How to slaughter a legacy

So you think you can make a crap movie about the greatest race horse of all-time and get away with it? I don't think so.

Originally posted on smilepolitely.com. Posted in ARTS to Film by Jamie Newell on Friday, October 8, 2010 at 4:00 pm



I've been holding a grudge against Seabiscuit for several years. After all, he got a movie deal before the great Secretariat, and if any race horse deserved a movie made about him, it's Secretariat. "Big Red" was the greatest race horse of all time; surely anybody with half a brain could see the potential in a great biopic, right? I should've been careful what I wished for. Now I'm holding a grudge against Seabiscuit because he got the better film treatment.

Being a person who lives and breathes both horse racing and movies, I went into this film with a unique perspective. Fully aware that Hollywood usually screws up a perfectly good story, I was willing to forgive a reasonable amount of factual errors or glossing-over of facts so long as they captured the magic of the true story. With Secretariat being my favorite race horse of all-time (and widely worshipped as a god by the general populous in the sport), I knew I would have to go into the film particularly restrained if I was going to hope to enjoy it.

The big red horse that captivated a nation.

 If you are unfamiliar with Secretariat, he was the big red race horse wearing white and blue silks that came onto the scene when America was broken from the Vietnam War and the beginnings of the Watergate scandal; it was this miracle horse, who became the first horse to win the Triple Crown after a 25-year drought, that brought the public together. The year was 1973 when Secretariat won the Kentucky Derby, Preakness, and Belmont, and his mark has been felt each time those races have been run since—no horse has surpassed his track record times in those three races, and no horse has ever displayed the versatility and sheer dominance of him in the history of the sport of kings.

Directed by Randall Wallace, Disney's Secretariat follows the story of his owner, Penny Tweedy, who broke the walls down in a man's world and ended up saving the farm thanks to her steadfast belief in the superhorse. Diane Lane stars as Ms. Tweedy, and is only mildly convincing in this role as the strong woman who carried the burdens of her parents' failing breeding farm. Lane plays the role with a breeziness, despite Tweedy's hardships, but her strength is too Disney-fied to feel like this woman could put men in their places, as the real Penny did. Disney's Secretariat feels more like a Lifetime made-for-TV movie than a feature film. Even the mighty John Malkovich, who portrays a flamboyant version of Secretariat's trainer, Lucien Laurin, can't mix things up enough for it to feel very exciting, and that's saying a lot, given both the material they had to work with and the always-entertaining Malkovich. Otto Thorwarth plays Ron Turcotte, Secretariat's jockey, but he doesn't have enough lines or screen time for the audience to really get much out of his character, which is just as well, because the lines that come out of Diane Lane tend to border on plain cheesy. The best performance is delivered by Nelsan Ellis, who pulls off a quietly engaging performance as Red's groom, Eddie Sweat, and actually has some chemistry with the horse actors.

The film is worth watching if you want an introduction to the sport of horse racing and the legendary Secretariat, but for those industry insiders and fans of Big Red, the movie fails miserably as a tribute to our greatest king. If you fall within the first bracket, and are curious about the real Secretariat after watching the movie, pick up Bill Nack's book: Secretariat: The Making of a Champion. It's telling that the film was supposed to be based on Nack's book, but this acknowledgment was downgraded in the credits as merely "suggested by the story by Bill Nack;" the movie certainly feels like a major downgrade from the real thing. If you're a fan of horse racing, watching Disney's Secretariat is like hearing your favorite song through a monotone speaker; it sounds familiar, but all of the song's power and punch have been reduced to a distant echo.

Diane Lane and John Malkovich in Disney's Secretariat

There are moments that are just plain ridiculous. I tried very, very had to overlook some of the blatant atrocities, like filming the Belmont at quaint Keeneland Racecourse, a beautiful boutique racetrack that could fit inside the real Belmont's massive infield. But I cannot forgive the laughable scene of Sweat, Tweedy, and friends dancing around Secretariat as they wash him at the farm to some gospel song on the radio while no one holds on to the horse's lead shank. If you just syndicated a Thoroughbred race horse to stud for $6.08 million dollars, you would want to hold on to that horse with an iron grip. The film doesn't even try to understand the racing industry or what it means for a 2-year-old to win Horse of the Year, or even accurately depict the aura surrounding the Kentucky Derby. You can't tell me that they couldn't have dubbed in three more layers of cheering fans to simulate the raucous, drunken festival that is the first Saturday in May? Clearly, the moviemakers must've scouted the tracks when there were about 5,000 people present, and not on a full-blown gambling-happy, drunken adrenaline rush that is the spirit of the most prestigious race in America. In comparison, the Kentucky Derby as depicted by Disney is a stroll along the promenade, full of appreciative fans golf-clapping the favorite in the post parade. And all of this came before I was truly disappointed in the film.

