the whoops and applause tittering like leaves as a car whooshes past, only this was an entourage of human beings, one with no need for wheels, just a board with four fins.<br />
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Like any super-creature, it's impossible to mistake one in the flesh. No, Kelly Slater is no towering Colossus built to intimidate through stature alone; he is simply a stream-lined machine, compact and fine-tuned for strength, flexibility, and longevity. He traded fat for muscle long ago, and looks as you might imagine the most fit human being on earth might appear. Yet even as he jogs along on the beach, you still can't understand how he is able to move on water as he does, with the balance and precision of a samurai master.<br />
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In a <i>whoosh</i>, followed by cameramen and bodyguards, he passed through the crowd and cut through the fans sunning themselves several yards down the sand. There is no direct path to the water, so all the athletes must pick their way between humans to get to the shore. Those sitting unawares an entourage was about to descend upon them and attempt to sweep past their umbrellas and beach bags were probably wondering what all the fuss was about until they caught a flash of the yellow jersey with the iconic name printed on the back. Kelly dropped into his trademark squatting position, burying his head in his arms to focus before lunging into the water. It's a portrait that is so Kelly; the pure image of someone who has dedicated his life to not only reaching the pinnacle of his sport, but remaining at the top for twenty years.<br />
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I was almost too close to him to get my shot, but so flanked was Kelly by curious onlookers and fans brave enough to walk right up to him to snap a picture on their iPhone, I had to settle with being slightly too close and cut off the whole image. It would end up becoming my only opportunity to capture a clean image of this pose without some numskull ruining the shot. Even having credentials wouldn't have helped me in this scenario. (Which I didn't have, anyway.)<br />
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After I got my close-up shots, I scrambled back down the beach to my spot, where I moved out to perch on the rocks like a seagull. Any time Kelly went out to surf, the masses of people on the beach suddenly doubled in size, and it grew harder and harder to find an impeded view. There was no way I was going to sit back on the casual safety of my beach towel when I could go out on the rocks and get a cleaner, slightly closer vantage point.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipN96Gns5vjTOVmYjRmiwMwRDHHcDO1hMq_FzGH-DOmmSkZU4FqIr1qsONWqMUiUiVer9Fa0_JTw97BsrT1doXZoTZ_8W7cuGwm8WwzAZwJiWCRLXDllAZR9c5Kx9RRMZiouHL0aumivk/s1600/2kelly6sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipN96Gns5vjTOVmYjRmiwMwRDHHcDO1hMq_FzGH-DOmmSkZU4FqIr1qsONWqMUiUiVer9Fa0_JTw97BsrT1doXZoTZ_8W7cuGwm8WwzAZwJiWCRLXDllAZR9c5Kx9RRMZiouHL0aumivk/s320/2kelly6sm.jpg" width="320" /></a>Like welcoming back an old friend, the Lowers was good to Kelly that morning. The first wave he took, Kelly scored an 8.33. I've said this before, but you really can't appreciate Kelly Slater's style and grace until you've watched other surfers for comparison. Not to say other top professional surfers don't have their own style and talent, but Kelly's is transcendent; when this man gets in the water, it's magic. Nobody is faster, more fluid, has more finesse, or is seemingly made out of the same kind of rubber as this man. He is, to put it simply, existing in a different universe. But I knew all of this going into Trestles, obviously. This was the first time, however, I noticed Kelly also throws more spray than any other surfer. His powerful carves, frozen in still images, are proof Kelly isn't just out there slaying waves--he is rendering works of art. It's reminiscent of the sorcerer in the movie <i>Fantasia</i>, conjuring the water to do his bidding.<br />
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The first match was a non-elimination round consisting of 3-man heats. Kelly ended his heat with a stylish 360-air, easily winning his first heat in the competition; Mick won his, as well, meaning they would move on to round 3. Surprisingly, Joel and John John lost, meaning they would both surf in round two. I won't go over every detail of every round spanning the week-long event. What is important was that from then on, Parko began surfing like a freak on a mission of world domination. He slowly began to rack up some of the highest-scored waves of the event, and began to take on the image of a runaway train blowing through the competition. Needless to say, this made me nervous. As much as I liked Joel, I'd clung to the hope I'd be able to see Kelly win his historic 50th event in person there at Lowers.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNGqxySjgQooW8oia-5edTTSsIG9Ogo9Bq3YXitByRj4yVRsw4LnIBfPqc4-WNcZO566AxqbvAovf8t-qm0f_7V_vo28PFROteme7tAWd1yDdBfogIpbN_B0vM1FnC-V-5ptqzpV15y74/s1600/wilkotrestles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNGqxySjgQooW8oia-5edTTSsIG9Ogo9Bq3YXitByRj4yVRsw4LnIBfPqc4-WNcZO566AxqbvAovf8t-qm0f_7V_vo28PFROteme7tAWd1yDdBfogIpbN_B0vM1FnC-V-5ptqzpV15y74/s320/wilkotrestles.jpg" width="318" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">@mattwilko8 posted this on Twitter after their heat.</td></tr>
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Kelly won his heat in round three versus Matt Wilkinson, and moved on to the fourth round, a 3-man heat against Julian Wilson and Taj Burrow. Before this heat is when I decided to cheer loudly for Kelly as he jogged by, because I am both a dork and have little self control when it comes to my fandom. (In my defense, I was generally respectful of his space and never got in his way...) Thus, I will forever link this little outburst to the result of the heat, which went down in history as the first time ever Kelly was slapped with an interference. Was my little cheer to blame for disrupting Kelly's concentration, as it tore his eyes from the goal to glance at the only person along his path screaming "GO GET 'EM, KELLY" on his way to the water? Whatever be the case, I resigned myself to never making another peep before he hit the water, in fear of spoiling his mojo. Needless to say, the call of interference sparked a flurry of controversy, and while it made Kelly lose the heat, he was able to go onto the next round more fired up than ever. (Woe be the surfer who gets in Kelly's way when the champ gets angry.)<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbbXAjRYS_wYPUKHYKYDsAQYZ6eIsyGlYMTIzX523MsT3ZazCW3wWY0NbQZB75qxcEPjA0G3RfA7wiv1TkmblBITUe5vG6nlBWGDQ6BLt0WlIVC8q-FRVnZpWdUkcbsqxO3yG1nqyNemE/s1600/kellysemifinal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbbXAjRYS_wYPUKHYKYDsAQYZ6eIsyGlYMTIzX523MsT3ZazCW3wWY0NbQZB75qxcEPjA0G3RfA7wiv1TkmblBITUe5vG6nlBWGDQ6BLt0WlIVC8q-FRVnZpWdUkcbsqxO3yG1nqyNemE/s320/kellysemifinal.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>My name is Kelly Slater. Prepare to die.</i></td></tr>
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Round five is when it really got crucial. Mick defeated Julian Wilson, and Kelly beat Jeremy Flores, so both the world #1 and #4 progressed to the quarter finals. Kelly, Mick, and Joel survived the quarters, but John John was defeated by Adriano de Souza and eliminated from the event.<br />
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In the semi finals, Kelly and Mick were sent to go head-to-head in a battle of giants; it was the first time they had met in a heat since spring, in that epic final at Bells Beach. Kelly charged to the water looking like a man thirsting for blood. Setting the scene to battle royale perfection, a pirate ship floated in the background as the two champs took to the water.<br />
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Kelly never let Mick have a chance. The 11-time world champion went for first blood, scoring an 8.10 on a rambling wave that gave him the chance to rip up some of Mick's early courage. While the ocean didn't serve up its best sets, it was enough to let Kelly annihilate the world #1. On Kelly's third wave, he comboed Mick with a dreamy air rotation, scoring a 9.17. Mick was finally able to score a 6.67 over the halfway mark with some nice carving turns, but was never able to duplicate his best form, caving to the king, who began throwing away scores for fun. Mick ended up with a total score of 9.34, while Kelly rode to victory with a total of 17.27. Talk about sweet, delicious revenge! The lesson, kids? Don't piss off Kelly Slater.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBC38FMOmCmN67B8A05-m-5_yH1ll8hnTg825rf8RI-kkz9AZaT8yqggJ_YRCDuezGguF_lmGRias3JBqf8GE4UBZTU3-qP-31ac_mkslN7Iv6RuVmwjCpw_-GM-3X6yg8ZsxaWKvZubc/s1600/parko1sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBC38FMOmCmN67B8A05-m-5_yH1ll8hnTg825rf8RI-kkz9AZaT8yqggJ_YRCDuezGguF_lmGRias3JBqf8GE4UBZTU3-qP-31ac_mkslN7Iv6RuVmwjCpw_-GM-3X6yg8ZsxaWKvZubc/s320/parko1sm.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Parko carves a little off the top.</td></tr>
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Not to be outdone, Parko continued to lay ruin upon his opponents in the semis. Scoring a pair of 9.13s, Joel decimated the venerable Adriano de Souza. So confident was Parko, he ended up riding back to the beach over a minute early while Adriano struggled to play catch-up.<br />
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The final for the 2012 Hurley Pro was set up to be an epic sea battle, with the most dominant surfer of the event going up against the most winning surfer of the event. With the pirate ship still bobbing in the background, the duel began with Kelly drawing first blood with a solid 6.77 score. The thing about competitive surfing is, it's not just about surfing. It's about tactics, strategy, and taking what the ocean serves up to make the most of what Mother Nature gives you; and almost more importantly, it's about peaking at the right time and not burning out too quickly. If there's anything Kelly Slater knows, it's about maintaining longevity.<br />
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Kelly scored on three waves before Parko was able to take his first, his third scored a 7.33. It seemed that Parko was going with the all-or-nothing mindset, looking for the big scores instead of taking what he could get. In the middle of the heat, Kelly lost priority on a wave, but on the second wave of the set, Parko couldn't get into position and Kelly took it, scoring a second 7.33. Never underestimate Kelly Slater's fire in a final. The champ followed up that wave with a 7.83, pumping up speed to float over a rail, slash off its head, then top off the maneuver with a spectacular air-reverse. Parko finally followed up his 5.33 with a powerful carving turn, managing to score the best wave of the heat thus far with a 8.33. Drama much? All Parko needed was a 6.83 to defeat Kelly and claim the glory.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0YKlQOZCuy0k2nGMZyjhlKb94dtdwfNdQNxq94LEPch_r8nhHxHUj0N5n8mw45TsLMblTxdhKzIgg26i8AXikZ_OjsUagNlD2-o55re9KWW2qCBB1YjNbJc7SfY3JMn3mzwZ4-rG9ljc/s1600/kelly2sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0YKlQOZCuy0k2nGMZyjhlKb94dtdwfNdQNxq94LEPch_r8nhHxHUj0N5n8mw45TsLMblTxdhKzIgg26i8AXikZ_OjsUagNlD2-o55re9KWW2qCBB1YjNbJc7SfY3JMn3mzwZ4-rG9ljc/s320/kelly2sm.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kelly's final wave of the event.</td></tr>
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As the two surfers sat out the water just feet apart, waiting for the waves to come, it seemed the ocean was calming down. When finally a wave raised its head, Parko forced Kelly to use his priority. That was a mistake. Kelly went absolutely mental, pulling out every ounce of style and tenacity on that rip of water like he was settling a personal vendetta. The crowd went insane, and Kelly bettered Parko's effort with an 8.67. Parko was able to snag a wave a minute later, but it petered out before he was able to make much of it. It would not be enough to catch up to Kelly. With less than a minute left, Kelly took one more wave. It became instantly apparent this wave was not only a tactical move, to keep Parko from finding the score he needed, it was also a victory lap for Kelly. The whole beach began to cheer as final scores began to drop from the previous waves and the situation became clear--Kelly had won the event, and his would be this final show. After all of the drama and anxiety of the heat, it came down to this, just watching the best surfer in the world glory in the throes of the ocean. Yup, there were tears on my part. I didn't know if it would be the last time I ever witnessed this again, and I wanted to soak in every single grain of atmosphere and relief and triumph of that scene. After the water gave him a playful dunk, Kelly took one look over his shoulder to see if there were any sets coming in for Joel, but the ocean was flat. With 25 seconds still left on the clock, Kelly rode into the beach and threw his arms up in the air.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVwE3iSUWNJxs4OZ0vavFnj7J6i_Q4j8vBIIZUnSPBXn3KNgCLuwTfXAtWv9Ro8ydPUDowApChKS5UEUA58mZ_m2kWj3XxcwHMsGE1z2S7R4iqA8VohtcQysiSTl2LCxT05NYTy2iAFfA/s1600/kellyfinal1sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVwE3iSUWNJxs4OZ0vavFnj7J6i_Q4j8vBIIZUnSPBXn3KNgCLuwTfXAtWv9Ro8ydPUDowApChKS5UEUA58mZ_m2kWj3XxcwHMsGE1z2S7R4iqA8VohtcQysiSTl2LCxT05NYTy2iAFfA/s320/kellyfinal1sm.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kelly realizes he's just won Lowers.</td></tr>
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It was over, and we had just witnessed something that will probably never be done again--Kelly Slater had just won his 50th world tour event. The crowd enveloped the champ as he reached the rocks and chaired him up the beach. I couldn't make it down for the photo, so I shot up to the stage for a prime spot for the trophy presentation.<br />
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Needless to say, I could not have picked out a better world tour event to attend all year. Operation Kelly now a personal victory, I had come to merely see the champ surf with my own eyes, and had been rewarded with the experience of a lifetime. It took some tenacity and determination on my own part to get up at the crack of dawn every morning and make the trek down to Trestles, not to mention battle the sun for 8 hours each day, but clearly, it was worth every effort. The whole thing now exists in my mind like some sort of out-of-body experience. Was I really at Trestles? Did I really spend the better part of a week watching the greatest surfer of all time land a historic victory? It was more of a dream than I ever could've hoped for.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz2bk199d6CJUDXv-sA6IDexbQa50Gdz84ylWMf-gU1WQ1v3X_Ay2X6XFRv-rpOq3WCVwEdqw5KlDi_BYOou3CcnfBBj-atFKfqYxIYgh54zrHy-Dt972N2wjgWkIhHyFUAhxq-glJdSE/s1600/kelly4sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz2bk199d6CJUDXv-sA6IDexbQa50Gdz84ylWMf-gU1WQ1v3X_Ay2X6XFRv-rpOq3WCVwEdqw5KlDi_BYOou3CcnfBBj-atFKfqYxIYgh54zrHy-Dt972N2wjgWkIhHyFUAhxq-glJdSE/s320/kelly4sm.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kelly takes a champagne bath at Lowers.</td></tr>
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Kelly's win bumped him up to third place in the men's world rankings, with Mick staying at #1 and Joel at #2. John John would have to make way for the champ, and Mick and Joel would have to keep up the heat in the following events of the world tour to ward off the advancement of Kelly from climbing even higher.<br />
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But Kelly stayed on fire after his victory at Lowers, going on to win the next event, the Quicksilver Pro France. It marked the first time Kelly had won at France in two decades. Mick's French trip ended early with a poor result, forcing him to plummet down the ladder in rankings. Parko became the new world #1 while Kelly continued to make up ground and snapped up the #2 spot. In the next event, the Rip Curl Pro Portugal, Parko was the lone member of the top 5 to make it to the semifinals, where he lost to Gabriel Medina. Parko and Kelly stayed as the 1-2 leaders in the world title race, which would be determined in the final event of the tour, the <a href="http://vanstriplecrownofsurfing.com/billabongpipemasters2012" target="_blank">Billabong Pipe Masters in Hawaii</a>.<br />
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Will Kelly end up winning his 12th world title at Pipe, or will Joel 's consistency finally earn him his first world title victory? Tune into the <a href="http://vanstriplecrownofsurfing.com/billabongpipemasters2012" target="_blank">webcast</a> December 8-the 20th to find out.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMQavItBXdehH_befPiGixWg3A697Rf8JTc96dEKik8wjRTALfHzE8nPQHbjQ7B63R_zQ6ljEfcbOluCrWExWF3p18yRsZkG01bMLVG6GC9HKDcuXIOVtVhpzGvRSuwqQ8eZwnc1Vo5SU/s1600/parko1sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMQavItBXdehH_befPiGixWg3A697Rf8JTc96dEKik8wjRTALfHzE8nPQHbjQ7B63R_zQ6ljEfcbOluCrWExWF3p18yRsZkG01bMLVG6GC9HKDcuXIOVtVhpzGvRSuwqQ8eZwnc1Vo5SU/s320/parko1sm.jpg" width="217" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joel Parkinson holds the 2nd-place trophy.</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYmXXGDI-cbOThFoiTDfGHFwX-2dcvMmN2z0Fo-HDx8wQ9gWWllfYP48ovHZ65HDoic57htmvn0Mnr0irQ46iEv4zYepcqSS09KxTndaZdMS6n0bvXxDvdi96srczZTJyE3zDa1zgDVkw/s1600/kelly10sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYmXXGDI-cbOThFoiTDfGHFwX-2dcvMmN2z0Fo-HDx8wQ9gWWllfYP48ovHZ65HDoic57htmvn0Mnr0irQ46iEv4zYepcqSS09KxTndaZdMS6n0bvXxDvdi96srczZTJyE3zDa1zgDVkw/s320/kelly10sm.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kelly celebrates after winning his 50th world tour event.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNIfCZxaFlF9yU1NrHFtZYMq1Y9Rb4RXX5sWEZgHMn9qkaVxFoj3PJ2SADaruUlf9ofADBP2hZiedYxrbcCiaTg_pGLUSdZcZCGMIZuNdOdbMu8R5GmEq-Jq6qEX5CanAaG3Mghu3GgMY/s1600/kellyHurley2012crowd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNIfCZxaFlF9yU1NrHFtZYMq1Y9Rb4RXX5sWEZgHMn9qkaVxFoj3PJ2SADaruUlf9ofADBP2hZiedYxrbcCiaTg_pGLUSdZcZCGMIZuNdOdbMu8R5GmEq-Jq6qEX5CanAaG3Mghu3GgMY/s640/kellyHurley2012crowd.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kelly's self-portrait with the fans at Lowers. <br />
(That's me in the flannel to the left of his head!)</td></tr>
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/creepy_coyote/sets/72157631614043779/" target="_blank">CLICK HERE</a> to see more of my photos from the 2012 Hurley Pro on Flickr.</div>
Ghostsnapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15031831897418816030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6939088491504697922.post-79272526229533610422012-09-13T13:14:00.000-05:002012-09-13T13:15:28.640-05:00And now for something completely different...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I've been cheating on horse racing. Like, hardcore. Honestly, who could blame me with the onslaught of retirements sweeping through our sport like a rampant disease? I'll Have Another. Union Rags. Bodemeister. All of our best 3-year-olds are gone, gone, gone, and so my interest has admittedly waned following the spring races. <br />
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As someone who admittedly avoids most popular sports like a mange-ridden muskrat, it probably surprised me more than anyone I could fall in love with a new sport. Perhaps it's because this isn't just another game where the object is to move a ball from one geographical location to another; or partially due to the fact it's just so <i>different </i>from any other sport. Either way, there's a lot to love about this new [to me] sport.<br />