Secretariat's world record-breaking victory in the Belmont.

The one part of the movie I knew I could not forgive was if the filmmakers screwed up Secretariat's Belmont Stakes victory, which is widely considered one of the all-time greatest performances in all of sports. Not just in horse racing. In all of sports. How is it possible to screw up one of the most impressive, exciting, and emotional events of all-time? Disney must teach a class on it, because they bombed this moment spectacularly. Not only do they butcher Chic Anderson's famous race call, which, for some reason, remained in-tact for the less-memorable Derby and Preakness calls, they made the Belmont Stakes, the climax of the film, a cinematic train wreck. With choppy editing, shaky close-up camera shots, and a fake, un-inspired race call, Disney's version of the Belmont is just another horse race at the movies. There is no emotion. There is no breath-taking scope. There is no drama. It all comes off false, and then the corny evangelical music comes in, and then the filmmakers succeed in making your jaw drop, because you can't believe they just topped their own atrocity. It's like if someone took the Mona Lisa and cut it to pieces and slapped it on the side of a bus so it would be easily accessible to everyone. They took something perfect, beautiful, and legendary, and not only ruined it, but defaced it.

The best portrayal of the three big races in Disney's Secretariat is the Preakness, the middle jewel of the Triple Crown. This is because they let you watch the actual, real-life 1973 Preakness footage originally broadcast on CBS without any horrible interjections. We are treated with seeing the real Big Red on the silver screen, and nothing is more precious than that. For anyone who knows horses, it also becomes quite clear that all the other horse actors they previously used to depict Secretariat in the film would've been Big Red's waterboys in real life. You just can't duplicate perfection, not even in the movies. He was that big, and that beautiful—something no Hollywood movie could ever replicate. I only wish it had been the Belmont footage, and not the Preakness, that had been used in the film, because then I may have walked away with some shred of joy after watching Disney's adaptation of the "impossible true story." Instead, I rushed home and pulled up the historic races on YouTube to exorcise the past two hours from my memory.

In other words, I'm ready for the remake.

 
For the love of God, click here to watch all of Secretariat's actual races

A scoop on the Secretariat film

Since IMDB.com hasn't officially listed exactly who is playing who for next year's Secretariat film by Walt Disney Pictures, I thought I'd get the jump on the all-knowing movie database by unleashing the casting information I was passed on by Mr. I-Wrote-the-Book-the-Movie-is-Based-on:


John Malkovich....Lucien Lauren

Diane Lane....Penny Chenery

James Cromwell....Ogden Phipps

Fred Thompson....Bull Hancock

Nelsan Ellis....Eddie Sweat

Eric Lange....Andy Beyer

Kevin Connolly....Bill Nack


ESPN.com recently published a great article on the scope of the film and how it will be different from Seabiscuit. You can read that article at this link.

For more official news about the Secretariat film, visit Big Red's website at this link.

21st century "wow" horse

As printed today at Smile Politely.com...

Some people dream of seeing the Grand Canyon or the Statue of Liberty, of Mt. Rushmore or Gettysburg, whether for the history or the monument of Americana. To see one of these great pieces of our United States is to feel like the country is a little bit more yours, to thread the crossroads that connect the nation to your heart. It doesn't make you a better American to see these things, but it quenches a curiosity; it inspires, and presents a grandeur that little can convey. I dreamt of seeing such a timeless treasure, but the one I longed for was a living thing, something that was only three years old.

I dreamt of seeing a Triple Crown winner.

I wanted to see a rarity, I wanted to see true Greatness; I wanted to see a champion conquer the Mount Everest of American horse racing. Only the Triple Crown, I thought, would be able to provide such a test; after all, winning the Kentucky Derby, the Preakness, and the Belmont Stakes in five weeks is a nearly impossible feat that has proven insurmountable for going on thirty-one years, making those eleven who have accomplished it seem all the more outstanding.

I was mistaken.

Though I still long for the day when I can say, "I saw (this future horse) win the Triple Crown," I can now say my appetite has been satiated. I no longer have to wait to see a Triple Crown winner to feel like I have seen a race horse reach the apex of Greatness. I saw that this past Saturday.

I won't bother to try to equal or do one better than what the award-winning turf writer Steve Haskin said about the Woodward most recently in Blood-Horse Magazine; Haskin pretty much summed up the feats Rachel Alexandra accomplished in becoming the first female to ever win the race, the heart it took for her to win under the conditions, the emotions she stirred at the grand old Spa, and put into perspective what she now means to the Sport of Kings.

Honestly, I don't know if I could find the words. I look at Rachel Alexandra, at what she has accomplished in so little time, and find myself at a loss. That sort of anomaly happens when you take in something breathtaking like the Grand Canyon, something that's too huge to wrap your mind around; I think there's a certain amount of respect in not saying anything at all, in merely basking in the glow of this tremendous horse... or just uttering "wow."

What more can be said on a subject that has been worn threadbare with glistening superlatives? She's the best race horse in the world right now? Certainly. She's one of the all-time Greats of the sport? Without question. Rachel Alexandra is more impressive than the undefeated Zenyatta? No contest. She has already tied-up the Horse of the Year honor? No brainer.

I'm blessed to have seen this picture of perfection in person, to have been present at the precise moment she exploded onto the scene like a comet from the darkness. I remember standing on the rail of Churchill Downs, telling everybody who would listen that Rachel Alexandra was going to blow the doors off this field of fillies in the Kentucky Oaks. The people standing around me were new to the sport; they didn't know Cigar from a stogie. I noticed a young man with a video camera as the horses were loading into the starting gates of the Oaks. I said to him, "You're not going to want to miss this. Watch Rachel Alexandra. Trust me."

Then the gates slammed open, and she erupted into the history books, and she never looked back.

I guess it's not so bad living in the 21st Century. Through all the trash, the worldwide conflict, the destruction of the environment, the war, the bad TV, the political unrest, the conspiracies, at least we have this: we have this horse, this indisputable champion, this little nugget of purity no one can touch.

And that's enough for me.

"I shouldn't be here": A Belmont Story. Part V

Standing as a spectator for an entire race card on the rail, I begin to feel the hours creeping up on me, the sun beating down on me, the hours slipping away into the hooffalls as the sun peaks in the sky, then recedes over the grandstands. Sadly, I'm usually ready for the big stakes to happen so much, that I can be numb by the time the race finally happens, and the anticipation has become soaked like a wet spongue with no suction to spare.

On the other side of the rail, beyond the finish line and behind the scenes, the day moves lickety-split with little time for breathing, or whiling away the hours by studying the sun's movement or the weirdos around me. The Belmont Stakes came upon me so fast on Saturday, I barely had time to become nervous about it.

The day started out with one last breakfast at the Morning Line on Belmont's backside. By then, the waitress was greeting us with a smile, having become familiar with us over this three-day period. I saw Nick Zito and Edgar Prado in the eatery before we were off for the last time.

My husband and I walked through the main entrance of Belmont and the beautiful park behind the gates. The park was filled with picnic tables already bustling with race goers, and musicians stood next to the winding sidewalk and warmed up the merriment; a man walked by us with a six-foot submarine sandwhich over his arm; a group of soldiers in uniform laughed and walked in line toward the grandstands; so many sights and sounds warmed up this spectacular Belmont day. Most of all, I was relieved by the sun in the sky and the lack of rain for the first day on this trip.

We found an empty spot right on the rail and close to the finish line where my husband could set up camp. Even though NYRA's website said no folding chairs were allowed, here we found several people camped out in their own chairs. Bob quickly remedied this situation by going back to the car and getting the camping chair he'd brought as a provision. After he was set up, I went to my "station," the auxillary photo booth, next to the tunnel to meet up with my fellow photographers.

In my head, I was already planning what I wanted to accomplish today. I wanted to plot out the best places to take picture from, and I was gung-ho about getting great shots on the turf course for the first time. I've always had less interest in turf races more because they're so hard to see from behind the main track than the dirt races with that rail in the way. Plus, I admit my binocular vision is severely lacking (that's remedied by my zoom lenses, where I can see clear as a bell), and now I could be right up where the action was.