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I'm talking about surfing! As in in the ocean. With a board. And wetsuits. No, it's definitely not me doing the surfing. (Big HAH!) I like to leave that up to the professionals.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzX-Qz7K9uSrhdsCZqz6hFRleF64fu5tgRPLv0gjr8OXXpmnYNr0h7FfZs_XXb6kXCl8bbNANTPNMTbUOuqpLz0ZjvtRYWBTla1yCXD2cdbKzAu71mIhEaM2h4yr3Hy62u_bYLLGuWyHc/s1600/surf4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzX-Qz7K9uSrhdsCZqz6hFRleF64fu5tgRPLv0gjr8OXXpmnYNr0h7FfZs_XXb6kXCl8bbNANTPNMTbUOuqpLz0ZjvtRYWBTla1yCXD2cdbKzAu71mIhEaM2h4yr3Hy62u_bYLLGuWyHc/s320/surf4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Watching professional surfing has become my new favorite pastime. You could almost say it's like racing in its obscurity, and in its organic fundamentalism. Like racing, it really hasn't changed all that much since the first daredevil ever thought, "Hey, I betcha I could ride that." Also, the sport demands more than just physical prowess--part of what differentiates a great surfer from a good one is the ability to read the ocean and mentally manipulate your opponent, kind of like how a great jockey can read his or her horse and have that clock in his head to know when to make a move. Obviously, this is about where the similarities end.<br />
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The last thing I would claim to be is a surf writer, or an aficionado, or even mildly knowledgeable about the world of pro surfing. Over the past year, I've been following the ASP world tour via webcasts and social media, loading up the live broadcast to watch the live action for a week at a time, getting to know the ins and outs of the sport as well as the pros themselves. It's not really comparable to any other sport, because you can't always guarantee the event will be on like in any other sport. When the tournament takes place in a moving, ever-changing arena, you are at the mercy of Mother Nature to give you perfect conditions (or in some cases, any waves at all will do). So how does this work, you ask?<br />
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The pro events are given a window of time to take place between two dates. Usually these dates are spread apart by roughly a week, and are timed during the year to give the surfers the chance of competing during the location's best swell. The ASP (Association of Surfing Professionals) World Championship Tour spans across the globe, hitting up places like Fiji, France, Brazil, Australia, and in the States, California and Hawaii. Last year, they even survived the murky waters of New York. Each morning during the given event, there will be a call to announce whether surfing will commence for the day or if the weather is too abysmal to create a decent wave. If the event is called off for the day, it's called a "lay day," and everyone waits to see if surfing might resume the next day. Sometimes, the forecast calls for winds to pick up later in the day, and the event is postponed until conditions change in the surfers' favor. In this way, pro surfing is completely dependent on both the surfers' and fans' dedication. Everyone just wants to see big, glorious waves, and for the pros to get the chance to show what they can do. <br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbBojnSj8wM7q2hNudY_l-0nCtuMq0PZ-4kMS19jOUCZcEMFQWKmXK5zgzx4fcT6YEGqTs7NIXeM2EJhyphenhyphenBuqbF_lKUmbznHgfQ-3f8ffKWjedo9Oni7Hsl97DPSEvO0n-fM9-jJ0yNxxw/s1600/surfer2a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbBojnSj8wM7q2hNudY_l-0nCtuMq0PZ-4kMS19jOUCZcEMFQWKmXK5zgzx4fcT6YEGqTs7NIXeM2EJhyphenhyphenBuqbF_lKUmbznHgfQ-3f8ffKWjedo9Oni7Hsl97DPSEvO0n-fM9-jJ0yNxxw/s320/surfer2a.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Surfer at San Clemente Beach</td></tr>
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My interest in surfing began a few years ago, when I stumbled onto the public beach at San Clemente, California, to watch the sunset over the ocean. Already a fan of the Beach Boys and all their catchy surfer songs, I was hooked forever at the postcard-worthy sight of surfers cutting through the sunset-dappled waves along the pier. As a photographer, my immediate response was to begin a new hobby--taking pictures of surf culture. At the time, I vaguely knew people surfed professionally, but I didn't think to research it. My introduction to Kelly Slater, heralded as the greatest surfer of all-time, was through Pearl Jam frontman Eddie Vedder. The two are friends, Pearl Jam also has songs about surfing, and because I was just beginning to become interested in this new world, I started to pay attention any time I saw people mention surfing.<br />
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And then, last year, I went on vacation in California with the intent on visiting a handful of new beaches--bonus points if they were mentioned in a Beach Boys song--and on the second to last evening of the trip, I rolled into Huntington Beach--Surf City, USA. The first thing I noticed was the oddly crowded streets. Then, I began to see big blue banners all along the sidewalks and the city businesses. My face pressed up against the window of the car door as I read the words, "US Open of Surf." <i>No. It couldn't be.</i> There was no way I was ever lucky enough to stumble onto a giant surfing event, was there?<br />
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But yes, Virginia... I'll never forget how my eyes about fell out of my head at the pictures of the surfers on the banners. Naturally, at the time, I only recognized one, but it was enough. Kelly. Not only was Kelly's picture on the big blue banners, but also on street posts advertising the US Open, and then I saw he had his own freaking street. Oh, not to mention his handprints in the surfing walk of fame in downtown H.B. In Surf City, Kelly is like a god. And I was there. But I had no idea what was going on, or how the event worked, or if he was even surfing that day.<br />
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Unfortunately, I was only partially lucky. As it turns out, Kelly had competed earlier in the day and I'd missed him by a few hours. The next morning, I headed out to the beach hoping to see some of the competition, but could only stay for a few hours, as I had to get back to LA that night for an early flight the next morning. I saw Joel Parkinson, Dusty Payne, and a handful of others. Only vaguely did I begin to understand how waves were scored, but it wasn't a bad way to be introduced to the sport. This was the day that ignited the flame, but the fascination didn't take fire until I got home and was able to watch the final on Fuel TV. <br />
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Legends are born from epic tales, and I was about to witness one in the making. My introduction to Kelly Slater was his match against Yadin Nicol in the final. To my fellow race fans, I equate it to never having witnessed a horse race before watching Rachel Alexandra destroy her competition in the Kentucky Oaks. Because Kelly didn't just win. He went in like a shark, psyching his opponent out before the match even started with a handshake that made the commentators bust up like they were about to witness a massacre. As it turns out, they couldn't have been more right. Kelly immediately went for the throat, making big scores out of waves Yadin refused glance at. A normal surfing heat usually lasts 20-30 minutes, but a final is 40. For 35 minutes, Yadin sat in the water waiting for the big waves, his opportunity for a huge score. But as the clock ticked on, Yadin began to look more and more like a stunned fish, and it slowly became apparent the champ must've psyched out the young Aussie. In 35 minutes, he never took a single wave. No one had ever seen such a lopsided final. Within the last five minutes, Yadin halfheartedly jumped up on a little wave that immediately closed out on him. Kelly said after the heat was over, "Well, I guess Yadin wanted me to win, he just didn't catch any waves."<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1UnY4wy8W3-F7iJTsxPiD9mOIwdFhVbap3PRHqRD0bzf3jGxDOgENmcEGlhE3_HQgz8jU1zrz9l3rYgnG_FMIQ-ZvMZ7RHnhzUUiqUoNybfdvcDc07_bHcGvqWDRGYFUY7uKWWBySPSM/s1600/kellyslater5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1UnY4wy8W3-F7iJTsxPiD9mOIwdFhVbap3PRHqRD0bzf3jGxDOgENmcEGlhE3_HQgz8jU1zrz9l3rYgnG_FMIQ-ZvMZ7RHnhzUUiqUoNybfdvcDc07_bHcGvqWDRGYFUY7uKWWBySPSM/s320/kellyslater5.jpg" width="219" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kelly Slater (I wish this was my photo!)</td></tr>
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So, yeah. You could say I was impressed by my introduction to Kelly. More than just making me an instant fan, the US Open of Surf made me realize there were webcasts I could watch to keep up with the sport. It all began there, and I never looked back. Because of that event, I was able to watch Kelly win his 11th world title later in the year and re-solidify his already unparalleled legacy. With a career spanning 20 years, Kelly was the youngest surfer to ever win a world title when he was 20 years old, and in 2011, he became the oldest at age 39. Now at 40, he's still competing against the world's best, though 2012 has been tougher on him. Because of the nature of surfing, it's already an anomaly for Kelly to be competing in these events at his age, so there's always talk of retirement. He actually did retire briefly, (1999-2001) but came back full-force.<br />
<br />
And while talk of Kelly retiring for good may be common in surfing circles, as a fan who has seen her fair share of athletes retiring in their prime, my first urge was to see him as soon as possible before he leaves the pro circuit and I lose my chance to see him in person. There are some things so precious in this world, you simply cannot wait around with the hopes of one day witnessing them--you have to make it happen, or forever bemoan your hesitation. I flew to Santa Anita to see Zenyatta's farewell parade before she was un-retired for a year, and I don't regret it one bit. That happened to be the same trip I saw the surfers at the San Clemente pier for the first time. And so, tomorrow I will fly to California to see Kelly Slater surf at Trestles. And I know no matter the outcome of the event, to witness Greatness in the flesh will be no disappointment.<br />
<br />
My only hope is my camera doesn't betray me. </div>
Ghostsnapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15031831897418816030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6939088491504697922.post-3031459254041780432012-06-07T13:38:00.001-05:002012-06-07T13:42:18.849-05:00My Triple Crown Dichotomy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Since Silver Charm lost the Belmont to Touch Gold in 1997, I
have made it my life goal to see a Triple Crown victory. Even if it means
having my head cryogenically preserved and saved till there’s a real chance in
200 years, I vowed to see this happen. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6vEFtBYeniHl_y_jTNQyGraO-Kbg1j4n_xC31GMRZLlihiNX7omP0SlNuVaLWzOh3oNkwTu5YWKgPp69imAfGtfgwcHx2rEVHlXEDmsmsiYI6IXfqlfQZclDd4fCPHfd7jwvQkqrQw_U/s1600/realquietbelmontphoto.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6vEFtBYeniHl_y_jTNQyGraO-Kbg1j4n_xC31GMRZLlihiNX7omP0SlNuVaLWzOh3oNkwTu5YWKgPp69imAfGtfgwcHx2rEVHlXEDmsmsiYI6IXfqlfQZclDd4fCPHfd7jwvQkqrQw_U/s320/realquietbelmontphoto.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The nose heard 'round the world.</td></tr>
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The Triple Crown bug first bit me when I was 14; the last
near-miss had come when I was 6 and too young to understand the gravity of the
event. I kind of blame Bob Baffert for hooking me, because his horse lost the
Crown by ¾ of a length in 1997, and then by a nose in 1998. I was so crazy
about Real Quiet, I resorted to bad poetry when the unlucky Fish lost. It
taught me to want something with every fiber of my being, to dare to hope the
seemingly impossible could happen. One. Freaking. Nostril. Yeah, I cried, I
hated Victory Gallop with the wrath of a thousand burning suns. To this day, I
sneer when I see a progeny of that horse in the winner’s circle. That legendary
photo finish and its heart-shattering result will be ingrained in me forever.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhliIs1vYgxJCY6yaiX82h9L1wQTYYxm0aDylCaBy33JYqtDiv1H39issiukWwTEAseOYmfzuXT0o0PI1DYdO15zHEMeA_fGGyBAkTIK82p2x-cGYYo2H9z0M_ciK6aUyHJ3DLfHrVUFuE/s1600/CharismaticBelmont.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhliIs1vYgxJCY6yaiX82h9L1wQTYYxm0aDylCaBy33JYqtDiv1H39issiukWwTEAseOYmfzuXT0o0PI1DYdO15zHEMeA_fGGyBAkTIK82p2x-cGYYo2H9z0M_ciK6aUyHJ3DLfHrVUFuE/s320/CharismaticBelmont.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chris Antley saves Charismatic.</td></tr>
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In 1999, I drew elaborate pictures of Charismatic in my
sketchbook with his granddaddy, Secretariat, looking down at him from the
heavens. He would win and carry on the legacy of the greatest race horse who ever lived.
Plus, his name just rang like it belonged in the sacred hall of Triple Crown
winners. Count Fleet. Whirlaway. Assault. Citation. Charismatic. Then something
went wrong in the stretch, and that golden horse’s life was suddenly hanging by
a thread, saved by the heart of his jockey, Chris Antley. </div>
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Perhaps it was the frailty of that moment that sucked the
excitement from the next two Triple Crown hopefuls. They didn’t have that
special something the horses of the 90s had. Something deep down just told me War
Emblem and Funny Cide wouldn’t do it. Both faltered in the Belmont, and I wasn’t
surprised.</div>
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And then came Smarty Jones, and the clouds parted again.
This was a horse with that something. This was a storybook ending waiting to
happen. When Smarty made his bid for the Crown, I postponed my vacation. I
wanted to be at Belmont Park so badly, I was practically hyperventilating.
Undefeated, a dominating winner with a great underdog story, and a fantastic
name, I was SURE he was going to be The One. It ended up being a good thing I
didn’t make that trip to Belmont. I probably would’ve ended up in a strait
jacket after his jockey made Smarty move too early, serving him a 2<sup>nd</sup>-place
finish. I went even more berserk when his owners made the decision to retire
him after his only loss.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjou38N0ebanFsI7Tbtd9qRUVYJVIlraFObd15KHVUX5BQQFaKtKHDvvTxdTMN8QIunbzqnP01LKC_qZfecJvj4PstehZSbYv-CUeoYQGWdIp5IHyqhtEAFm_FdPHNpcqJCEJQ4r17mPAU/s1600/bigbrownbelmont1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjou38N0ebanFsI7Tbtd9qRUVYJVIlraFObd15KHVUX5BQQFaKtKHDvvTxdTMN8QIunbzqnP01LKC_qZfecJvj4PstehZSbYv-CUeoYQGWdIp5IHyqhtEAFm_FdPHNpcqJCEJQ4r17mPAU/s320/bigbrownbelmont1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Big Brown is eased in the Belmont Stakes.</td></tr>
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Oh, Big Brown. You were Smarty Part II. Undefeated, winning
by explosive margins, the classic name. The whole package. I had to work on
Belmont day, shooting a wedding, and I convinced them to schedule my arrival
time so that I could be home before post time. I must’ve driven 80 mph to get
home to see the post parade and hear the crowd lose their minds as the Call to
the Post was sounded and the horses were leaving the paddock. I was so
convinced Big Brown would win, I made him a cake. Yes, a cake. With a crown on
it. Because my Triple Crown sickness makes me a crazy person. I knew
something was wrong as the horses went into the first turn. And when Kent
Desormeaux began to pull him up, Big Brown fighting against the bit, tossing
his head because he was so prepared to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">run</i>,
it was disbelief. A nightmare. That damn twisted shoe. Another lesson in how
the stars have to literally align, and how one speck of dirt cannot be out of
place in order for this miracle of sporting victories to coalesce. Big Brown
should’ve won, but he was eased to last.</div>
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Now, in 2012, there’s another chance for history to be made,
and I haven’t been able to make up my mind about how I stand on it. I know more
about horse racing now than I ever have, and that bug has yet to go away, but
this year, my desire is so much more lacking. It’s depressing. I’ve never met
anyone who wants to see a Triple Crown more in their lifetime, and yet this
year, I don’t really think I’m prepared for it. At least not this Saturday, on
this year. Maybe it's because I'm distracted with a move to a new town, or because I know I have to work on Belmont Saturday (again), but it's true. Whether it's just me or not, I can't help but feel something is off.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGvg1tfiN5C0gQ8Uk9qrBhU7KWRUh2uvtd_CNHVIqJf7dmRRLYYZhApqpETfZLi7xXdoBEQX96-ou_j86X-cpU9klxZ3Xm6355lYCMNHiUud8mXY3LQ4AbvFuwpGSNGClX11OtCb8aQdw/s1600/jamesiha.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGvg1tfiN5C0gQ8Uk9qrBhU7KWRUh2uvtd_CNHVIqJf7dmRRLYYZhApqpETfZLi7xXdoBEQX96-ou_j86X-cpU9klxZ3Xm6355lYCMNHiUud8mXY3LQ4AbvFuwpGSNGClX11OtCb8aQdw/s320/jamesiha.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Iha didn't want to have another go with the Smashing Pumpkins.</td></tr>
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What’s sad is that I’ll Have Another has all the credentials
to make a serious run at this miracle accomplishment. His running style and his
record this year are all good signs. But there are a few reasons I’m having a
hard time getting behind him. I picked him in my top three choices to win the
Kentucky Derby, because I thought he was good enough to win. So it’s not a lack
of faith. Honestly? I think most of my reluctance lies in that stupid name. It’s
not a describing word or phrase like Gallant Fox or Affirmed, it’s not a real
name like Sir Barton or Seattle Slew, it has no power or legendary sound to it
like Secretariat or War Admiral. It’s a dumb frat boy saying, cookie origin or
not. I’ll Have Another. You can’t even make a nickname out of it. Unless you go
with IHA, as in James Iha, former guitarist of the Smashing Pumpkins. Okay, I
guess that works… but not really. </div>
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And, of course, there’s the sad fact that his trainer has
the nickname “Drug” O’Neill. People want a Triple Crown to save racing, but if
that winner is handled by someone with a record of suspensions and breakdowns like
this guy, he’s not going to convince any newcomers this sport is worth saving.
It doesn’t matter how clean this one horse is. If I’ll Have Another wins, people
will uncover all the dirt on O’Neill and fling it directly at that
triangle-shaped trophy. Because that’s what people do to those on top. The <i>New
York Times</i> is<a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2012/05/11/sports/trainer-of-kentucky-derby-winner-has-a-troubled-record.html?pagewanted=all" target="_blank"> already all over that story</a>. And more are salivating on the
sidelines for their chance to chip in their dirt. You can hear the
murmuring. After all the confetti and trumpets and cheers have fallen, this is
the reality that awaits a 2012 Triple Crown winner.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxzqk6AZYXrrDUA96eR36Hr_8WRcvU1DXKVjyykfFXt4ZrAOu1viCH51o3fPMYvxWH0hsHN51RJuKFRLa2Hz-ki4NDtm9TvwsMmuuOvC7rtNF8tqbFoESxIe8oRMMGj0xqZPIi0XtSKoo/s1600/illhaveanother05sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxzqk6AZYXrrDUA96eR36Hr_8WRcvU1DXKVjyykfFXt4ZrAOu1viCH51o3fPMYvxWH0hsHN51RJuKFRLa2Hz-ki4NDtm9TvwsMmuuOvC7rtNF8tqbFoESxIe8oRMMGj0xqZPIi0XtSKoo/s320/illhaveanother05sm.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'll Have Another is led to the Kentucky Derby winner's circle.</td></tr>
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And I don’t want something I’ve been dying to witness for
the past 13 years to be marred with disrespect. If I didn’t know so much, maybe
it would be different. Maybe I could get past it and just root for the horse,
like I did with Big Brown. I was able to overlook “The Babe,” so I should be
able to overlook camp IHA, right? But I can’t. And I’m afraid that because of
this, this is the year I will get my wish. Maybe I should be careful what I
wish for. </div>
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Through my growth in knowledge of all things horse racing, I
have gained one very important angle I never used to have. When I was a kid, I
only watched the Triple Crown and big stakes races broadcast on network television.