The photographers were being provided with free boxed lunches, water, and soda, and many were already staking their claims and grabbing their provential water bottles. I took one look at the box lunches, which would be sitting in the room the entire day without refrigeration, and said "no thanks." Sbarro again for me. I didn't mind. I'm a picky eater anyway. I did help myself to the apple and cookie, however.

The honcho of Horsephotos, Harold Roth, was in the booth with his wife setting up his computer equipment to transfer photos once the races started. Lauren was also there, and we talked about where we would be assigned during the big race. Lauren was going to use a 600mm lens and be on the grandstand side of the finish line, a really sweet spot. Being new to the scene, I expected I might get a less-than-desirable spot on the totem pole, since Harold said he wanted to put me in a "unique position" that no one else would have.

After a couple of the early races were over, Harold, Lauren, Melissa (Boo_Boo_Kitty from Flickr), and I walked across the track to the turf course and walked up the long stretch of grass where Curlin had tried the surface only the year before. I admit I got a little too excited when I found a tiny patch of mushrooms growing in two spots of the turf course. This is the kind of insider's view you only get if you're in amongst a handful of lucky people, and I was now one of them. I wondered if there were any superstitions about a horse stepping on a mushroom.

Harold showed me a few different angles he'd had in mind for us to shoot from. The option I immediately thought would be the best situation for me was what Harold called "the Smarty Jones shot," an angle a photographer had gotten in 2004, when Smarty Jones was in the lead in the middle of the stretch, with the grandstands cheering in the background. I only had two concerns: one, the rail would be right in the middle of the horses, and two, what if the winner wasn't in front at this point? Harold predicted the race would "be won by this point," and though I thought he was thinking whistfully, since this is the sport of horse racing, I chewed on that becoming my spot. Throughout the day, I considered other "unique" positions to shoot from, but I wanted to be as close to the finish line as possible, and as close to the horses as possible, and didn't want to shoot from the grandstands for an overhead shot, since I'd finally been credentialed for the first time and therefore wanted to shoot like somebody who was. The other shot I had an interest in was the backstretch shot, a capture of the field heading into the massive final turn, but I knew well the leader wouldn't be in front at that point, since Mine That Bird was a late-runner, and I doubted any horse was going to get away with a Da' Tara move this year.

Bud came up to me early in the day and invited me to a 'turn pahty' (that's "party" for those of you who live outside of New Jersey) during Race 7, if I wanted to attend. Race 7 was the first Grade I race of the day, the Just A Game Stakes on the turf. Of course, I was game. But because I'd never taken pictures on the turf before, I cheated with a little practice during Race 5, an allowance on the widener turf to judge how close I wanted to be for later. Out there, so far away from everything else, the moment becomes quite intimate with the race. Getting close to the final turn, I couldn't help gaze over at the dirt track with the trees shading the background and picture the fleeting image of Secretariat rounding the turn in his legendary Belmont performance, lengthening his margin between he and Sham...

"Secretariat is widening now... he is moving like a tremendous machine!
Secretariat by ten, Secretariat by twelve lengths on the turn. Sham is
dropping back, it look like they'll catch him today..."

Being so close to that place where history happened made me a little emotional, but it wouldn't be the last time that day I was brought to tears.

The first stakes race on the card was the Grade II True North Handicap, featuring the comeback of former sprint champion Benny the Bull. To look at his past performances is nothing short of impressive. Before he was brought out of retirement, Benny had gone out on a five-race win streak, and I was hoping for good things. But as I didn't have a Racing Form on me, just a pocket-sized program of the races stuffed into my Shoot Sac, I overlooked the 6-year-old Fabulous Strike. Taking my position behind the inside rail on Bud's step (generously donated to me once again), I got a great photo of Fabulous Strike turning into top gear as he put away Benny to win. Great performances by those two. It was the first time I was on the inside rail on a fast track with graded stakes competition, and let me tell you... if you think it's loud when horses come rumbling down the stretch to the finish, it ain't nothing like being two feet away from them as they're barrelling headlong straight past you! My sweet Jesus, does it give your heart pause! And given the fact Fabulous Strike tied the stakes record with this performance, you can imagine how fast they were going.

When Race 7 came around, the Just A Game Stakes, I headed out with Bud and Ms. Sarah K. Andrew herself to the long Belmont turn. The two of these seasoned veterans stood up next to the pole while I kneeled in the grass and shot over the shallow outer rail. It occurred to me that if a horse should decide it wanted to go to the outside rail or do something crazy at that moment, I could get into some hot water, and made plans on how to roll out of the way if neccesary. Thankfully, I didn't have to worry about it. We yucked it up waiting for the horses to appear (it seemed to take forever when you can't see anything that's going on in No Man's Land), and then did our thing when the field finally came to us, loving every minute of that close-range thunder passing us by, that flash of horse shoes flying by. Being as it was a turf race, we doubted we had the winner in our sights with the head-on shots, but we all managed to get Diamondrella making her move at the moment it was seemingly being decided. I'd just photographed my first Grade I race with credentials, and it was on Belmont's turn. Not bad.

I got to try out different positions throughout the day and see where my eye took me. I tried the step from the day before, the gutter in front of the finish line, the turn for the grass races, and even behind the tote board. The thing which most cramped up my game plans was the rule the photographes were told the previous day: you were absolutely not allowed to cross the track once the track had been harrowed. This meant that if you wanted to transfer your pictures between races, you had to haul some serious tail to the photo auxillary room and not tarry around in the meantime. If you went to the bathroom, for instance, it most likely meant you weren't going to make it back over the other side of the track in time. I found this out the hard way for the Woody Stephens Stakes, which was dominated by a fire-breathing Munnings.

It took me a long time to walk back to the grandstands after the Just A Game, and I took a quick break afterwards. But the second I stepped onto the track to go back over to the infield, some track official whistled at me not to cross. So, I ended up taking photos from the gutter, but I ended up with a couple of great shots. Unfortunately, they look almost identical to the track photographer's, Adam Coglianese. He got a full-body shot of Munnings crossing the finish, while I got a close-up instead. That made all the difference! I was starting to get the hang of this professional racing photography; that means, I was becoming addicted. There's no going back to being just a casual photographer once you've tasted the freedom of being able to take a shot from whichever angle you want. I knew this would happen.

After the Woody Stephens, I sprinted over to transfer my pictures and returned faster than you can say Speedy Gonzalez. There was no way I was missing the next stakes from the inside rail, the Grade I Acorn. The big filly race was my second-most anticipated race of the day. I was hoping to see Justwhistledixie stretch out her five-race winning streak to six, since she missed the Kentucky Oaks with a bruised foot. I was also hoping to see Four Gifts become a more stable contender, since she tends to win sporadically. And then there was also Gabby's Golden Gal, the poor Baffert trainee who'd been seemingly bulldozed by Rachel Alexandra in the Oaks and scared into submission. The race unfolded much differently than I'd anticipated, but Gabby put in a stellar performance. This is what happens when the fillies aren't bullied by Big Bad Rachel: they show us how special they can be when given a fighting chance.

This shot I took of Gabby's Golden Gal (again, from Bud's step... I think he's going to will it to me!) is one of my favorite race pictures I've ever taken. The combonation of the exact capture of composition, with the clarity and the colors just made me ecstatic. Ah, if only they all could be so crisp!

After the race, it was clear Gabby was over-heated, and her connections gathered around her to douse her with a bucket of water. The poor girl never made it into the winner's circle. It touched me how so caring her people were for her after that big effort. She was so hot, she started to drink from the bucket with which they were wetting her down. I couldn't help but think how good this performance by Gabby made Rachel Alexandra look. If Rachel's main competition in the Oaks had turned out to be Dixie, Gabby had just turned her away.

For the Grade I Woodford Reserve Manhattan, I spotted Bud walking across the inner turf course to the tote board. I learn quickly, you could say. Thusly, I followed him. Here I found a slew of my other Flickr-ites, including Charles Pravata, Sarah, and Melissa shooting from the inside rail. Here, our little party turned into a gaggle of snipers. While Charles, Sarah, and Melissa took the grassy knoll next to the scoreboard, I stood with Bud and Adam Coglianese on this trailer holding up the tote board. It was a sight, alright. The whole thing felt like such an event for me, another first in a series. Here I was taking my first photos behind the finish line of a turf race. "Heaven, I'm in Heaven..."