When most of those non-Triple Crown races fell off of networks like NBC, CBS,
and ABC, I stopped watching them because I didn’t have cable. Now I have HRTV
and TVG, as well as the Internet to follow horses from their first races at
2-year-old. I watch everything, so I know more horses than ever. And I can be
happy for them if they win. I never would’ve dreamt in a million years I would
be happy for a Triple Crown spoiler—the thought was plain sacrilege. But now?
If Union Rags were to win the Belmont, I would probably be more happy than if I
finally got to see a Triple Crown transpire. Because I want him to get his
revenge and prove all his doubters wrong. And Dullahan? He wouldn’t be a
surprise, either, to be honest. Look at how strongly he was coming on at the
end of the Kentucky Derby. A few more yards, and what might’ve happened? We
might be rooting on the Irish Headless Horseman, and anyone who knows me can
tell you that’s right up my alley. So,
with growth comes a maturity that I may or may not need to handle the outcome
of I’ll Have Another’s Triple Crown bid. Growing up can truly suck, but it has
its advantages. </div>
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The question is, when it comes down to post time, who am I going
to be rooting for? Honestly? It depends on who’s watching the race—the dewy-eyed,
naïve kid in me, or the wizened race fan. Like race horses, I can’t be sure
which one will show up on Saturday.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://horseracing.about.com/od/kentuckyderby/l/aa052101a.htm" target="_blank">List of Triple Crown winners and near-misses. </a></div>
</div>Ghostsnapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15031831897418816030noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6939088491504697922.post-90252854669246937672012-05-21T10:52:00.001-05:002012-05-21T10:52:21.427-05:00Favorite photos from 2011<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Not gonna lie. 2011 wasn't my favorite year, neither for racing nor for me, personally. So I wasn't particularly motivated to blog, or even put together a best-of post. But hindsight is 20/20, right? I now have a better appreciation for the races I shot last year and have decided to put together a better-late-than-never post about my top ten favorite racing shots from 2011. So here, without further ado, is my least-sucky shots from a less than stellar year.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIKUHxclrM4r3QtBA6KFk86vw6hwib7No8HosvcHzK4-VNtV7XRjYD6z46kyfJ8X7AOjhuoZt12qggwk0gKoOTufQMEalClcWWva-EGd3XbX6SnxyRqAPdBFy1i9-lurgpR0ZzAVUsXNY/s1600/thefactor2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIKUHxclrM4r3QtBA6KFk86vw6hwib7No8HosvcHzK4-VNtV7XRjYD6z46kyfJ8X7AOjhuoZt12qggwk0gKoOTufQMEalClcWWva-EGd3XbX6SnxyRqAPdBFy1i9-lurgpR0ZzAVUsXNY/s1600/thefactor2.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Factor finds a scratchin' post</td></tr>
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I took an impromptu trip down to Hot Springs, Arkansas to shoot the Rebel Stakes. While I was there, I stalked The Factor on the backstretch, where I discovered the gray/roan colt has quite the personality. During a bath, he started playfully shoving around his assistant trainer and used him to rub his head. I loved how this moment showed the bond between these two.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuL0ukxsaGZwaXVyeqEjjornD_ExFXJs8y6DJJA-zDxTSkFNxkbs2Mbl_PRQtB0TpJ8h8Zw4yYia5hgvWbhLKN2mia1F6wdf9c_KvdmrvGxYPkYhKyj_jkzCi_0miipALYJ4BNNy1d0O0/s1600/havredegrace2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuL0ukxsaGZwaXVyeqEjjornD_ExFXJs8y6DJJA-zDxTSkFNxkbs2Mbl_PRQtB0TpJ8h8Zw4yYia5hgvWbhLKN2mia1F6wdf9c_KvdmrvGxYPkYhKyj_jkzCi_0miipALYJ4BNNy1d0O0/s1600/havredegrace2.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Winners' portrait: Havre de Grace and Ramon Dominguez</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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Winner's circle shots are mostly boring and full of distracting background clutter. Not so at Oaklawn Park, where for their major stakes races, the horse and rider are taken into the manicured infield for a beautiful win photo. I don't think I've ever taken a more aesthetically pleasing winner's circle photo, which is suiting for Havre de Grace, as she would later go on to claim the ultimate prize, Horse of the Year. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Sc3WVf-j6EPATitS7nAm47MT3b_UPq-aldayAhpDt_Vg9IDqeEIYbQL0WWAiGAw2MScOmyZG0Nv6V9zeXxD3IZdAOFPh934ijfhZTaCiHKfyYQ3QR1L11xfsDTkXLnr5tuPLCAApTAs/s1600/joevannremote.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Sc3WVf-j6EPATitS7nAm47MT3b_UPq-aldayAhpDt_Vg9IDqeEIYbQL0WWAiGAw2MScOmyZG0Nv6V9zeXxD3IZdAOFPh934ijfhZTaCiHKfyYQ3QR1L11xfsDTkXLnr5tuPLCAApTAs/s1600/joevannremote.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joe Vann wins the Illinois Derby</td></tr>
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2011 was the year of the remote. I received a pair of PocketWizards for my birthday and dove into the world of remote photography, which let me tell you, is a whole 'nother frontier. I had trouble figuring it out at first. But thanks to a helpful tip about how to plug in my PocketWizard properly from Hawthorne's own <a href="http://www.fourfootedfotos.com/" target="_blank">track photographer</a>, I was able to get this shot of the Illinois Derby. It was beginner's luck, and is still the best remote photo I've yet to take. It helps that Hawthorne has some of the absolute best lighting I've seen at a racetrack. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCu5kxXVOuXqrirrH5StpdXGd2wsWAiqNBAg2oDwm-bKYFyvV4CifzXc0eegIkxpFkhukVs9jha6AJ6bf_V6LltJ8D0M8Tu0NewuS_GubuEzFkDwdc5ULVVDCavxWXMBs9WN-AdbDM9rs/s1600/plumprettybath.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCu5kxXVOuXqrirrH5StpdXGd2wsWAiqNBAg2oDwm-bKYFyvV4CifzXc0eegIkxpFkhukVs9jha6AJ6bf_V6LltJ8D0M8Tu0NewuS_GubuEzFkDwdc5ULVVDCavxWXMBs9WN-AdbDM9rs/s1600/plumprettybath.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Plum Pretty is bathed after a gallop at Churchill Downs</td></tr>
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When I finally received my first Kentucky Derby credential, my number one priority, as silly as it may sound, was to take a classic horse bath picture during Derby week. I took a lot of horse bath pictures before this, of much more famous horses, at much more aesthetic tracks (Rachel Alexandra at Saratoga, ahem). But nothing is as magical as the backstretch of Churchill Downs during Derby week. I got lucky and found Plum Pretty still getting her bath following the morning works, and ghostly steam was rising off of her in the chilled air. She went on to win the Kentucky Oaks.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYLeV4rkuIeSPtwCEnHSovQxJRDiAkXdED384KnQjiQLyiFFsVzweD9_Q53r_dFQHpDJymM5Y2eD_Qcp3J4G6E5hJOnGHK9g1bCk3gZj3QI944ypA2JjC-pBW4weVJIWmExACvncaFU0Y/s1600/animalkingdom3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYLeV4rkuIeSPtwCEnHSovQxJRDiAkXdED384KnQjiQLyiFFsVzweD9_Q53r_dFQHpDJymM5Y2eD_Qcp3J4G6E5hJOnGHK9g1bCk3gZj3QI944ypA2JjC-pBW4weVJIWmExACvncaFU0Y/s1600/animalkingdom3.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Animal Kingdom wins the Kentucky Derby</td></tr>
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My first time shooting the Kentucky Derby as a credentialed photographer was a whirlwind. But what was most important to me was that I not mess up the win shot. Nothing else compares to shooting the Kentucky Derby for the sheer pressure, adrenaline rush, and the electric nerves sparking and jerking your every synapse to <i>not mess up</i>. By the grace of the racing gods, I was given a break in the stretch of the Derby and given one less thing to worry about when the sun went behind the clouds and I didn't have to consider the burst of sunlight past the wire. This is my favorite shot of the finish, though I have closer ones. Animal Kingdom stands out in the foreground thanks to my focus, and all three prominent horses are in the exact same synchronized stride. (Poor Nehro is blocked in the background.) Kind of a poetry in motion.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbCnUub96uAVLlC0MgEgmBiLfX0b23wBF9Wvpr_Akr85Z4sSNaUL4n53Okox03RFlYsdiUFY2yolKolx1Iemm9KptivJ5og8ZKHWL9KnFK2zRqGBfAHHTvcCgexFKQ9Qv8wZOswTUdr6Y/s1600/byanose1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbCnUub96uAVLlC0MgEgmBiLfX0b23wBF9Wvpr_Akr85Z4sSNaUL4n53Okox03RFlYsdiUFY2yolKolx1Iemm9KptivJ5og8ZKHWL9KnFK2zRqGBfAHHTvcCgexFKQ9Qv8wZOswTUdr6Y/s1600/byanose1.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">By a nose</td></tr>
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This was one of those photos that didn't mean much until you see the results. Glenwood Canyon (#4), is the actual winner, and managed to hold off the late charge of Modern Cowboy (outside). If I can remember, this was one of the final races on Churchill Downs' Friday night card, and I shot it to practice for the beam. Just one of those serendipitous moments where everything goes right, your camera stays in focus, and you manage to not cut off a horse's nose. The perfect night racing shot.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPMN0hgjUU-Jp_6d7sTxL_5SwqRHhtW0BON5h-X7DdQ3Jdc5B6nK8B-jmG5UUg-rU5_keHcXnM3ZlR5ERz8DbBOf8xfiW3m1g6mgIw8XkAdWtxXfxqYUi3MKB5O389PNlA0cvPnba0QR8/s1600/arlingtonmillion2011winkiss.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Million-dollar Kiss</td></tr>
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The Arlington Million is the most prestigious race in my home state, and I'm constantly trying to take a unique photo of the event. After Cape Blanco walked into the winner's circle with the Million's flower garland over his shoulders, this moment happened between his connections. Another moment where I just happened to be in the right place at the right time. It's probably one of my very favorite winner's circle pictures ever.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-OrXiAO7aXFMJB9e0EdsR-lWSR-vs95mMU-JiVYqfZ_QXHN2Y-ENDpI5WjiV975_u9ylrydaxovrP9UHexkbh8zaOlRD0AdkTwm6x48pRDUKHP2AR7V0MZCp4Y1zF42XyrQ_1SMpnKjA/s1600/wastedtears.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-OrXiAO7aXFMJB9e0EdsR-lWSR-vs95mMU-JiVYqfZ_QXHN2Y-ENDpI5WjiV975_u9ylrydaxovrP9UHexkbh8zaOlRD0AdkTwm6x48pRDUKHP2AR7V0MZCp4Y1zF42XyrQ_1SMpnKjA/s1600/wastedtears.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wasted Tears</td></tr>
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I was on a mission to take a nice photo of Wasted Tears because of requests from fans on Twitter (shout-out to @tencentcielo). This was the second time I'd seen the talented mare race in person, but unfortunately, she didn't win either time. On the gallop back from the Grade I First Lady Stakes, which would be her final race, I happened to find myself beneath the rail checking my remote camera when she came back. I froze to keep from spooking her, and managed to snap this picture on my belly as she galloped by. You won't see too many photos from Keeneland from this angle.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_fuE3gIr6o-BuKOE0eO7rr7ehYrBAhXVLZMkYaJlhRPwwNHhiItE1qNwOxvIOjuLmPfQfIEsVnH8HOM1fGkSTIt8qwm8uoyAiAabyAMDNdtdeetQvvKzYQ5LGXfGU6XcjC-nF4vq6Qao/s1600/giopontikee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_fuE3gIr6o-BuKOE0eO7rr7ehYrBAhXVLZMkYaJlhRPwwNHhiItE1qNwOxvIOjuLmPfQfIEsVnH8HOM1fGkSTIt8qwm8uoyAiAabyAMDNdtdeetQvvKzYQ5LGXfGU6XcjC-nF4vq6Qao/s1600/giopontikee.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gio Ponti wins the Shadwell Turf Mile</td></tr>
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I love Gio Ponti. World-traveling war horse, Gio just found himself getting stuck with too much bad luck or bad rides throughout 2011 and unbelievably, was looking for his first win in a year. When I was there to witness his comeback in the Shadwell Turf Mile, it really made my year. I was literally in tears when he came onto the turf for his winner's circle shot. And then when I saw my remote actually captured the moment, well, it doesn't get any better than that.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglu0pMG_gQOYwmr6J5Jo75EWPWUsainQS1wXXF94lcHWMdITq2E7jUq975AIB13jcwXGT1oqp1bjEI4m28dSmq6_7TO41OT3ehT273IOepBaWoKWjQZwH475p6ybu5p8gpfL4KbPA4C7E/s1600/onfirebaby1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglu0pMG_gQOYwmr6J5Jo75EWPWUsainQS1wXXF94lcHWMdITq2E7jUq975AIB13jcwXGT1oqp1bjEI4m28dSmq6_7TO41OT3ehT273IOepBaWoKWjQZwH475p6ybu5p8gpfL4KbPA4C7E/s1600/onfirebaby1.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On Fire Baby wins the Golden Rod</td></tr>
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I fell in love with On Fire Baby in the Golden Rod. Admittedly, photographers fall in love with gray horses maybe too easily because they're photogenic, but when they win by huge margins, it makes the fall easier. This remote is Ruffian-esque, and didn't need much cropping, so it was another success in my remote challenge. The love jockey Joe Johnson poured onto the filly after the race was absolutely memorable and made for even more great Kodak moments. <br />
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Ghostsnapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15031831897418816030noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6939088491504697922.post-57704316161547457912012-01-30T17:32:00.001-06:002012-01-30T17:38:36.194-06:00We have a winner!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Thank you to everyone who participated in my camera phone photography contest. It was very difficult to narrow it down to only one photo, but ultimately, it all came down to this eye-catching shot of Havre de Grace in the paddock before going on to dominate in the Grade I Beldame. Congratulations to the winning photographer, Derek Brown! Here is Derek's entry:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU0voC6nzLzohOuJwbRb86tDpF7zpVdsQVsJwDBX1UhavRhrdYDguwoHhFGXo-0uUU17pt65NeN6mGuSK6yj-CASVJmiDhkACvJRTSQxXaMKT20N5ZbPyQ3-lRtiNtwu7U0ATubnm8c2o/s1600/derekbrownHDG2011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU0voC6nzLzohOuJwbRb86tDpF7zpVdsQVsJwDBX1UhavRhrdYDguwoHhFGXo-0uUU17pt65NeN6mGuSK6yj-CASVJmiDhkACvJRTSQxXaMKT20N5ZbPyQ3-lRtiNtwu7U0ATubnm8c2o/s320/derekbrownHDG2011.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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Several aspects made this photo stand out among the rest. For one, this was a contest for pictures taken with a camera phone, which makes the general process of photography tougher than usual. Taking a good picture of a race horse in a paddock can be extremely challenging--even with a professional camera. The subject's movement is usually erratic, and the shadows from trees make lighting tricky. Not only is Havre de Grace in focus in this shot--Derek actually froze the subject in motion while panning his camera phone--she appears to be looking right at him. Add to the fact he caught a nice moment between horse and trainer, and you have a unique and striking photo. Here's what the photographer had to say about his picture:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">"Belmont's Super Saturday card had so many great horses, but the star of the entire show was clearly Havre De Grace. I scouted several spots in the paddock to try and get a shot of her before heading out to the track. The horses only go by one time once the riders are up, and from past experience shooting with an iPhone, it's pretty easy to mess up the shot. I found a spot just before the horses leave the paddock that wasn't crowded and snapped a shot as she was walking towards me. The picture was horrible - it ended up cutting half of her off, along with jockey Ramon Dominguez's head. I tried once more as she was directly in front of me and ended up with this photo. I brightened it up a little bit in Camera+ with the clarity effect, then used the Lomo-fi filter in Instagram. It wasn't until looking at it later that I really noticed how Larry Jones looking at her - that look was so genuine and conveyed exactly how much he loved that filly. It's an amazing feeling to be so close to greatness, and watching her win that day gave me chills.</span>"</blockquote>Follow Derek on Twitter @NJDerek. Congratulations, Derek! </div>Ghostsnapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15031831897418816030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6939088491504697922.post-54194819519902899282012-01-19T17:55:00.002-06:002012-01-30T17:37:52.272-06:00Photography Contest!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsTSl2gHIWFg8F3fedq_UzT1V17s_MOrmfbwbEhgyxs4to3knA-LBWKR0G_gaC1L_CppWqpYzwrulTgQTmff9BGyY_Daa2RWQMVCQpZPIk3rRt5BbY_FtagKb8geai0RsJpWS8p5YCTuw/s1600/horsephotos2012calendar.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsTSl2gHIWFg8F3fedq_UzT1V17s_MOrmfbwbEhgyxs4to3knA-LBWKR0G_gaC1L_CppWqpYzwrulTgQTmff9BGyY_Daa2RWQMVCQpZPIk3rRt5BbY_FtagKb8geai0RsJpWS8p5YCTuw/s320/horsephotos2012calendar.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yup, this is what you'll get if you win.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Horsephotos.com puts out a racing calendar every year, and as I am one of their photographers, I get a complimentary calendar for my contributions. This year I have an extra, and thought it might be fun to hold a photography contest and give it to the winning entrant.<br />
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To put things on a level playing field, I decided to make the subject matter limited not just to racing, but to all animals. (I wasn't able to journey to my first horse racing track until I was a senior in high school, after all--how would 17-year-old <i>me </i>feel?) Even though technically, humans are animals, please no people shots. (Though if you sent me a fantastic picture of Bono, I would possibly make an exception. He sort of roars like a lion, right?)<br />
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Also, this photography contest is limited to pictures taken with a camera phone. I know what you're thinking--but you're a professional photographer, why would you hold a contest taken with the most basic and dinky of cameras? Because I want this to be a fair fight, that's why! Now I know not all camera phones are created equal, so just try to do your best.<br />
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<b>In short, THE RULES:</b><br />
<ul style="text-align: left;"><li><b>Photo must be taken with a </b><b>camera phone</b>. Please be honorable about this and DON'T CHEAT. I will more than likely be able to tell if you are fibbing and I will throw out your entry.</li>
<li><b>Photo must be of an </b><b>animal</b>. It doesn't matter who owns the animal, just as long as I don't get any pictures of your Uncle Ted sleeping after Thanksgiving or something. Pictures of people will be tossed. This probably goes without saying, but if you send me any pictures of animal abuse, I'll retaliate by sending you a virus that will explode your computer and cause your house to burn down. </li>
<li><b>Pictures must be submitted in high-resolution</b>. A tiny cropped photo is simply hard to see and probably means you're trying to hide the fact it's of poor quality. </li>
<li><b>Pictures may be edited using Instagram, etc</b>. But, in all honesty, the less Photoshopped the picture is, the better chance it has of winning. I'm not crazy about excessive use of photo editing. </li>
<li><b>You must be <a href="https://twitter.com/#%21/wowhorse" target="_blank">following me on Twitter</a> or be a <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/Jamie-Newell-Photography/341608233986?ref=ts" target="_blank">fan of my photography on Facebook</a>.</b> I don't know how you would find out about this contest if you aren't already doing one of these, anyway...</li>
<li><b>Only one entry per person. </b>Make it count!<b><br />
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<li><b>Entries must be sent to me at wowhorse@gmail.com by midnight Central Time on January 27, 2012. </b>Please include your first and last name in your email and put PHOTO CALENDAR CONTEST in the subject of the email.</li>
<li><b>Contest is open strictly to the United States and Canada. </b>I'm really sorry to all of my friends down in Oz, but you're basically a whole planet away. Then again, if you're willing to pony up the shipping cost, sure, go crazy. </li>
</ul>Pictures inside this 12-month calendar include Zenyatta, Victoire Pisa, Animal Kingdom, Shackleford, Ruler on Ice, First Dude, Game on Dude, Stay Thirsty, Cape Blanco, Havre de Grace, and Drosselmeyer. If you're into that kind of thing, I'll sign it for you. My favorite photo of Zenyatta I took happens to be on my birth month.<br />