It was another one of those races that taught me it's not always cool to have the 300mm lens. Luckily, I took a safety shot of the winner, Gio Ponti, on the outside near the finish line, but I had my focus set on the inside horse because it was so close. If I'd been using my 70-200mm zoom like Bud is using in the above picture, I would've gotten both horses in the frame. Well, it's not like it'll be every day I'll be toting around a 300mm bazooka. But it's good to know, anyway.

The big race was forty-five minutes away. I knew I had a little time, but not much. The Belmont trophy had already been carried to the winner's circle, and people were beginning to buzz with anticipation. Soon, the horses would be led into the paddock to be saddled. The moment of truth was closing in on us. I sprinted back to the photo auxillary booth, weaved my way through the thick bystanders to nab a couple bucks from my husband, and bought a Snickers bar to stave off my starvation. Then, with over 30 minutes until the race, I zipped back over the track to secure my safety.

There I stayed put, resting in the grass for one of the first times that day, and was able to let everything really sink in. This was it. It was happening.

The last leg of the Triple Crown was moments away.

"I shouldn't be here": A Belmont Story. Part II

It took me a few hours to upload all of my shots back at the hotel, and to dry off from the morning rain and mud. Once I returned to Belmont, I put my press credentials to use for the first time during racing hours.
The last time I'd been to Belmont Park, I was seventeen or eighteen years old. It was the first time I'd ever stepped foot on a Thoroughbred racetrack, and when you could say I broke my maiden by watching my first live race. I distinctly remember the first time I took in the immensity of Belmont's 1 1/2-mile oval, which was nothing short of the same breathtaking awe one experiences upon seeing the Grand Canyon. This was the site of the most famous race in history, where the mighty Secretariat blew away his competition by a jaw-dropping 31 lengths to become the first Triple Crown winner in 25 years. I envisioned his ghost jogging around the final turn, Chic Anderson's timeless words echoing in my head, "Secretariat is widening now, he is moving like a tremendous machine!"

I didn't get to see much but turf races that first day, but I was there long enough to get into trouble. Gawking at the paddock, nobody stopped me as I meandered up to the Secretariat statue and snapped away with my Canon automatic, and only when I began to walk through the tunnel next to the parading horses and got a dirty look from a groom did I realize I was probably not supposed to be there. I still can't believe nobody ever kicked me out.

I had very much the same feeling as I walked past the security and into the paddock with my press credentials, only this time, I had a renewed respect for it all. It amazes me how only five or six years can make you forget. Yes, I remembered the enormity of the track, but I had forgotten how gorgeous Belmont is. I see it on TV every year, but to be there, among the archways of ivy, and in the presence of the historic paddock, is to be transported to another time. It may be 2009, but it may as well have been 1969 (in 1968, the first grandstand was demolished and rebuilt into what stands today). Maybe I was too young to appreciate it all, or possibly it was too much to take in at once, but the sheer green of Belmont is overwhelming and even nurturing to the soul.

I took pictures inside the paddock of horses being saddled and taken down the tunnel to race, and for the first time, stepped into the winner's circle and into what I call "the gutter" to take a finish line photo. Honestly, I had no idea where I was going, or if what I was doing was against the rules. I pretty muched looked at what other people were doing and followed their lead. There weren't many photographers present on the Thursday before the Belmont Stakes, and not many people at the track, in general. It was still raining in a steady mist, just enough to make you soggy and annoyed (But really, it was hard to be in anything but bliss and awe in the position I was in--I hardly noticed how wet I really got). Standing in front of the fence separating the fans from the track was pretty amazing, even though it was just a maiden claiming race. It was like easing into a lifestyle you had in a former life, simple and practiced without having to think much about it.

After the race was over, and I'd gotten my feet wet both figuratively and literally, I decided to finally give Bill Nack a call. I had no idea what I was calling him for, exactly, but since he'd given me his cell phone number and had been so friendly, why not try to meet up with the living turf legend? Maybe I could at least offer to buy him a drink, now that we were finally in the same town.