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I'll post the winning photo here on my blog. Good luck to all the entrants! May the Horse be with You!<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;"></ul></div>Ghostsnapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15031831897418816030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6939088491504697922.post-889050491936743212012-01-19T15:20:00.001-06:002012-01-19T15:21:23.701-06:00Mighty Eclipse Winner<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqtJ_Lj-fyY4XSSnXwUKbY6yT-iaIeJqwPgEN_vcaYI4Wi0lF2F8WEY3auWtP4xluh0KKY2fkQDVYase3ggR6am1mz_j85DBYgJ0UR-TFb4L2fYJqzdNvgLzhq1PISuAkHiS5PTLJSG-c/s1600/mayberger1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqtJ_Lj-fyY4XSSnXwUKbY6yT-iaIeJqwPgEN_vcaYI4Wi0lF2F8WEY3auWtP4xluh0KKY2fkQDVYase3ggR6am1mz_j85DBYgJ0UR-TFb4L2fYJqzdNvgLzhq1PISuAkHiS5PTLJSG-c/s320/mayberger1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mighty Mayberger at Hollywood Park</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Let me tell you a secret about horse racing photographers: Not all of them even like horse racing. Pretty sad, isn’t it, as they are given some of the most intimate, up-close access to our great sport? These are the people who don’t know the names of the horses, don’t follow the race results, and don’t know the difference between an outrider’s pony and Zenyatta.<br />
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Then there is the other side of the coin. There are racing photographers out there who love the sport so much, they will travel across the globe to take thousands of breathtaking photos that most people will never see. They follow individual horses for the sheer love of the sport. (And the fact they are positively, one hundred percent, certifiably addicted to shooting the races.) They’re called crazy by some people—by those who just don’t understand. <br />
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I will have been professionally photographing Thoroughbred racing for only three years this June, but I have met nearly all of the best racing photographers in that amount of time, because there are so few of us. It only takes about a single minute to figure out the motivation behind each of them. When I came upon the horse paparazzi at Belmont Park for my first time as a credentialed photographer, I had no clue I was about to meet people just as whacked out of their minds about racing as I was. I met every mindset of photographers—but in those so-called “crazies,” I found my people.<br />
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Of course, we were all there for the Belmont Stakes, so all the best were in town, including this guy who sort of did his own thing and stayed off the monkeybars with the rest of us, Bob Mayberger. I found out fast he was a good photographer to follow, because not only did he know the track, he liked to take photos of every single aspect of the race—the walk over, the paddock fauna, the post parade, everything—just like me. Of course, I’d never done this before, so I was a racing maniac on top of a tourist. I’ve kind of maintained that, as have the best of the devoted. We just can’t let a moment slip by, because anything can happen at any given moment. A horse might sneeze, for instance. (Only kidding. Kind of.)<br />
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It also helped that Bob was one of the nicest photographers I’d had the chance to meet, and as I came to find out, not all of them are like that. It was a rainy day at Belmont the first two days I went out with credentials, and he was one of the only photographers slopping around in the muck and mire with me. When the rain really started to come down, he leant me his spare lens jacket so my equipment wouldn’t get soaked. I found out later his claim to fame was the shot of Big Brown’s bent horseshoe in the 2008 Belmont Stakes—the only person who seemed to have gotten this photo (or at least culled through his pictures enough to realize it). It quickly became apparent Bob was one of the good guys, someone who loved to capture the beauty of the sport and actually cared about the horses themselves. He wasn’t going to be one of those people who got a thrill out of snapping a shot of a horse breaking down. (Sadly, those photographers exist, too.) At Belmont, the other photographers even had a nickname for him—the Mighty Mayberger.<br />
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I met him again the next month, in a very unexpected place—Hollywood Park. This is when I began to realize that Bob was just as “crazy” as I was. We were both in town for the night races prior to Hollywood Gold Cup Day, and it was the first time to that track for both of us. We found it to be a photographer’s paradise, in disbelief some people referred to it as “the Aqueduct of the West.” Just another example of his appreciation for the beauty in racing others fail to see. That was the weekend I really got to know Bob, and nearly shook him off a crate in my excitement over Rail Trip winning the Gold Cup. (We fashioned a makeshift photographer’s stand out of a bucket and a dilapidated crate we found in the infield, and had to push them together to hold each other’s balance to shoot the race from the inside.) Due to our equal enthusiasm for racing, I ended up shooting with him at several other tracks; he became more than just a friendly face on my side of the rail, he became a friend.<br />
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Of course, this was during the glory days of Rachel and Zenyatta; it was a gift to be a fan during this period, and our luck we were able to shoot these living legends during their prime. When I was heartbroken I couldn’t be there in person to see Rachel run, Bob picked me up Rachel swag and mailed it to me. He understood what it meant to be a fan. When I got pictures of Zenyatta and found Bob lurking in the background, he was the first to see them.<br />
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Over the following years, I became aware of how unique Bob was and why he so rightly deserved the “Mighty” moniker. He is the only photographer I have ever met that travels the world to shoot horse racing on a regular basis. He shot 637 stakes races over the past three years, 207 grade or group Is. Outside of California and two at Keeneland, he has shot every major grade I race in North America. He has a passion to shoot at every racetrack he possibly can, from Golden Gate Fields to Royal Ascot. He doesn’t do this because it’s a good business move—Bob globetrots for the love of the sport. The horse paparazzi could not ask for a better spokesman, and that’s why his win in the 2011 Eclipse Award for Photography is such a big deal. Nobody else puts forward the kind of dedication and effort he does, always looking to capture a new perspective and show off the best sides our sport has to offer. So many times, the Eclipse has gone to a photo that highlights the tragic side of racing, or doesn’t offer up anything we haven’t already seen before. Frankie Dettori always performs his flying dismount after a stakes victory—how many times are we going to award this famous shot an Eclipse Award? <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVg1V6aUBZIC5uPAGKSQyCUnA5k1Cs20OkOxuebniY6BTtxz9lRNhYj4QV0QjrOFYX0IiWZ0tJLj0qfISm5k985YwtzzAPZEbLsEiOC8hmepgtc0HYsYac3InffgynK1tgjldl62y6aKE/s1600/maybergereclipseshot2011sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVg1V6aUBZIC5uPAGKSQyCUnA5k1Cs20OkOxuebniY6BTtxz9lRNhYj4QV0QjrOFYX0IiWZ0tJLj0qfISm5k985YwtzzAPZEbLsEiOC8hmepgtc0HYsYac3InffgynK1tgjldl62y6aKE/s320/maybergereclipseshot2011sm.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bob's Eclipse-winning photo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>How ironic it is that Bob, world-beating extraordinaire, should win the Eclipse for a photo he took at Saratoga, which is practically in his own backyard. This goes to prove how he is always looking for a fresh perspective, no matter how many times he’s shot at a racetrack; the photo itself, of a montage of horses leaping over a jump like they were picked out of a dream, is a perfect example of what makes his photography so special—his appreciation for the majesty in the Sport of Kings.<br />
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It’s a shame people don’t see more of what Bob photographs, but that’s the way the industry is. He doesn’t really hear much feedback about his pictures, because he’s not connected to social networks, and he doesn’t have the time to post his photos to Flickr or a blog; when I tell him I saw one of his photos on a website, he usually acts surprised. As a photographer myself, I can tell you how any feedback at all makes a big difference, and this award is the ultimate reward for someone so deserving.<br />
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Chalk one up for the good guys. Congratulations, Mighty Mayberger.</div>Ghostsnapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15031831897418816030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6939088491504697922.post-82321078281285253762011-04-27T13:51:00.003-05:002011-04-27T13:55:11.683-05:00Breeders' Cup Saturday: Lost in the Afterglow (Part 2 of 2)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I admit I was looking forward to seeing Zenyatta put to the test. This was uncharted territory for the mare, and something I had been beating my drum about ever since she won the Ladies’ Classic. More than anything, I had wanted to see her run on dirt against the boys. I had even gone so far as to play devil’s advocate and hope it would rain to see her put to the ultimate test—the mare had never seen an off track in her life. And here the track was, a strange wet mix of cold dirt. It had been watered almost too much, in my opinion. I had mud sloshing up my pants. I saw on the tote board that it was rated as “fast,” but personally, it didn’t feel fast to me as I strode over it to my spot. Churchill’s dirt is a thick clay-like dirt, and when it’s wet and properly dried out, it doesn’t have puddles quite like it did this night. There was no sun to dry it up; the chilly November air kept the dirt hard and muddy. But what do I know? I’m just here to take pictures.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgabA8B4MNdXz73VhnQmWt_60rhtsy5OzoPxq54hXprdjtnq2wp6UqxPriE3_aTkU4_6xWk4UzJ5JhJFq6hpklkFuU3rg6JHDrSYltkb5EjX209LPKrVcs8d_jJm1lfJt7PDiMHy6d0tbU/s1600/realquietderby4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgabA8B4MNdXz73VhnQmWt_60rhtsy5OzoPxq54hXprdjtnq2wp6UqxPriE3_aTkU4_6xWk4UzJ5JhJFq6hpklkFuU3rg6JHDrSYltkb5EjX209LPKrVcs8d_jJm1lfJt7PDiMHy6d0tbU/s320/realquietderby4.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kent Desormeaux demonstrates a great jubilation shot (AP)</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">I found a to-die-for spot on the rail, almost exactly where I would squat if there were only four other photographers, and not a hundred, on a smaller stakes day at Churchill. It would be a perfect place to take the “jubilation shot” I had been assigned to. In what seemed like no time at all, the post parade began for the Breeders’ Cup Classic. It was the single most bone-chilling call to the post I’d ever heard on trumpet; not for a minor key or an ode to Halloween, but for what it meant was about to go down. This was it. This was the moment we’d all come to witness. For us photographers, this was do or die. We had complete and utter darkness to work with, with one single beam of light draped over the finish line—and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">only</i> when they crossed at the finish, mind you—as our sweet shot. On TV, the lights look all awesome and glorious at night. I can tell you in actuality, it is a photographer’s worst nightmare. The light emanating from the newly-installed lights at Churchill are great for the human eye, but they’re not enough for a camera trying to freeze the rapid motion of a horse running balls-out down a racetrack. Cameras also have a difficult time focusing on things they can’t properly see in the dark, which makes night photography even more fun. So here is basically what you have in a night race: two, maybe three frames (if you’re lucky) that are actually well-lit at the finish line. The rest is a complete crapshoot that can only be saved from the miracle of Photoshop or if you’re trying to do a side-pan shot so the horse looks blurry to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">artistically show motion</i>. <br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">The post parade came so close to us squatting beneath the outside rail, the horses were breathing down our necks. It was impossible not to be a fan in those moments, with so many champion shadows passing over you. I took my last photos of these horses before they made their way to what would be, for some, the last gate they’d ever break from. Your heart swells up really big in your chest when your favorite horse passes you by that close on the way to the starting gate. Especially in a race like this. In one of the last pictures I took of Zenyatta before the race, she is looking off in the direction of the sunset, and Rajiv Maragh, on Musket Man in the background, is looking over his shoulder at her; Zenyatta fills up the frame. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I had to move further down the stretch after the post parade, because I was apparently too close to another shooter on the team. I looked up and saw the packed rail from here to no-man’s land and thought I was going to faint dead on the track from stress. But then I found the two photographers I had squeezed between for the Juvenile and Dirt Mile and they graciously let me reclaim that same spot. It pays to make friends. Don’t let anyone tell you any different. Once I was safe in my spot, I debated and retested my camera settings like crazy until the last possible moment, not sure whether to sacrifice shutter speed over ISO or vice versa. Did I mention I am a control freak and only shoot manually? (Cue the crazed artist laughter.) No, really, manual is the only way to go in a tough lighting situation like this. Truth be told, I felt like I’d been granted a small miracle that night, because the Classic turned out to be the best race I ever shot. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My nerves were standing on their toes and screaming once the distant sound of the bell rang and the crowd erupted to the start of the Breeders’ Cup Classic. What surprised me was that I could actually hear the voice of track announcer Trevor Denman calling parts of the race above the roaring grandstands. I clearly heard him say moments after the break, “…and Zenyatta is dead last!” as the crowd responded with a huge guffaw. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s a long way down that stretch from where the horses start to the Clubhouse Turn, so I saved the buffer on my camera and started shooting just when First Dude came leading the cavalry charge past the finish for the first time. I lingered my focus to the back of the pack and picked up Zenyatta running clear at the back of the field. I became instantly concerned when I saw exactly how far back she was from the rest of the horses; it was almost like Mike Smith couldn’t get her going after them, as if she were struggling over that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not-exactly-fast</i> track. She wasn’t getting much dirt in the face, because she was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that far</i> behind the rest of the field making their way into the first turn; I have pictures of Zenyatta being pelted with dirt at Oaklawn, and this was nowhere near as much kick-back. She looked hopelessly far back at that point, and I started to grow desperate for Mike to get her closer. The horses were bunched into two groups, with First Dude leading a small band of speed horses on the lead, with a gap of about seven lengths separating the closers; Zenyatta was trailing off that pack, so she was a total of about twenty lengths from First Dude. She hadn’t been that far from the lead horse in some time—in fact, in her most recent races, Mike had been trying to keep her a little closer so she didn’t have so much work to do at the end. This spelled all kinds of trouble for the big mare. I admit, I was becoming furious with her jockey as the race played out.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I watched all of the race that I could on the Jumbo-Tron, and I saw Blame separating from the rest of the field, with Zenyatta only just beginning to get up close to him. I really thought for a minute, as I’m sure so many of those 70,000 fans did, that Zenyatta would once again make it there only by the grace of God. But then, the impossible happened.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Both horses crossed under that single beam of light, and both horses were in focus in my lens, but one was slightly in front of the other… and it wasn’t Zenyatta. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Having practiced a sharp eye for the best-moving horse, I kept my focus trained on Blame. Zenyatta never once passed a hair in front of him, not even in the gallop out. I got the “jubilation shot,” but it wasn’t on jockey I’d expected. In my best-lit shot, Mike Smith’s head is down, as if hanging in agony as the two horses cross the finish line. Even though Zenyatta never accelerated enough to pass Blame, I couldn’t help but feel Smith had given her too much ground to make up, too much to overcome in a race where the conditions were stacked against her.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And then, as the flurry of horseflesh passed and the last of the dirt fell back to earth, I clearly heard Trevor Denman’s voice echo, “Zenyatta… second.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. What I had just witnessed. That wasn’t supposed to happen. When I lowered my camera from my face, all I could say over and over was, “Oh my God.” I searched the faces of the photographers around me. I was the only one gaping around like a buffoon, but the gravity of the moment was settling over me like a lead blanket. I turned and studied the crowd, something I never do. I searched their faces as I walked toward the winner’s circle. I took in the towering lights illuminating the scene of stunned fans, listened to the murmurs and hum of surprise. But even when the order of finish was final, and a clear 2 was put up next to Zenyatta’s name on the big screen, I didn’t see anyone crying or going postal. In fact, people looked a lot happier than I ever expected to see. Maybe some of them fainted, or cleared out, because I didn’t see any people clad in turquoise and pink waving a threatening program at anyone else or crying foul.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I didn’t even know what to feel, myself. As I passed the grooms and connections readying to collect their losing horses, my eyes caught Mario Espinoza’s, and I gave him a sympathetic glance. And he laughed. Like it was nothing. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That jarred me; I hadn’t expected that, either. Mario had never collected Zenyatta and helped unsaddle her in front of the grandstands next to the rest of the losers before. It was a very sad sight, even though he had walked over to her with a twinkle in his eye. I guess to him, she still ran her race, and that was all that mattered. Maybe Zenyatta was now too big for such trivial matters as the outcome of a race. Maybe he was just happy to get her back, sound. Maybe she proved she was just another horse now, and he could relax.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiWKyWum5vkUtH51b_xajfgmyFwEhLh3010R09EvaxYGkCWJRCde14_DDEV4AZHvl4DjTyCPnH_6WBmmCPvDRO0evqWrshpLr6hTDCya8LtJQct0K5FLiELRkJBSMfkrUFWJD-nOC3_qo/s1600/IMG_20101118_153106.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiWKyWum5vkUtH51b_xajfgmyFwEhLh3010R09EvaxYGkCWJRCde14_DDEV4AZHvl4DjTyCPnH_6WBmmCPvDRO0evqWrshpLr6hTDCya8LtJQct0K5FLiELRkJBSMfkrUFWJD-nOC3_qo/s320/IMG_20101118_153106.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The sprig from Garret Gomez's flower bouquet</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">I made my way back to the firing squad of horse paparazzi and found myself kneeling in the dirt next to the Mighty Mayberger to shoot the gallop back of Blame. I can’t even remember if we said much to each other besides, “I can’t believe what just happened.” Bob and I ended up sitting in the middle of the track beneath the twin spires as the winner of the Breeders’ Cup Classic paraded in front of us, and Garret Gomez dropped yellow flower petals over us like party confetti. I grabbed a sprig of thistle from the dirt and stuck it in my pocket. Gomez was jubilant. I can’t remember ever seeing him smile so much. I felt badly so few people were cheering Blame’s coronation and entry into the winner’s circle. Blame was a great horse. And this was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">his</i> moment. I was happy for him. And I also felt guilty, being his good luck charm. I’d probably just inadvertently made a lot of people unhappy. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I paused before walking through the tunnel to the auxiliary room and looked up at the spires and the purple sky. I tried to take it all in. My brain was empty; no thoughts ran through my mind. All I could do was soak it in. I wanted to observe more. I felt that was all I could do to make sense of what I’d just seen. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A press conference immediately followed the Classic inside the media auxiliary room. John Shirreffs and Mike Smith were there to take questions; the mood in the room was as if someone had died. Zenyatta’s jockey, still wearing those famous teal and pink silks, was sitting up on that stage with tears in his eyes. Even the eager reporters looked hesitant to make him speak. While Shirreffs just looked disappointed, and a bit angry, maybe, it was obvious Smith was crushed. Maybe rightly so—only he would know for sure—the jockey was blaming himself for the big mare’s first loss. The snapping of camera shutters seemed as loud as sledgehammers between questions. I took two shots of Smith. He is pounding his fist on the table in front of him. I couldn’t take anymore after that. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I disappeared for a while after I gave my memory card to the team and got in trouble for it later. I wanted to be around people who understood the gravity of what had just gone down. There was no one to talk to in the media auxiliary room; all the other photographers were busy working on their photos, and my team was busy uploading all of ours. All of the reporters had abandoned ship. I left the building and all of my camera equipment behind, then made my way to the press box. I told someone I was going to find some better food. (This was partially the truth. I was convinced the food in the photographer’s room was last year’s leftovers warmed up.) When I got to the press box, I checked the buffet and found it had been picked over like a flock of vultures had dropped on top of it. Next, I searched for anybody I knew, but I didn’t see anyone at first. I listened to the babble of the turf writers for answers. I wasn’t sure what the question was, actually. It was like I was looking for the Dalai Lama to pop up and tell me what kind of lesson could be wrought from watching a previously undefeated horse lose her last race.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I think I was also looking for like-minded people—someone else who was trapped in this fog of disbelief. I watched the entire replay of the race for the first time just standing in the aisle of the press room, looking like a lost, starving disciple. And then someone found me. It was Joe Nevills, the @MIbredclaimer and penman of racing articles far and wide, from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thoroughbred Times</i> to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Arabian Finish Line</i>. He looked a little lost, too. I didn’t recognize him in a suit at first; he was usually seen wearing a baseball hat.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Joe told me he had boxed Blame in a bet, but felt guilty cashing the ticket. Then he got over it and tried to cash the ticket, but the window in the press box had closed and he would have to wait until the next day to claim his winnings. He said it must be bad karma for betting against the big mare.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidFE-r4yz-3aLJg322ML6T5nl00Y3yGX_jcO09T68KwNongk45IYB0qGmmefPEK4MIwkraEPOPb4screbvD1RQO3rlRT4WBcJ3xULBjYlbZ8r7aWWHfGtc55_Io5dYASfCyxQgOTBR1Q0/s1600/bcstatuesm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidFE-r4yz-3aLJg322ML6T5nl00Y3yGX_jcO09T68KwNongk45IYB0qGmmefPEK4MIwkraEPOPb4screbvD1RQO3rlRT4WBcJ3xULBjYlbZ8r7aWWHfGtc55_Io5dYASfCyxQgOTBR1Q0/s320/bcstatuesm.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">We watched the race again. I must’ve watched or listened to it in pieces twenty times that night. The reality of it just lay on the surface, refusing to sink in no matter how many times it replayed. I walked back toward the media auxiliary room and passed the empty paddock. Fans were still lingering, and some were posing with the bronze Breeders’ Cup statue and taking pictures inside the stalls, reveling in the access never granted to the public. Discarded programs, tickets, cups, tip sheets, cigarette butts, and other bits of debris decorated the cobbled pavement in the wake of that overflowing crowd. Their cheers were still ringing in my ears. That spine-tingling trumpet call resonated in my bones. This was the dust of history; Ground Zero of an event never to be eclipsed. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I wandered through it like a ghost, searching for something I would never find.</div></div>Ghostsnapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15031831897418816030noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6939088491504697922.post-26310454167466225152011-04-26T19:08:00.002-05:002011-04-26T19:43:52.282-05:00Breeders' Cup Saturday: Showtime (Part 1 of 2)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal">Some things need to marinate in you for quite some time before you’re able to adequately put your observations into words. At the track, it can be especially difficult for a photographer to let all of the surroundings and gravity of history soak in, because we’re hyper-focused on the action and getting the shots we need for an assignment. It’s also easier to just let our pictures tell the tale; sometimes, there are no just words to describe what it truly feels like to be within the eye of the universe. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgey6eKoDfwoxlW0Rv_NwAAt4eGc52_OA-VTPFQJhIBK8yGU27jZbXe7RKooBeZPcflKlD9CfNn0jY2vy1oFnBmeW1WdvKh9CpivXwVhi-Ce5yGkYCak2_xjvx80yFLEBAmCJUlMNICOCU/s1600/cdlights.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgey6eKoDfwoxlW0Rv_NwAAt4eGc52_OA-VTPFQJhIBK8yGU27jZbXe7RKooBeZPcflKlD9CfNn0jY2vy1oFnBmeW1WdvKh9CpivXwVhi-Ce5yGkYCak2_xjvx80yFLEBAmCJUlMNICOCU/s320/cdlights.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Night racing at Churchill Downs</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">While the undercard races <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">(meaning the Breeders’ Cup Juvenile Turf, Sprint, Turf Sprint, Juvenile, Mile, Dirt Mile, and</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> Turf</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">) </span> all seemed to rush by in a blur for me that championship Saturday, I was able to force time to slow down for the big show long enough to catalog every moment in my memory. It’s taken me a while to want to share these thoughts and reflections, because that night, I witnessed what I believe to be one of the all-time greatest races in modern history, and being in the presence of such an overwhelming event is humbling. It also feels a little sacred, to be honest. I am so lucky to have been a part of it. <br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">Like the previous day, I was assigned to wander to different locations to shoot each race. I had a list written up of every stakes, what lens I would use, and where I would shoot the finish from. I was fairly worn out from toting around the hulking 600mm lens on Friday, so I was numbing myself up with Advil and adrenaline to be able to carry through Saturday’s card. I won’t go over every race, but there were a few moments I wanted to mention before getting to the big show. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The game plan</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">I couldn’t even believe it was time for the Breeders’ Cup Juvenile when the race popped up in slot 7 on the card. In most respects, there were three races on Saturday everyone was most buzzing about—this, the Mile, and the Classic. A young champion was going to be crowned this day. New blood; next year’s hope. With Uncle Mo and Boys at Tosconova, it seemed we were ready to have a great race on our hands. I barely had time to get excited about it. Before I got a chance to even glance much at the program, the horses were saddled and parading in front of me. I was nestled under the outside rail between the finish and the Clubhouse Turn, and shooting with the 400mm lens. The 400 is a little too cumbersome for me, I’ve found. It’s heavy and requires a monopod to hold and aim with, much like the 600, only it won’t kill me if I drop it and it lands on me. Neither lens is easy to pan with a moving subject; but this probably has a lot to do with the way I shoot. This was the reason why I missed Uncle Mo the first time the horses ran by me; he was parked outside and behind a group of six passing the finish for the firs time, and I couldn’t pan quickly enough to see him settling closer when the horses rounded the Clubhouse Turn. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But when the horses came rounding that famous final turn and the challengers began to fall away from Uncle Mo, my jaw dropped. “Oh wow,” I said to no one in particular as he began to draw away. It was the most impressive race of the day thus far, and it was a laugher for Mo. He proved himself to be the real deal on the stage it mattered most. I started shooting a little too early then paused, and missed Johnny V looking over his shoulder to see where the rest of the horses had gone. Funny enough, though, I did get Ramon Dominguez, on Boys at Tosconova in second place, looking over his shoulder, as he had also drawn away from the rest of the field, though well behind the dominant Mo. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I got a great shot of owner Mike Repole hugging Todd Pletcher, the both of them laughing while Mike high-fives John Velazquez. What Pletcher lacks in showing emotion, Mike made up for it ten-fold, his jubilation completely infectious in the moment. <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">You couldn’t help but be happy for people who acted </span>so excited and full of emotion; this is the kind of good stuff that you miss most of the time on simulcast TV. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The next race—Holy Bull-oney!—was the Breeders’ Cup Mile, and the return of the 2-time Breeders’ Cup Mile champion, Goldikova. For this race, I had to shoot from the roof. It was a kind of torture being so far away from this marquee event—I’m decidedly spoiled and want to be right up in the face of the champions every chance I get—but the high angle on the turf was a unique perspective. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo66w2vCB8xaIJT-jjWMh24BC_L6twwqYtR-cVYj_NlqNbGCau-ACMD5ag707f9cW7Lneew28Qm70szTIh06nF2fuw4i24Wln2gVHZFOT_1ZEq14A_VTcHOln-oAbbIQjj5A01dIbJmOI/s1600/provisodiana.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo66w2vCB8xaIJT-jjWMh24BC_L6twwqYtR-cVYj_NlqNbGCau-ACMD5ag707f9cW7Lneew28Qm70szTIh06nF2fuw4i24Wln2gVHZFOT_1ZEq14A_VTcHOln-oAbbIQjj5A01dIbJmOI/s320/provisodiana.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Proviso wins the Diana at Saratoga</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">Only in a blue moon do I place a bet, but in this race, I felt like there was being a crime committed and I had to take advantage of it. One of America’s great turf mares, Proviso, was going off at ridiculously generous odds, so I placed a wager on her in the press room before the event. Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to see Goldikova make history—but I had a soft spot for Proviso; the last time I’d seen her in person, she was winning the Diana at Saratoga, and the shot I took of her in the race was one of my favorites from that trip.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When I got up to the roof, I found that I wasn’t alone, for once. A man and a woman were soaking in the great view from the ledge and taking pictures of themselves in front of the twin spires, which were off and below to our left. As it turns out, these two weren’t even members of the press, which you would need to be in order to get up there in the first place; they had on wristbands from the day before, and some security guard somewhere along the line had just waved them by when he didn’t recognize the color of the band. These two fans had managed to sneak up to the greatest view in the house on racing’s biggest day. They asked me to take their picture in front of the spires, and I complied without hesitation. What a story they would have to tell. I didn’t get their names, only their faces, but that’s the best kind of mystery. Probably thinking they had pushed their luck as far as it was going to go, they left before the Breeders’ Cup Mile, hand in hand. Soon after they left, a couple other members of the press joined me near the ledge. I didn’t mention the fans to them. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Far, far away, we watched the contenders of the Mile parade in front of the grandstands and warm up on their way to the starting gate. The sunlight was just beginning to move so that the horses wouldn’t be in complete shadow from my angle. And then they were off, and I lost sight of Goldikova going into the first turn, though I knew she wasn’t near the lead. The TV coverage was actually much more exciting than my view from up top in the first half of the race—but then the game mare came absolutely flying down the stretch, from out of the clouds, moving like no horse I’d ever seen before. Her strides—she was like a rabbit streaking out of the brush! The rest of the horses fainted in her wake. The sound of the crowd swelled beneath me, and goose bumps flushed my arms. Goldikova had just become the first three-peat winner of a Breeders’ Cup race. I was so excited, I ran off the roof and started my descent to ground level, when it hit me I had forgotten to wait for the gallop back. I zipped off the elevator and found my way to the grandstands, where I somehow weaseled my way between a cluster of fans on the second level. A bit smashed and impressed by my 300mm lens, they no quarrels about letting me get between them to take photos of Goldikova’s coronation. (Ah, the kindness of inebriated strangers!) Over a few heads, I managed to get my shots of Goldi’s parade beneath the garland of yellow and purple flowers; my shutter took in Olivier Peslier’s triumphant raising of the French flag and a confetti of golden petals. It wasn’t until afterwards I heard about the famous scene of Goldikova’s exercise rider running down the track during the stretch run and celebrating his mare’s victory; if only I had known to anticipate it beforehand! Ah, well, that’s why we have ESPN. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Well, my Proviso finished off the board, in the worst placing of her career, but no embarrassment to be behind the likes of Goldikova, Gio Ponti, Paco Boy, and the like. This is why I don’t bet on horses—my favor must surely curse them. I didn’t bet on the Breeders’ Cup Classic, not even for a souvenir ticket. It was probably more for lack of time than superstition, because after the Dirt Mile was over and Big Drama was cheered home, I grabbed my 300mm and didn’t come back to the media auxiliary room until dust had settled over the Classic. I had been assigned to shoot the BC Turf from the roof, and had to worry about two things: being able to get down to a spot on the outside rail following the BC Turf for the Classic, and having a memory card with enough space on it to last me through the Classic. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwU-ygpb6YjKwTW7mtMi_HJPLdGQCiAAk73EcVRYgYa3WAih543aTwZHGzxfIsBIooTnNSRBfaW3Z8l_Olg4JpjIGpL66LlkBXcCk5fXuwwsiUoEa4teAk4HVGSiJft2TtzQ_jp_g6U0w/s1600/IMG_20101105_173557.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwU-ygpb6YjKwTW7mtMi_HJPLdGQCiAAk73EcVRYgYa3WAih543aTwZHGzxfIsBIooTnNSRBfaW3Z8l_Olg4JpjIGpL66LlkBXcCk5fXuwwsiUoEa4teAk4HVGSiJft2TtzQ_jp_g6U0w/s320/IMG_20101105_173557.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me with "Big Bertha," the 600mm</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">We were supposed to use a fresh memory card for every race, but I didn’t have enough to do this and had been reusing cards after my team had loaded up my pictures. The card I had in my camera for the Turf was my largest card—16 GB. I convinced my boss my shots from the roof during the Turf weren’t going to be the most coveted shots from our team, (as no one ever uses roof shots for headline photos unless something really weird happens) so I was free to shoot and run. And run I did. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I admit, my BC Turf roof shots turned out beautifully. The sun was waning over the grandstands, making the colors pop in autumn splendor—the grass was a ring of emerald, and as the horses charged into the sunset, their hides shone like polished gold. Even the hedge was dappled in opalescent shadows. If only the Classic had been run under such beautiful light. With the utmost patience, I waited for the winner to gallop back and perform the victory parade in front of the line of horse paparazzi. I even got a few nice shots of this moment—then, when I was satisfied, I booked it downstairs like Speedy-freakin’-Gonzalez on crack.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Why was I in such a dire hurry, you might be wondering? Two main reasons: One, the photographers were all designated spots with duct tape on the outside rail. I had no such spot, yet I was still supposed to find a place to wedge myself in and take the “jubilation shot”—that pose where the jockey is standing up in his stirrups, fist in the air in triumph after the finish. This was my assignment, and I was certain that all friendliness between photographers would go out the window once it was post time for the big show. I knew I had one slim chance of slipping in between two photographers I’d become friendly with during the Juvenile and the Dirt Mile—two people who didn’t seem to mind that I didn’t have my name on the rail, and were courteous enough to let me invade their space. That spot was my one chance at diving into position without having to be shuffled far, far down the Clubhouse Turn and into no-man’s land. I feared no-man’s land like the devil fears Jesus riding an ice storm through the gates of Hell. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But I couldn’t get to my spot when I busted tail to get down to the hallowed ground that awaited me. The contenders for the Classic were already on their way up the track to enter the tunnel to be saddled in the paddock. I made it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">just-in-time</i> to find a place in the firing squad of photographers lined up across the track to welcome them. By that time, it had gotten dark. The sun was setting, and only a surreal bruise of light hung on the horizon. It was up to the garish yellow spotlights to illuminate this tense scene before us. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFXB5rGg1pvT5iFL53k-Bqq9yc5V-sT1dWXdzwsumtotKyequ-Nn5N5C0uOqNnLoLaTQ4QKBHhwHe9XGUJNEK2rUXmYn352F-lgxCKDOda4tZQot9BvJohUkWSMLqxmu_1elqIyJnQOtU/s1600/blamestephenfoster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFXB5rGg1pvT5iFL53k-Bqq9yc5V-sT1dWXdzwsumtotKyequ-Nn5N5C0uOqNnLoLaTQ4QKBHhwHe9XGUJNEK2rUXmYn352F-lgxCKDOda4tZQot9BvJohUkWSMLqxmu_1elqIyJnQOtU/s320/blamestephenfoster.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I was there for Blame's triumphant Steven Foster.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">First in line was Haynesfield. Poor Haynesfield. Then came my man, The Road, my horse Romeo, his tongue tied and forelock sticking up like a mohawk in all his studly cheekiness. It was his last race. My gut clenched. It wasn’t fair all of these great horses had to bow out in one final bout against each other. I didn’t want to see any of them lose. There was only one first place, one second, one third… and so many of them didn’t deserve anything but a finishing in the top three. Then came Etched, Paddy O’ Prado, Fly Down, First Dude, Pleasant Prince (Pleasant who?), then Blame. Ah, Blame, that dark, venerable challenger. I looked at him with a wary gaze. It had only been three months since he had vanquished my Road when I was sure my big horse couldn’t be beaten. He had been defeated in his last race, but I didn’t believe Blame was so vulnerable as the Jockey Club Gold Cup made him look—Churchill was his track. And unfortunately, I seemed to be Blame’s good-luck charm. Flashback to the 2009 Clark Handicap, where Blame defeated Einstein in his career bow; then to the Stephen Foster, where Blame won when all seemed hopeless; then to Saratoga, in that crazy Whitney—I had been present for all of Blame’s major conquests. I liked Blame, most definitely, but I knew he was going to be the missile that put Zenyatta to the test. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjczkxQdQljiKFZ5ESvTG93Wkm4FWCkGsDExe2eXBU09P3U2S7z-l_UqziX3pGy0R58R3TogVlZoOTH0V2RV8BL0DpmNSYkN7xbdjrFAovX7EGUu8_KDeF2ZWzdVfYCOG_ne2SF831_gSQ/s1600/lookinatluckyinderby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjczkxQdQljiKFZ5ESvTG93Wkm4FWCkGsDExe2eXBU09P3U2S7z-l_UqziX3pGy0R58R3TogVlZoOTH0V2RV8BL0DpmNSYkN7xbdjrFAovX7EGUu8_KDeF2ZWzdVfYCOG_ne2SF831_gSQ/s320/lookinatluckyinderby.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lucky fan for life.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">Right after Blame came my boy Lucky. Oh, poor Lucky! Hard-knocking 3-year-old thrown to the wolves! I wish he’d skipped this grudge match and would be saved for the Dubai World Cup, for a 4-year-old campaign. He could dominate in 2011 with no one to challenge him in the older horse division. He would be swallowed up alive here. The Japanese horse, Espoir City, followed (didn’t have a prayer), then poor Musket Man. I loved Musket Man; he never dodged a fight, was all in every battle. But he was up against it here. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The cheers from the crowd escalated—all 70,000-odd fans let out a roar when the big mare came into view. No person who claimed to be a fan of horse racing could help but feel the gut tighten when she came up the track, her head bobbing, feet parading, dragging her groom toward the tunnel—a picture of sheer magnificence. The electricity in the air was taut as a wire, waiting to burst. Every one of those bystanders in the crowd had come to see Zenyatta’s show, whether they had bet on her or not. And though she was being heralded as the Queen stepping up to reclaim her throne, nobody knew for certain how this dance would end. Mario swung her out from the line of the rest of the contenders, and this gave us a perfect line of sight without all of the Zentourage in the way. With this clear picture of her marching toward the tunnel—and she did march—the moment she raised her front legs and began to paw the ground, performing her pre-war dance, my eyes began to tear up and my heart began to ricochet in my chest. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She passed by so closely, I could’ve reached out and touched her. The swarm of people pressing against us and encircling the great flared beast was overwhelming. I was drawn after her like a fish caught up in the current of a great ship as she two-stepped into that fateful tunnel, her purple robe billowing in tune with her prizefighter prance.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When she swept down the tunnel with loads of little people following after her, I snapped out of my trance and bolted down the track with the rest of us riffraff not lucky enough to be granted special paddock-access. This is when I started to mentally slam on the breaks and let myself take in the scene around me. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCCa_TqJAk0GZ4bFNX9pZcVRj8Waax7OMM3xZnx2NGHWECSWtIBnItRFyemfI_Z7SYDwbbMWwqMPX5OUkermVBp8683E2ivGHcK7J4m9yvvIUp_gGCPnJTcgO8mZMGSF2rJTVC7FFLHzg/s1600/zenyattaab2010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCCa_TqJAk0GZ4bFNX9pZcVRj8Waax7OMM3xZnx2NGHWECSWtIBnItRFyemfI_Z7SYDwbbMWwqMPX5OUkermVBp8683E2ivGHcK7J4m9yvvIUp_gGCPnJTcgO8mZMGSF2rJTVC7FFLHzg/s320/zenyattaab2010.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zenyatta's 16th victory</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">I don’t think in my lifetime I’ll ever again see anything close to it. This is where words fail me. There was something about the purple sky and the mustard-colored lights, those fans pressing up against the rail with their Zenyatta signs and homemade outfits, the anticipation prickling the air in the final moments before it all came crashing down into one breath; it would all culminate in a matter of seconds—one swirling hurricane of unified emotion. The past two days of carnival and chaos, the past three years of following this undefeated horse on a cavalcade of glory… it was all leading up to these three minutes. We were sitting in the axis of the universe, and it was all about to rise into a history-making crescendo. But what would the outcome <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">be</i>? </div></div>Ghostsnapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15031831897418816030noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6939088491504697922.post-91127545449379772952011-04-26T14:13:00.001-05:002011-04-26T14:14:44.575-05:00My Breeders' Cup Experience: Friday Kick-Off<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtSTd-GLdn_UNB-f8fxNtxzEggE3JFRj1cq_wN5lAN3s9L8g5-E2seo-zEeCQ8K6ijxcqz1Dix8yOivCnwfOMRMH7N-AmCAJVlNbSc4tvUUxrvVtFJ8tDgyskrMuW9e1hXFCYL-4By8XM/s1600/IMG_20101105_105502.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtSTd-GLdn_UNB-f8fxNtxzEggE3JFRj1cq_wN5lAN3s9L8g5-E2seo-zEeCQ8K6ijxcqz1Dix8yOivCnwfOMRMH7N-AmCAJVlNbSc4tvUUxrvVtFJ8tDgyskrMuW9e1hXFCYL-4By8XM/s320/IMG_20101105_105502.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is how we roll at the Downs.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</tbody></table>Friday morning started off with a scramble for a parking pass. Around 6am, I finally texted my boss and asked if he had an extra press parking pass, as the night before, I had come to discover I had no alternative than to take the shuttle over to Churchill from Papa John's Stadium. The lady who had given me my credentials at the Galt House had failed to tell me it was necessary to have a press parking pass to actually park with the rest of the media. (Churchill doesn’t actually have a lot for press on the grounds.) One would’ve assumed this would’ve led to her give me a parking pass out of necessity, but that wasn’t the case. She had been much more concerned about whether or not I would be attending the boot-stompin’ jamboree that night. (Which I ended up skipping after she got me tickets.) Thankfully, my boss did happen to have an extra parking pass, and so I wouldn’t be forced to schlep my gear all the way from the fan parking at Papa John’s on foot.*<br />
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*<span style="font-size: x-small;">For those of you who know what Derby parking is like, it’s exactly the same for the Breeders’ Cup. All the neighborhood lawns are open for business, but I bypass that tradition in favor of actually being able to jet out of Churchill at a decent hour after the dust is settled. </span><br />
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When I arrived at the press parking lot at Papa John's Stadium, who should I find but my motley crew of photog friends heaving their gear out of an SUV and waiting for the shuttle. This sight was an instant relief. I was sure I'd be the only one missing the works that morning, but it seems everyone else had had their fill of works the day before. We were all in survival mode now.<br />
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A yellow school bus pulled up for us and shuttled us to Churchill. It felt so appropriately ghetto for us photographers, who muck up the press boxes with our muddy boots and are always toting heavy equipment around like mules. There is camaraderie in our slovenliness; we were all in this journey together, with the same goal, and so the ride to the track was full of good cheer. All of us on that bus weren’t just photographers, but also fans of the game. From the ashes of sleepiness, the air stoked with shared excitement. I kept looking down at my plastic name badge in awe. I was going to the <i>Breeders' Cup</i>. With <i>credentials</i>. That line from the movie <i>Almost Famous</i> echoed though my mind: "It's all happening." It really was like a dream. The school bus pulled right up to the fence closest to the paddock, and we could see Churchill workers preparing for the big day as we began to unload our gear off the shuttle. Our little group arrived just in time to see a cart decked with purple and yellow flower garlands being pushed past the paddock; hints of the glory to come in the morning hours. The little details are what it’s all about.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl7n1-P2tfWTMpNtYyH4qgBZU6Pwz4Q6yb3Akd0WEglpI25SjiCIZpZ5YkhXCi0kv7XcvLs351W2YXg5oMhbqN4svP8DKmy8ybHMRPWl_EqVaTDYh4YhdxwjdBb8uILMfXsvYDoRjnSWs/s1600/goldikova.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl7n1-P2tfWTMpNtYyH4qgBZU6Pwz4Q6yb3Akd0WEglpI25SjiCIZpZ5YkhXCi0kv7XcvLs351W2YXg5oMhbqN4svP8DKmy8ybHMRPWl_EqVaTDYh4YhdxwjdBb8uILMfXsvYDoRjnSWs/s320/goldikova.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Goldikova jogging on Thursday at Churchill</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</tbody></table>The media auixillary room at Churchill is the mysterious white building across from the paddock, and thus we were in the middle of all of the excitement the entire day. We threw all of our equipment in the cavernous room and began to unload cameras, lenses, batteries, memory cards, laptops, you name it. I met with my boss and he explained to me that he wanted to have me be a floater who would use different rented lenses the whole day from different positions; he asked if I had any unique perspectives I'd like to shoot from. I had an hour to try to think up a unique perspective to shoot from at Churchill Downs, and ultimately couldn't figure out an angle that wouldn’t be obscured by fans or one that hadn't been already done to death. While I was in the stands, attempting to scout any unique position, the morning works were still going on. I only just managed to notice I was taking pictures of the great Goldikova as she came charging down the stretch, head low, looking like a restrained battle charger. The jumbo-tron in the infield alerted me to the presence of Zenyatta several minutes later, and I switched lenses and snapped a flip-book of shots of the big mare jogging over the long expanse of dirt. I was one of the only photographers taking pictures from this side of the track, and definitely the only one standing where I was, so I felt like I captured something unique that morning, even though I wouldn't be able to stand there during the races for all the people in my way. I noticed that all of the other people on the track, who usually pay no attention to anything but their own horses, were ogling at Zenyatta as she galloped by; you couldn't help but notice her. It's like trying to ignore an armored tank rolling down a golf course.<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">After the works were over, all of the photographers were required to attend a meeting in the winner's circle for a run-down of all the rules and regulations for us shooters. This is where we were basically told we'd be lynched if we posted our photos from Friday or Saturday on Flickr, Facebook, or any other site not related to the news outlet we had been credentialed for. This is the reason you won’t see any of my Breeders’ Cup shots in this blog entry. In some ways, I can understand their desire to keep these photos reserved for publications, but as fans can bring in their DSLRs and shoot to their hearts' content without any restrictions, it's sort of laughable. Also, I wondered about the people who missed the meeting who didn’t hear these rules; we didn’t have to sign anything that put our understanding in ink, so someone could really get screwed if they didn’t hear about these restrictions. They threatened we’d never be credentialed to shoot another Breeders' Cup at any track ever again if we broke this rule. Thursday wasn't a blacklisted day of shooting, so some of my photos from that day have been posted to my Flickr photostream. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">One of the major points of the photographers’ meeting was to assign our individual spots on the outside rail. On any regular race day, this isn’t necessary, but since there were somewhere around 75 shooters there for the Breeders’ Cup, we had to have our publications duct-taped to the rail to reserve a space for us. This freaked me out. I still didn’t know where I was supposed to shoot the Classic from. The last thing I wanted was to be far away from the action of the biggest race I’d ever see with my own two eyes. I knew it was a very real possibility I could be stuck way out on the final turn, the Clubhouse Turn, or even the roof. To say I was one of the biggest racing fans among the photographers was probably not stretching it much; a lump sat in my gut watching all the good spots get claimed near the finish line. I had never been to a race with that many photographers vying for the same space, so I didn’t know how vicious territorial battles could get. I saw the spots Horsephotos was reserved and saw one spot that I immediately wanted, but as I was the rover, I ended up not having an assigned spot at all. I was basically told to get the shot by any means possible from the location I was assigned. Later, my boss told me the positions he wanted me to shoot from for each race. I would be shooting everywhere from the head-on with the 600mm, the roof, the inside with the 400mm, and from the grandstands. I kind of liked the idea of being the sniper from every position, but the responsibility of being able to get to my location, and then zip back to the media auxiliary room to dump off my memory card made me nervous. I was going to have to bust arse all day long. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu4fbc-cfwrmcbZF90SaSR4CYo_JvusmCx9Bcrd1VCtOiTa8WR0Yuk09jfLV45sGcet7_exR0GkJ6NkJo5kt6hoIJEL6cEC79hFeaXpu_cof61DoqEmKSnc7N3O-LFRkonYsFYTvm2THc/s1600/IMAG0562.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu4fbc-cfwrmcbZF90SaSR4CYo_JvusmCx9Bcrd1VCtOiTa8WR0Yuk09jfLV45sGcet7_exR0GkJ6NkJo5kt6hoIJEL6cEC79hFeaXpu_cof61DoqEmKSnc7N3O-LFRkonYsFYTvm2THc/s320/IMAG0562.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Is this thing gonna eat me?"</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">I won’t go over the details of every individual race, because I feel I’m already pushing this Breeders’ Cup blog-nanza by making each entry over 2,000 words. So here are some highlights of the day from my point of view…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">…I shot my first Breeders’ Cup race, ironically enough, from the grandstands. I found a space in the first balcony level where some nice fans let me squeeze in and shoot the race. It wasn’t exactly thrilled with the outcome of my shots, but it’s always fun mingling with people who are already drunk at 4 in the afternoon. They always want me to take their picture, even though they never ask for my information so they can see it later. A lot of people were dressed like the Queen of England up there, but unfortunately, I didn’t get to rub any royal elbows. It wasn’t until I was delivering my card that I heard about the fracas with Calvin Borel in the now-infamous jockey fight. My husband was apparently at arm’s length for the whole thing. I couldn’t believe he didn’t get a picture of it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTuCtTpTb6AN6lB1fpRvRDqf_cyLJAHj6tbK66YDsaEJ9ytUdD1UiLTpHORO9mIPzaKWV0HIEcdy9sca-rnOGZmIZ5sY0bEfqzR5fnyYPJDw6DsJRROqbmVEu7jS0Ga3HF7kmoBMoJYRE/s1600/IMAG0565.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTuCtTpTb6AN6lB1fpRvRDqf_cyLJAHj6tbK66YDsaEJ9ytUdD1UiLTpHORO9mIPzaKWV0HIEcdy9sca-rnOGZmIZ5sY0bEfqzR5fnyYPJDw6DsJRROqbmVEu7jS0Ga3HF7kmoBMoJYRE/s320/IMAG0565.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the far right, looking like I'm manning a small ship.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">…I shot the Filly and Mare Sprint, the Juvenile Fillies, and the Filly and Mare Turf with Big Bertha, the 600mm lens. The F&M Sprint was the first time I ever used the 600, and I was nervous because I’d never practiced with it before. I didn’t do such a bad job for that race, but I improved with it later. For night racing, the rocket launcher is pretty sweet. I was proud of my shot of Awesome Feather suspended in the beam of light, the rest of the field shrouded in distant shadow behind her. The F&M Turf was incredibly hard to shoot, because my camera couldn’t focus until the horses were close to the beam of light. Thankfully, Shared Account wasn’t running from the far outside and I got both her and Midday in focus. I swear Midday won it from my angle. That’s the biggest drawback of shooting with a fixed 600mm lens—if it’s a close race, it’s almost impossible to tell who’s in front. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">…I completely botched the Ladies’ Classic. Bombed. The worst race I’ve ever shot in my life. I was told to use the 400mm from the roof, and I just couldn’t pan well with it—it was too heavy for me. I was also terrified I was going to drop it on the crowd below. That huge lens would most certainly kill a small army if I dropped it on them. My buffer ran out as the field came for home, as I misjudged the length of that stretch from above, and I didn’t even get a good shot of Unrivaled Belle in front of the beam. It was just as well; Rachel should’ve been there winning it. I was nearly sick over my shots from that race and didn’t want to touch the roof the next day—or the 400. But that vow was short-lived on both counts.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was so sore after my first day of Breeders’ Cup shooting, I didn’t know how I was going to do another day of it. I probably hadn’t been carrying my 600 properly and was killing my shoulders. I was chomping Ibuprofen like Tic-Tacs. I thought they were going to have to hook up my arms to a couple of slings and have a team of mules drag me back to my hotel. When I left the auxiliary room, I found myself leaving with the same motley crew of photographer friends. We found a white shuttle and climbed aboard and found ourselves with some turf writers and other media people. It turns out we’d gotten on the wrong bus, and it had to turn around and take us back to the track, much to the chagrin of the starving writers on board. Sorry, guys. By the time our school bus picked us up and got us back to the Papa John’s parking lot, the hour was late. So late, we watched as a man on a golf cart locked us in and zipped away, oblivious to the living people staggering on sore legs to their vehicles. Our cars piled up at the locked gate and someone jumped out of their truck and cried, “What is this happy horseshit!” Then there was some curb-jumping and somehow, we all got out of there without having to break the gate down. There may have been some bolt cutters involved. I can’t rightly recall. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">All in all, a fantastic first day of the Breeders’ Cup. But the big show was still to come the next day. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">**All photos, unless otherwise noted, are courtesy of Bob Newell. </div></div>Ghostsnapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15031831897418816030noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6939088491504697922.post-3434516208535533752011-01-30T14:47:00.002-06:002011-01-30T14:56:59.286-06:00My Breeders' Cup experience: Thursday shenanigans<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0DlJDaQbIg5mqi9UUksqN5OcxJ45vugJjM6M-5Czp7wIWSqusVoEe2YbnC1nfDwxI2K9soTpvo-sxRfsC6AlrtS_bY2vwT_aZlyAx_W7bFB3Hvu5cJNTQHvIVw4hf4ZWNHAxurZw6-oE/s1600/BCredential.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0DlJDaQbIg5mqi9UUksqN5OcxJ45vugJjM6M-5Czp7wIWSqusVoEe2YbnC1nfDwxI2K9soTpvo-sxRfsC6AlrtS_bY2vwT_aZlyAx_W7bFB3Hvu5cJNTQHvIVw4hf4ZWNHAxurZw6-oE/s320/BCredential.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>After getting my hopes up about the Kentucky Derby, only to have them shot down, I didn't want to get excited about the Breeders' Cup. It was sort of devastating, to be told your lifelong dream-come-true is going to happen, only to find out a week before you leave on the trip that actually, there was a mistake and there wasn't enough credentials for you. (Yes, this actually happened to me.) So all the while I drove down to Louisville, I kept expecting to get a text message or a phone call breaking the news to me in the ninth hour that I wouldn't be credentialed to shoot the Breeders' Cup World Championships after all. I was almost expecting it, all the way up till I went to the Galt House Hotel to pick up my press credentials. It wasn't until I looked down at my name printed on the thick plastic card did I finally feel the pressure release and let myself believe that it really was going to happen. I was seriously about to shoot the biggest two days in racing I'd ever witnessed in my life. What was more, I was going to have a front-row seat to one of the single greatest races of my generation: the 2010 Breeders' Cup Classic, where the great Zenyatta would make her career bow.<br />
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That being said, I had prepared a <em>little</em> by creating a “Horse Racing Playlist” on my iPod, which consisted mostly of songs I pictured Zenyatta war-dancing to in the Classic, as well as songs that would dramatically illustrate the pounding hoofs of the field turning for home, and the angelic chorus that would sound as the big mare began to unwind her devastating late kick. So I guess a little part of me did want to believe in miracles. Thankfully, I wasn’t denied mine this time around. This playlist was my constant background music the entire Breeders' Cup, pumping me up each morning and preparing me for the the final showdown at the end of it all. By the time I was shooting the races, "Kashmir" was ingrained in my radiohead on a constant loop.<br />
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I drove down on Wednesday, which didn't give me a great amount of time before the Championships began, but it was at least time enough to shoot one full morning of workouts. Thursday morning, after a night of tossing and turning, I woke up before my alarm at some ungoldly hour, my adrenaline carrying me all the way to Churchill Downs, the thought that some other photographer would be getting some shot I was missing spurring me to stay energized. I knew it would be too dark to shoot anything exceptional, but I couldn't stand the thought of the action going on without me being in the middle of it all. When I arrived at Churchill, sure enough, the backstretch was positively teeming with the kind of activity usually reserved for Derby week. Photographers and lucky fans were planted along the outside rail on the backstretch, shutters snapping sleepily in the low light, trying to capture the ambiance of the indigo morning with the surreal spotlights lining the track. There was already a surge of activity going on in the workouts; I could see the royal purple saddlecloths rippling by, the snort of an eager Thoroughbred scatting in cadence to the drumming of his hoofs along the ribbon of his own private dreamland.<br />
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I found some familiar faces soon after and immediately felt at ease. There were a slew of photographers I'd never seen before, shooters from newspapers or foreign journalists who had probably never been on Churchill's backstretch, or even witnessed a race there. There were fans back there who didn't even have credentials, as was the case of two older ladies next to me on the rail who had driven an hour to get there that morning and were taking pictures with a point-and-shoot camera. As much as the track felt like my regular stomping grounds, I felt like it had to reimpose my status as a Churchill veteran, because the number of big cameras and professional-looking shooters was a little intimidating. Even though it was the first Breeders' Cup I'd ever been to, I knew this track better than just about any other track I'd ever shot at, and had made it my business to know the grounds inside and out. The only thing I had not been introduced to would soon become my second home, the media auxiliary room.<br />
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Thursday morning's works did not disappoint. I got to see every single horse I wanted to see outside of Blame. Only that morning, I had read a rumor on Twitter saying he had a quarter crack and would be scratched from the Breeders' Cup Classic. As I felt Blame was Zenyatta's biggest threat, I was truly concerned about his status in the race, wanting him to be in there to give the champ the biggest test she'd ever faced. His absence on the track worried me, but I found out later he'd gone out first thing in the morning, when only a few other horses had been on the track. I wanted to stalk him on the backstretch to find out the scoop, but the constant stream of Breeders' Cup workers made it impossible to ever leave my spot on the rail. Did I mention it was also freezing? Maybe not technically so by thermometer levels, but it was positively bone-chilling outside. After standing so long on the rail, I almost felt like I was frozen in place, even with all of my layers and gloves on. Standing in amongst all of the people created a wind barrier and was at least 10 degrees warmer than if I'd separated from the pack to go searching for a horse. (I forgot to mention I'd actually made a beeline to the Asmussen barn first thing in one last-ditch effort to see if Rachel Alexandra was still on the grounds. My heart ached at finding her stall empty. She had been spirited away from the track without so much as a peep in the news, I was later to find out. I was now certain I'd never see her again.)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8M8HEaA9eUj_GV11gzwWbkPpq9xwLDsUQaWT23eYrd41WSM5V7reG0BlGJA4wwNanTpUuBvUUFIjk_B-fXyi9XrndA1vMq49W_GYEKlavAXYV9F7B3JtcOhWFE1tx3HaHVkmEcmCPpQ0/s1600/zenyattaworkout.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8M8HEaA9eUj_GV11gzwWbkPpq9xwLDsUQaWT23eYrd41WSM5V7reG0BlGJA4wwNanTpUuBvUUFIjk_B-fXyi9XrndA1vMq49W_GYEKlavAXYV9F7B3JtcOhWFE1tx3HaHVkmEcmCPpQ0/s320/zenyattaworkout.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zenyatta jogs Thursday morning.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The crowd grew thicker on the rail as the morning went on, and around 9:00, when the sun was warming up the dirt into a golden glow, Zenyatta finally stepped out on the track. By then, it was a regular paparazzi event watching her jog from the gap and make a loop around the storied oval. I wanted to move to a better spot for lighting, as a huge shadow was cutting over the track directly in front of me, but there was no finding a better position with this crowd. In fact, you were pretty much lucky if you could move at all at that point, there were so many people elbowing their way in to get a glimpse of the reigning Breeders' Cup champ.<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">After Zenyatta made her appearance, they opened up training on the turf and allowed the credentialed photographers access to walk across the dirt and take pictures from the outside rail of the turf course. That experience turned out to produce some of my favorite workout photos, as the sun was creating a gorgeous morning scene, and the angle of the horses rounding the turf head-on into the backstretch was a new one for me. Here we were privileged to see the winner of the Arc de Triomphe, Workforce, as well as several other superstar and inspiring grass horses, including Paco Boy, The Usual Q.T., California Flag, Beethoven, and Shared Account. (Goldikova and Midday had already taken a jog over the dirt earlier.) During the grass training is when Shared Account reared up on the dirt course on her way over to the turf; she dumped her rider and proceeded to run in a circle before a few people on horseback close by were able to calm her down and catch her. Even though I later heard that some of the European connections were grumbling around about the American "cowboy methods" of catching a loose horse, I found the moment to be spell-binding. Three horsemen closed in on Shared Account slowly from each side, and she quieted down as she seemed to understand they wanted to help. One of these riders happened to be Hall of Fame trainer Bill Mott. It filled me with appreciation for our sport, witnessing the raw instincts of true horsemen snap into place, calling upon the utmost calm to quell the fears of a spooked horse.</div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGh9hhG2vEYLZ2KTRUfY2yehW6cOhdzxZfILoAq34A5Q__B1NcGm8Ea8t-fGIiHOJ4bfYPsntHU2lSF7O38VLLl51Tf_DToya6YISOqH2Q-TlNq619Qo7N2UQalUhD_lAWLz_NLIPF7aw/s1600/theusualqt01sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGh9hhG2vEYLZ2KTRUfY2yehW6cOhdzxZfILoAq34A5Q__B1NcGm8Ea8t-fGIiHOJ4bfYPsntHU2lSF7O38VLLl51Tf_DToya6YISOqH2Q-TlNq619Qo7N2UQalUhD_lAWLz_NLIPF7aw/s320/theusualqt01sm.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Euros were also laughing at how The Usual Q.T. <br />
runs with his tail up in the air. They weren't <br />
laughing anymore after the BC Mile.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">After the works were over, I got together with some of my favorite members of the horse paparazzi and had a late lunch at <a href="http://www.lynnsparadisecafe.com/">Lynn's Paradise Cafe</a> on Barret Avenue. I highly enjoyed the funky atmosphere of the place, and the food was great--but the company made the experience, naturally. By this time, we had caught up with the fashionably late Mighty Mayberger, who had rolled into the parking lot at Churchill just as we were leaving, and we happily peer-pressured him into joining us even though he would've rather gotten a taste of Churchill decked out in royal purple. I told him he had plenty of time for that later. Word had gotten around that Zenyatta would be schooling between races two and three, so we all made sure to zip back to the track as soon as we'd stuffed ourselves with omelets, black bean soup, and sweet potato fries.</div><br />
By the time we returned to Churchill Downs, racing had already gotten under way. I had to pick up my candy before I started the day, however. I was renting a Nikon D3 body from NPS in the media axillary room, as well as an 18-55mm zoom lens; as I was not used to the hummingbird-happy shutter on the D3, I was a little too excited about how many frames per second I could capture versus my D700. Not a moment after I picked up my rental equipment, someone told me that Zenyatta had entered the paddock.<br />
<br />
It still feels weird, even after all of my experience with credentials, having permission to enter the famous paddock at Churchill Downs without someone stopping me. I keep thinking that any moment, some security guard is going to say to me, "You're having way more fun than is allowed here. Take a hike." These sentiments must stem from my memories of the Kentucky Derby and fighting my way through the swarm of drunken fans to catch a glimpse of Curlin parading there in 2008. Now, I'm actually legitimate. So instead of running up to the fence to try to catch my shot from between bombastic Derby hats, I'm now opening the gate and striding down the walking ring to join the rest of the press on the grass island--where I have come to believe I belong.<br />
<br />
It was as if Elvis was in the paddock. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqvKBPDwTXgzWXXYGOFv5EedeqHgjpMyu6GhqDRhbiTBIOrr8N9zvOY1d5r6B17g6_yyJADDiYjE6zsBDw9cvTR3ZRbykTvqRPw6ljZO9nJCbNHp_gO3kAAsGtp7zUleDIZmC0fdu51io/s1600/paparazzism.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqvKBPDwTXgzWXXYGOFv5EedeqHgjpMyu6GhqDRhbiTBIOrr8N9zvOY1d5r6B17g6_yyJADDiYjE6zsBDw9cvTR3ZRbykTvqRPw6ljZO9nJCbNHp_gO3kAAsGtp7zUleDIZmC0fdu51io/s320/paparazzism.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zenyatta was hidden at this point to the left.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Being the Churchill veteran, I am aware of the taboos of where to stand in the paddock. Generally, you want to make sure you get the hell out of the horses' way and mind the activity that is going on around you. My rule of thumb is to respect the horsemen and stay as invisible as possible. Exactly the opposite was going on here. A huge group of photographers planted themselves right in the walking path across from the schooling stall, and I was kind of mortified at first and hung back on the grass island. Unfortunately for me, my view was completely blocked because there were these two policemen loitering around Zenyatta the entire time, almost smug about blocking our shots. Begrudgingly, I joined the paparazzi mob, jumping in low to the ground so as to not be in anyone's way. One of the truest Codes of the Photographers is that there is safety in numbers, so if I was going to be in trouble, at least I wouldn't be singled out for doing anything differently than the rest of the group; the other most trusted Code of the Photographers is that if Barbara Livingston is doing it, it must be O.K. As she was standing in the middle of the group, I figured everyone else had gotten the same idea and had generally attempted to stick close to her. My bold move seemed to give courage to other photographers and members of the press, and before we knew it, it was a regular red carpet smackdown trying to get the shot without someone's elbow in your eyeball. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLhatjsyTYmPs7azrWwjKp7ELDPgz1nANjHjNEW_qbRU9UYU9dRNI8P0SeI1c6bAVr6aMQGUKhOYNGYSfPw4djc_ia9stXiqzNo4iUYf0fhEnUiULR3kiJT-8AOJTP7eKRbNm1ECi7km4/s1600/zenyattamario01sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLhatjsyTYmPs7azrWwjKp7ELDPgz1nANjHjNEW_qbRU9UYU9dRNI8P0SeI1c6bAVr6aMQGUKhOYNGYSfPw4djc_ia9stXiqzNo4iUYf0fhEnUiULR3kiJT-8AOJTP7eKRbNm1ECi7km4/s320/zenyattamario01sm.jpg" width="232" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"You taste good, Mario."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Here's where I took a little over 500 pictures of Zenyatta. Some may say this would be a bit overzealous, but those who would say so probably aren't perfectionists aiming for the professional, quintessential Zenyatta portrait. Also, I still wasn't used to the hair-trigger of my D3, and had not had time to change the settings before I'd shoved a memory card in my camera and flew into the paddock. There was a lot of activity going on around Zenyatta, and I wanted to capture the complete scene of chaos surrounding this docile mare and her friend, Mario. All the while we were fawning over the reigning Breeders' Cup champ, other Breeders' Cup contenders schooled in the paddock, including Jaycito, Harmonious, and Awesome Gem. I took a total of about 15 shots of them, respectively. Pathetic, I know.<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I missed most of the races that day, because soon after Zenyatta left the paddock, who should come waltzing in but my man, Quality Road. Nevermind the fact that the unbeaten favorite for the Breeders' Cup Juvenile was entering, too. I was a total Road groupie and had little time for juveniles. Unfortunately, Quality Road looked like a cross between a sumo and a punk rocker with this huge cowlick on his foretop, and he kept grinning at me like a beaver over his lead shank. This did not make for the most poised, regal picture. I took a few shots of Uncle Mo, but I was obviously distracted in trying to take an aesthetic shot of Quality Road, because the pictures I have of Mo only amount to a handful. After the schoolers finally left the paddock, I began to shoot the actual races going on.</div> <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP53fhhZUAllD_rcifoG9Vy7SwISfegL5FHqGmFG5WRtVMaren1rOuB3WTtguW1OiixSMKyiR0LxlelBkN_w_J0A64NPHa3mGOOXy_TDGNyeSvFudHYuXxGDtrJtjFG3jjlYSGX_SNWNY/s1600/unclemo_qualityroad01sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP53fhhZUAllD_rcifoG9Vy7SwISfegL5FHqGmFG5WRtVMaren1rOuB3WTtguW1OiixSMKyiR0LxlelBkN_w_J0A64NPHa3mGOOXy_TDGNyeSvFudHYuXxGDtrJtjFG3jjlYSGX_SNWNY/s320/unclemo_qualityroad01sm.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Uncle Mo and Quality Road: The Changing of the Guard</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">What happened next I can only attribute to the cold finally getting the better of me. I decided to go warm up in the press box, thereby shooting the next race from the balcony there. In the race was a 2-year-old colt I had been following who had yet to break his maiden: Tapizar. Though he did not win this maiden special, I am still kicking myself for not getting a decent shot of him in the post parade. Every picture I have of Tapizar is from a bird's eye view. I rooted for him all the way, but he ran fourth that day after running wide the entire race.</div><br />
The only big race on the card that day was the Grade III River City Handicap, which had been moved from Clark Day. I was rooting for a repeat victory for Rahystrada, but it wasn't meant to be. Battle of Hastings, with Joel Rosario up, stole the show, and thus ended our last bit of normality before the tidal wave that is the Breeders' Cup fell upon us.<br />
<br />
A lot of my photographer and press friends were attending the Breeders' Cup welcome party at the Yum! Center, but as Toby Keith was providing the entertainment, and I was running on very little sleep, I decided to sit out the hootenanny ho-down. I simply don't function at 100% when I am running on anything less than 8 hours of sleep, and I would turn out to be grateful for the break the next day, which would turn out to be the single most grueling day I'd ever experienced at the track.</div>Ghostsnapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15031831897418816030noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6939088491504697922.post-44982201531682053332011-01-15T00:48:00.002-06:002011-04-27T13:59:54.926-05:00Meet my new boy, Tapizar<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg568TSBSxmcpeIvAKf8e3SpuHT6_ZNRMNZ6SimrqHegsUzRsEr1cni88qrNscaSs6c8J-2MRVyRkbie7SboQBwxcASiEiyN8TwbNUybdu6KY1dEnV3_KiUA6qBaaaFXiS89UHag1oooJU/s1600/afleetexpresstraversphoto.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg568TSBSxmcpeIvAKf8e3SpuHT6_ZNRMNZ6SimrqHegsUzRsEr1cni88qrNscaSs6c8J-2MRVyRkbie7SboQBwxcASiEiyN8TwbNUybdu6KY1dEnV3_KiUA6qBaaaFXiS89UHag1oooJU/s320/afleetexpresstraversphoto.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Official photo finish of the 2010 Travers</td></tr>
</tbody></table>In December 2009, I was lucky enough to have TVG running in the background on a cold, shut-in kind of day when I happened to witness the debut of a 2-year-old at Aqueduct named Afleet Express. I was immediately impressed by his sheer talent to overcome a rollercoaster of a trip to rally from last and breeze past his rivals while still acting green in the stretch. This was a big ball of potential, and I hung on his every workout and race thereafter. If you followed horse racing in 2010, you will know then how I was rewarded with the ultimate pay-off for my loyalty: Afleet Express hung on to win the Grade I Travers by a nose to Fly Down that summer. It was one of the highlights of my year, to say the least--I was screaming like a flaming banshee, my shrieks piercing the windows of my living room and alerting the neighborhood to what they likely thought was my murder. My vocal cords were practically shredded by the time the horses galloped back from that race. I hadn't bet on that race (as I bet maybe twice a year, and only if I happen to be at the track), but I still had my $2 win ticket from my trip to Saratoga when I saw him run in the Jim Dandy, proof of my devotion.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
When the juveniles started popping up in 2010, I started to avidly watch all of the baby races on TVG and HRTV, hoping to find my next Afleet Express. This time, it came much earlier in the year, and the performance didn't "wow" me the in same way as Afleet Express, but you'll soon see why. The horse's connections (A carbon-copy of my boy Pyro circa 2008) first gave me reason to like him, as well as the fact he'd finished in the money (3rd) in his only start; there was only room for improvement here in his second start. It was September 19, 2010, a <a href="http://www.bloodhorse.com/horse-racing/race/USA/MTH/2010/9/19/7/race-7">Maiden Special Weight</a> run at 1 mile 70 yards at Monmouth Park. As soon as the gates popped open, everything went horribly wrong for Tapizar. The colt stumbled a step out of the break, and jockey Shaun Bridgmohan flew straight over the juvenile's head. That didn't stop Tapizar, who was by then trailing at the back of the field as the rest left him in the dust. Off he went in hot pursuit while the jockey rolled to safety, and in a few strides, Tapizar had flown up the inside rail on his own volition and took the lead by the time the field had reached the first turn. Riderless, Tapizar assumed the lead by several lengths. The rest of the field eventually caught up to him halfway along the backstretch, and here's where it got interesting. Tapizar dropped back behind eight rivals going into the final turn, and as soon as he began to run around the middle of the turn, it was as if he decided to become Seabiscuit and take another run at those challengers one more time. Most horses will bolt and run for the stables when they're loose, or simply peter out and jog at the back of the pack without any guidance. Tapizar took the initiative and decided he still wanted to win this. The two-year-old son of Tapit circled foes and dove between horses to cut up the inside rail. Then he began to charge along the rail at the leaders, and settled for an unofficial third place after this absurd riderless trip. While the Racing Form would never count this effort on record, it was hard to deny this was indeed, a special horse. Under very similar circumstances in which I had discovered Afleet Express, I entered Tapizar into my barn with hopes I had finally found the colt I was looking for. <br />
<br />
Ironically, I was able to witness Tapizar's next two starts in person--and in both of those instances, I happened to be watching him race from the Churchill Downs press box balcony. I didn't plan it this way, and I find it funny, since I'm normally glued to one of the two rails on the track during races. The first time I saw him run in front of me was on the Thursday before the Breeders' Cup. My spot from the press box gave me a bird's eye view of the trouble Tapizar would have in this start--he had drawn the far outside post, #12, and was fanned 6-side going into the first turn. This is what ultimately cost him the race, for he could only manage leaving the final turn running 3-wide, and he ended up finishing fourth that day. (At least this time, it counted.) Admittedly, I was a little crushed by this placing, but as Tapizar hadn't yet been blessed with a good trip in which to flaunt his talent, I was hoping the next time the waters would part for him.<br />
<br />
Admittedly, I was a little burned out both emotionally and physically after the Breeders' Cup whirlwind, and I probably hadn't been watching as many juvenile races as I had the year before. But I still remembered that mind-boggling performance by Tapizar at Monmouth, and so when I saw that he would be running while I was at Churchill on November 27th, I became excited. By that time, I was more than a little desperate to discover that one juvenile I could hang my hopes on for the new year. With 80% of my barn now off to the breeding shed, I didn't have a lot left to root for in 2011, and depression set in when not just my precious Afleet Express, but my other fan-since-the-maiden-race horse, Lookin at Lucky, was retired after a fourth place finish in the Breeders' Cup Classic. So I guess what I'm trying to say was that I was really needing Tapizar to win for me that late day in November.<br />
<br />
And boy, did he come through. Tapizar was slated to run in the night cap, the 12th race on the card. I knew I would have to do some begging with my husband to let me stay for that one, as we had to drive home to Illinois after the stakes were over and I'd uploaded my photos to the Horsephotos server. Because of the late post times, the last stakes race of the day, the Kentucky Jockey Club Stakes, was run under the lights and would make for a late trip home. Photographing under the lights does not make me a happy camper. Even though the night racing looks pretty on TV, in person, it's a nightmare for photographers. Unless you're intending to get a pan photo, where the horse's legs are blurry, the only shot that will come out is at the finish line, where a spotlight brightens up the area directly across from the finish. I like my photos to be sharp as can be, and let's face it, I wasn't looking to be artistic or experimental when it came down to a horse I was really interested in. If Tapizar had a chance to win, I wanted to get the best shot I could of him. <br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEOX6ICUAP3A65IMRdTrf0HnuF4xDAVTPz1osM3YFHAzRRGy4N9jl2C2oxyARlGZrKQ4duh6OJghH3EWROKVcz_ZZJD31kND92QBGTbc_bsasLoHMoh7MiyPRRUjU0wJB7jHh9Ld37oYQ/s1600/tapizarmaiden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEOX6ICUAP3A65IMRdTrf0HnuF4xDAVTPz1osM3YFHAzRRGy4N9jl2C2oxyARlGZrKQ4duh6OJghH3EWROKVcz_ZZJD31kND92QBGTbc_bsasLoHMoh7MiyPRRUjU0wJB7jHh9Ld37oYQ/s320/tapizarmaiden.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tapizar breaks his maiden in a romp at Churchill</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The race went off, and wouldn't you know it, a horse fell and threw his rider. Thankfully, both horse and rider (Julien Leparoux) were okay, and the horse didn't happen to be Tapizar. This time, my colt was shooting straight up to the flank of the speed horse, saving ground going into the first turn, and assuming the stalking position like a pro in second. There he stayed glued until the horses began to round for home, and this time, Tapizar saw daylight as they entered the stretch. Nothing between him and his first win but one of the longest stretches of dirt in America. Tapizar accelerated, eating up the ground with lengthening strides, and his competitors quickly became only a distant memory. His margin between them grew rapidly, until he was 10 1/2 lengths in front at the wire. My boy had finally just broken his maiden, and what a coming out party! I practically jumped up and down as I dashed back into the quiet press box to practically attacked the hapless Claire Novak, whom I'd regailed earlier in the day with my tale about discovering Tapizar. I had to share with someone that I hadn't been blabbering on about this maiden two-year-old all for nothing! It was my one consolation to not having placed a bet on him, which is really the only way most horsemen believe you'd picked a winner. (Since I bet only once in a blue moon, anyway, I believe I should be exempt from this rule.) </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/BKZ3bYQNBE4?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Now that Tapizar was not only a maiden winner, but an <i>impressive</i> maiden winner, his name was suddenly known by more than a few people. Imagine my elation, a few months later, to see that he was entered in the Grade II Sham Stakes at Santa Anita. My boy, in California, in his first stakes race! And here's where we come to present day. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Lightning doesn't strike twice very often, but I'd like to think that picking talented babies before they've exploded into fame and fortune isn't exactly pure luck. Maybe it is a little, in happening to have the TV turned on to catch a horse run a rollercoaster of a race, or maybe I'm just drawn to such things. Either way, let's hope my journey with Tapizar will continue long into the year, and you can look back at this post and say, "I knew him when." Because isn't that what following two-year-olds is all about? </div></div>Ghostsnapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15031831897418816030noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6939088491504697922.post-9831668309013269612011-01-10T14:12:00.000-06:002011-01-10T14:12:52.231-06:00Wow!I'm sure most of you have heard my news by now, but in case you haven't...<br />
<br />
I won the 2010 TBA photo contest!<br />
<br />
What's a bigger surprise, <em>Thoroughbred Times</em> actually wrote up a short article about it. You can read it <a href="http://thoroughbredtimes.com/national-news/2010/12/30/tba-blogs-photo-contest.aspx">here</a>. <br />
<br />
Go <a href="http://www.tbablogs.com/photos2010.php">here</a> to see my page where I thanked practically everyone outside of my dog and cat (But they actually deserve to be thanked for keeping me sane, so thanks, kids!). I hope I didn't blather on too much. I really was humbled by the voting. And thanks to the readers of this blog, who helped me pick out what photo to submit! You guys obviously have great taste. :-)<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjffqQqXzt8uvUmVcj3pQOOf428o3s18PmLajjXRybNNt6tlA-iBUBziQHEB7-l-2FwtZXVyFkDCwD_x-jW_3ZjXPOitq2iwFiL894bY5EyUQTVa-AEDd0ooUMUp77YuwBCazRo_lspfw8/s1600/jeanlaurenzarlington.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjffqQqXzt8uvUmVcj3pQOOf428o3s18PmLajjXRybNNt6tlA-iBUBziQHEB7-l-2FwtZXVyFkDCwD_x-jW_3ZjXPOitq2iwFiL894bY5EyUQTVa-AEDd0ooUMUp77YuwBCazRo_lspfw8/s320/jeanlaurenzarlington.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Pied Piper of Arlington</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Ghostsnapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15031831897418816030noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6939088491504697922.post-19190523684679345142010-12-19T17:29:00.001-06:002010-12-19T17:31:28.464-06:00Let the voting begin!Thanks to everyone who voted for which pictures I should enter into the Thoroughbred Bloggers Alliance 2010 photo contest. The overwhelming favorites were "The Pied Piper of Arlington" and "Zenyatta and John Shirreffs."<br />
<br />
Today is the first day where you can vote on all of the entries for the contest. You can vote every day through the 25th of December, and the top ten will then go into the final round of voting.<br />
<br />
Here is the link to the finalists, where you can vote for your favorite 10: <a href="http://tbablogs.com/Photos.php">http://tbablogs.com/Photos.php</a><br />
<br />
I was very excited to find several of my friends' photos included in the contest, many of which you will remember from my stories in this blog. :-) Good luck, guys!<br />
<br />
I appreciate everyone's support! Happy holidays to everyone this season.<br />
<br />
Here are your two favorites from my batch:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjffqQqXzt8uvUmVcj3pQOOf428o3s18PmLajjXRybNNt6tlA-iBUBziQHEB7-l-2FwtZXVyFkDCwD_x-jW_3ZjXPOitq2iwFiL894bY5EyUQTVa-AEDd0ooUMUp77YuwBCazRo_lspfw8/s1600/jeanlaurenzarlington.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjffqQqXzt8uvUmVcj3pQOOf428o3s18PmLajjXRybNNt6tlA-iBUBziQHEB7-l-2FwtZXVyFkDCwD_x-jW_3ZjXPOitq2iwFiL894bY5EyUQTVa-AEDd0ooUMUp77YuwBCazRo_lspfw8/s320/jeanlaurenzarlington.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBXY9STfc4gDqqn687KTmk-9l1rSQiAIzRibyqBIPew9yHwv46DrOV65urHOBHTE5D1NRGjBHegO7tzMgujPzpB9sHCiunRx1PylalftcUkMvi6v6nNgzLqUml_zRKaSQTwuszw4olwOE/s1600/zenyattajohnshirreffs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBXY9STfc4gDqqn687KTmk-9l1rSQiAIzRibyqBIPew9yHwv46DrOV65urHOBHTE5D1NRGjBHegO7tzMgujPzpB9sHCiunRx1PylalftcUkMvi6v6nNgzLqUml_zRKaSQTwuszw4olwOE/s320/zenyattajohnshirreffs.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Ghostsnapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15031831897418816030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6939088491504697922.post-59339781985517995742010-12-12T15:28:00.000-06:002010-12-12T15:28:08.573-06:00Help!<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCDQuINM_iZBPa5k1HvvxBdaefPBYMaKBECXcySOee64FF4xuFEhXwReOAHnI_45QSY-e4tCN2PAteexoFwU13qQoZTtkmvjUAIXVnAlj5DJBSje-B6NSntg5Y4ObXfJGstfnTLHIyyAo/s1600/rachelalexandra8_jnsm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCDQuINM_iZBPa5k1HvvxBdaefPBYMaKBECXcySOee64FF4xuFEhXwReOAHnI_45QSY-e4tCN2PAteexoFwU13qQoZTtkmvjUAIXVnAlj5DJBSje-B6NSntg5Y4ObXfJGstfnTLHIyyAo/s320/rachelalexandra8_jnsm.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My entry fom 2009 was well-received, but not <em>enough</em>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Since I don't have a photo in contention for an Eclipse Award, pretty much all my hopes are banking on a win in this year's <a href="http://tbablogs.com/Photos.php">Thoroughbred Bloggers Alliance 2010 photo contest</a>. Though this isn't <em>exactly</em> on the same level as far as prestige goes, it's still a venerable contest among pro photographers, as well as amateurs. Last year, I gained quite a few votes (but not enough to clench victory) for my popular picture of Rachel Alexandra winning the Kentucky Oaks, but this year I don't have one stand-out photo that screams "I WILL WIN FOR YOU." <br />
<br />
So this is where you come in. What follows is a set of pictures I think are my best chances for bagging this contest. Honestly, I've seen a ton of photos by my fellow photographers that have blown me out of the water this year, so I'm not expecting to win, but I have a few good pictures that stand a shot, so what the heck? My thinking is that the most sentimental photo is likely to win, as most people judge with their hearts, not a fundamental knowledge of what it takes to capture a knock-out horse racing photograph. (And when it comes to sentimental photos, I think Zenyatta has the edge this year.) With that in mind, you won't find a lot of win shots or photos taken on the physical track in those that I've selected for your consideration. I may be wrong in this idea, so prove me wrong if this is the case by voting for something else. <br />
<br />
Without ado, here are five photos I've taken during 2010 that I am considering submitting. I can only submit TWO photos to the TBA contest. Please help me make this difficult decision by voting on your favorite two in the comments below.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCckXBnSP_dg6VFTM6iUbjYEJEltCuQNQuvZhQsHoaON99U_ZXWZUIdHAJBygNpHtjWyzyd7OUqkuf7AII6IproiYTQkm-sGlWbRYQCBqKCZruqPkeYzJoDU9xGHGXqq40atRYzm7J_KE/s1600/zenyattaprizefighter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCckXBnSP_dg6VFTM6iUbjYEJEltCuQNQuvZhQsHoaON99U_ZXWZUIdHAJBygNpHtjWyzyd7OUqkuf7AII6IproiYTQkm-sGlWbRYQCBqKCZruqPkeYzJoDU9xGHGXqq40atRYzm7J_KE/s1600/zenyattaprizefighter.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Like a Prizefighter</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdKhV6-u3jJNOQ1O8oYESoygt6UL97fwpOhgLu46zV8LkkmlXy1FA5dJNnKHwVuYO-p8JD_ddSISwSiO_XIVB6ca3qCofZUdL-2Aifd6tqOFqH4Ptm905sBVSXoNSoYHqwZEZzl4lsabw/s1600/zenyattafiji.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdKhV6-u3jJNOQ1O8oYESoygt6UL97fwpOhgLu46zV8LkkmlXy1FA5dJNnKHwVuYO-p8JD_ddSISwSiO_XIVB6ca3qCofZUdL-2Aifd6tqOFqH4Ptm905sBVSXoNSoYHqwZEZzl4lsabw/s1600/zenyattafiji.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fiji: Water of Champions</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjffqQqXzt8uvUmVcj3pQOOf428o3s18PmLajjXRybNNt6tlA-iBUBziQHEB7-l-2FwtZXVyFkDCwD_x-jW_3ZjXPOitq2iwFiL894bY5EyUQTVa-AEDd0ooUMUp77YuwBCazRo_lspfw8/s1600/jeanlaurenzarlington.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjffqQqXzt8uvUmVcj3pQOOf428o3s18PmLajjXRybNNt6tlA-iBUBziQHEB7-l-2FwtZXVyFkDCwD_x-jW_3ZjXPOitq2iwFiL894bY5EyUQTVa-AEDd0ooUMUp77YuwBCazRo_lspfw8/s1600/jeanlaurenzarlington.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Pied Piper of Arlington</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqS7oW16AQH7E20yZBu13BzFsmso4riBn11_1tuWVLDCQWHkfQ6Ikjuz9ZS9wr85pTWmyDu21X63Sbgk4BUkp_oWm7Gq9Fb766JYODYnUcBGXnAAflEdlKVet0tNj-QgLSbgFBI1rdGYc/s1600/lisaborelkyderby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqS7oW16AQH7E20yZBu13BzFsmso4riBn11_1tuWVLDCQWHkfQ6Ikjuz9ZS9wr85pTWmyDu21X63Sbgk4BUkp_oWm7Gq9Fb766JYODYnUcBGXnAAflEdlKVet0tNj-QgLSbgFBI1rdGYc/s1600/lisaborelkyderby.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">To the Winner's Circle! <br />
(Lisa Borel is carried over a sloppy track to meet husband Calvin Borel after winning the Kentucky Derby.)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBXY9STfc4gDqqn687KTmk-9l1rSQiAIzRibyqBIPew9yHwv46DrOV65urHOBHTE5D1NRGjBHegO7tzMgujPzpB9sHCiunRx1PylalftcUkMvi6v6nNgzLqUml_zRKaSQTwuszw4olwOE/s1600/zenyattajohnshirreffs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBXY9STfc4gDqqn687KTmk-9l1rSQiAIzRibyqBIPew9yHwv46DrOV65urHOBHTE5D1NRGjBHegO7tzMgujPzpB9sHCiunRx1PylalftcUkMvi6v6nNgzLqUml_zRKaSQTwuszw4olwOE/s1600/zenyattajohnshirreffs.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zenyatta and John Shirreffs</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Entries for the TBA photo contest are due next Friday, December 17th. I will post my final entries on the blog after I've tallied everyone's vote.Thanks for your help!Ghostsnapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15031831897418816030noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6939088491504697922.post-23114351548478650042010-11-15T09:52:00.001-06:002010-11-15T09:55:21.363-06:00Who's to blame?<em>Originally posted on</em> <a href="http://www.smilepolitely.com/sports/whos_to_blame11122010/">Smile Politely</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
Seconds after the field broke for the 2010 edition of the Breeders' Cup Classic, track announcer Trevor Denman cried, "Zenyatta is dead last!" The grandstand erupted with an appreciative laugh. The whole stage was set for a show, after all, and most of the 72,739 people watching from the stands weren't just your typical race-goers, they were fans of the starlet, Zenyatta. They knew her usual moves, her typical dramatic run as she always came from the back of the pack to sweep past rivals, giving them a performance to raise their voices to ear-splitting crescendos before snatching victory at the wire. It always seemed like she was saved from being buried near the back of the pack, as if carried on angel wings to win by some miracle of God; because doubtlessly, if there is a God, He, too, must be a Zenyatta fan.<br />
<br />
But as Zenyatta found daylight off the final turn and started sailing over that hallowed stretch of ground toward the finish line, goosebumps racing down our arms with every great gobbling stride, we watched the birth of history as a stubborn horse by the name of Blame denied her that miracle. Make no mistake, Blame is not evil incarnate. Zenyatta simply met a freight train she could not run down this day. As they bobbed heads past the wire, Blame saw her and sped away from that behemoth, never knowing that great mare would put him in the history books alongside the names of Upset and Onion, the greatest spoilers of all-time. Zenyatta returned to be unsaddled to a standing ovation for her runner-up effort. Despite the jubilations of winning jockey, Garrett Gomez, Blame only received a smattering of cheers for his victory. Like an ending written by the Coen brothers, it wasn't a finale like everyone expected, but it was a finale none would ever forget.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiedslPz_HPgR3-hIkK5JsFN0Xu91Ia0o4vQlRDGmjY-Qg5qgY4vQQo59JjdLtVv82F4ZLCmreuTlpg8EdV9e2i3Fi1yN3DMoAG6JbKQWMjDGOBjaQ9MTW25-ukLzmPsHLSHSPMFs3aNB4/s1600/zenyattaprofile.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiedslPz_HPgR3-hIkK5JsFN0Xu91Ia0o4vQlRDGmjY-Qg5qgY4vQQo59JjdLtVv82F4ZLCmreuTlpg8EdV9e2i3Fi1yN3DMoAG6JbKQWMjDGOBjaQ9MTW25-ukLzmPsHLSHSPMFs3aNB4/s320/zenyattaprofile.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>The real tragedy of the 2010 edition of the Breeders' Cup Classic wasn't that Zenyatta lost, but the fact that a public that could've enjoyed the champion for two unbelievable years didn't discover her until her last career race, which, as luck would have it, was the first time she was ever defeated. While a crowd of 72,739 fans packed the grandstands at historic Churchill Downs that Saturday, and millions more tuned in their TVs to watch the coverage on ESPN, the world stopped for three minutes to watch Zenyatta attempt to go out unbeaten with a record of 20-0. But that fairy tale ending just wasn't meant to be.<br />
<br />
Featured in <em>W</em> <em>Magazine</em>, <em>Sports Illustrated</em>, and Oprah's <em>O</em> <em>Magazine</em> this fall as one of the top 20 most influential females in the world, the champion racemare was also given a spotlight on <em>60 Minutes</em> the Sunday before the Breeders' Cup. As it turns out, the public is, in fact, interested in horse racing. With a little renewed attention thanks to Disney's film adaptation of the legendary Secretariat, Zenyatta was given every chance to be a star in the public eye. But this all came too late for a nationwide audience to truly appreciate her.<br />
<br />
It's not realistic to think that everyone who witnessed this year's Breeders' Cup is going to rush out to subscribe to TVG or HRTV on their dish, but had this all happened last year, when Zenyatta was going up against males for the first time, think of all the great performances people could've enjoyed. While all save one of her races in her 2010 campaign lacked the crescendo of a match-up versus males, perhaps the grandstands at Oaklawn, Santa Anita, Del Mar, and Hollywood Park would've been standing room only had all this press come before the curtain fell on Zenyatta's career.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzkZZ2mMkhX2m4UvLWlf7Jk52l_qlCzQt3EvBefPc867XT5hqej0U3nfTiMRGEs8P_gamE8WlNYIpdE7WdYpIYtlmy7Rd2PxKdYY2Qt7Uujigb8D0vwTytR-pls07kDvTvr2p4SyHUg_A/s1600/paulnewman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzkZZ2mMkhX2m4UvLWlf7Jk52l_qlCzQt3EvBefPc867XT5hqej0U3nfTiMRGEs8P_gamE8WlNYIpdE7WdYpIYtlmy7Rd2PxKdYY2Qt7Uujigb8D0vwTytR-pls07kDvTvr2p4SyHUg_A/s320/paulnewman.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>So much is said about what the horse racing industry is doing wrong. Horses retire too early to build a fan base; horse racing propaganda is limited to the people who already know about the sport and follow it religiously; too many big races are restricted to specialty cable stations; there are many complaints. What unfolded in the press in the days leading up to the Breeders' Cup was a test of what the industry could do when it had every opportunity to seize the public's interest. People discovered Zenyatta, and they loved her. Is it really a surprise? Here we have the most charismatic equine ever to step foot on a racetrack, a female, an undefeated champion, but the nation isn't properly introduced to her until her final bow. It's akin to discovering Paul Newman in <em>Road to Perdition</em>, his last big-screen role; what we see is a glimmer of greatness, but it's too abrupt to get a taste of a performer who is surely respected as one of the greats of all-time. Think of the tragedy of never having seen the actor at his most dazzling in <em>The Hustler</em>, <em>Hud</em>, <em>Cool Hand Luke</em>, or <em>Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid</em>; this is the reality of Zenyatta's legacy with the millions of viewers who tuned in to see her for the first time this past Saturday. They were built up about how great she was going into the 2010 Classic, and they witnessed a performance where the mare put her heart on the line, but they didn't get the thrill or the satisfaction that we in the racing world have become accustomed to over the years: they'll never understand the tears that come from seeing the explosive, against-all-odds, last-to-first kick that come as a result of <em>knowing</em> her.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgXxM_VMeLw2dXCKBa1uCx_b02COrDh9KQUDva8k8CpNXcoMYwY5EkIXqIIRRG7m2aJwHQTuW7ckB-ZhNKT6xrcwSkymtL8ffN7XoOdEzv0Kc30eiNh-wEEovvjqWdji8jFRglFuCucRk/s1600/zenyattaperfection.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgXxM_VMeLw2dXCKBa1uCx_b02COrDh9KQUDva8k8CpNXcoMYwY5EkIXqIIRRG7m2aJwHQTuW7ckB-ZhNKT6xrcwSkymtL8ffN7XoOdEzv0Kc30eiNh-wEEovvjqWdji8jFRglFuCucRk/s320/zenyattaperfection.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Zenyatta has done everything right. It's the industry that let her and itself down. Before the 2009 Breeders' Cup, racing had its shot to tell the world about our prized mare. Perhaps it doubted her too much. There were a lot of people out there who didn't, after all, think she could beat males that first time. But this year, if all you knew came from Oprah, <em>W</em>, or <em>60 Minutes</em>, you wouldn't have thought that she could lose coming into the 2010 edition of the Classic. According to statistics, three times the amount of people than last year tuned in to watch Zenyatta go out undefeated at Churchill Downs. Is publicity only earned from a guarantee? Did any of the millions who may have watched Zenyatta for the first time take away how special this mare was, even in defeat?<br />
<br />
Now that Zenyatta has rounded her last field of rivals, has literally danced her last dance, what can the industry take away from the events that elevated Zenyatta's status to world fame? Will it step up to the task of reaching out beyond its already-established fan base and try to bring in new faces? All the public needs is to be exposed to a good story and a good horse. Is that really too great of a task? If not for her record-setting streak of 19 straight wins, I hope that Zenyatta's legacy will be to teach racing how to promote itself and the stars who make it all possible.<br />
<br />
Zenyatta has given us the reins, now. What will we do with them?Ghostsnapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15031831897418816030noreply@blogger.com1