He answered my call almost suspiciously at first, "Who is this?" and when I told him who I was, he actually chuckled! Maybe he didn't even know what he was going to do with me exactly, but he said he was working and I should call him back in an hour. I got some food in me in the meantime (ahh lovely reheated Sbarro pizza, how you save me), and after the hour was up, I called him and he said he'd meet me downstairs where I was, in the paddock.

That's pretty much when my trip shot off into the stratosphere of "what the hell is going on, and how did I get into this situation?"

Bill came down and greeted me like an old friend, and walked down into the heart of the paddock with me to check out the Secretariat statue. The statue had been involved in a freak accident only a week before when a horse got loose and somehow ran into it. Reportedly, only the base had been damaged, and Bill began inspecting it for any hints of trauma, as if checking over a precious Mercedes after an accident. The traditional blanket of carnations in honor of the Belmont Stakes was covering the base of the statue, so there was really no telling if any damage was visible. And then, almost comically, Bill asked if I'd take his picture in front of it. I'd been secretly trying to figure out how to take this shot without him realizing it all during his inspection, and gladly obliged.

I don't really remember what we chatted about during that time, I was and always am so humbled to be around him, I'm sure whatever I said was little more than small talk. I'm pretty much worthless in conversation with most people, I admit. I have no knack for sociability; I'm your patented mumbling writer/artist-type.

Anyhow, inexplicably, Bill decided I was worthy of a tour of his stomping grounds, and swept me up into the elevator marked "PRESS ONLY." He proceeded to take me up to the press box, which is located at the topmost part of the grandstand, where I was blown away by the posh view of the sprawling track. He then began introducing me to every other person in the room, from Dan Liebman, the editor-in-chief of The Blood-Horse magazine, to Tim Layden, the Sports Illustrated writer who penned the recent cover story of Mine That Bird's Kentucky Derby victory, "Did that really happen?" What made me really feel humbled is that he introduced me to Liebman as "An up-and-coming equine photographer" and had him give me his business card to submit my pictures to. While I didn't know the first thing to say to Liebman, except for "Thank you, I love your magazine" (LAME, I know), I found some sort of words to put together to gush to Layden over his article.

Bill showed me what he called his favorite thing in the press box, a complete collection of American Racing Manuals. Inside each is a complete racing record of all the noteworthy horses, Eclipse winners, you have it. I told him that's what I needed to answer The Blood-Horse's And They're Off! trivia question about Carry Back (which I guessed right, but didn't win the drawing of, thankyouverymuch). Bill is fascinated with statistics and numbers, a regular fiend of trivia. Go figure, if you've read his Bible on Secretariat, that's a given.

I asked him when would be a good time to cross the track to see Ruffian's grave in the infield, and he directed me to go before the races started tomorrow. I could tell he respected the fact I wanted to see it up close, but this day, he didn't seem like he wanted to revisit her story much. He did reveal to me the press box was where he watched Secretariat's Belmont, and how after the race was over, he was running down the stairs, shouting to one of Big Red's naysayers, "I told you he could go over a mile and a quarter!" What a view that must've been of those long 31-lengths; the best view in the house, really.

We were up in the press box for hours, watching races proceed beneath us and talking, among other things, about the historical fiction Civil War book he wanted to write, Barack Obama's mark on Washington D.C., and how he wished the person who instigated torture to P.O.W's would be revealed. This is the sort of conversation that crops up once you run out of horse racing anecdotes. Bill Nack has a lot of convictions about politics, and a good head on his shoulders when speaking about it. He also admitted he was often yelled at by his wife for throwing things at the TV, like when Bush and Co. said they probably made a mistake for invading Iraq.

On our way out of the press box, Bill introduced me to Jenny Kellner, an award-winning journalist and media specialist for NYRA. Though they never said how many years they've been friends, it's clear Bill and Jenny are very close. Bill said if we're not busy, we should join them for drinks at Waterzooi, a restaurant famous for mussels. How could I refuse?

After a hug and a kiss from Bill, I left Belmont Park that day feeling like I'd walked into some strange alien body, and it was all a dream. It was about to get a lot more surreal that night, when "some people getting together" ended up being an intimate dinner with Bill, Jenny, her husband, my husband, and I, sharing mussels, mozzerella, and a mousse over talk about the business, Cormac McCarthy, the AP, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Hunter S. Thompson.

The highlight of the night was Bill's precise recitation of the last page of The Great Gatsby while we sat around the half moon-shaped table and ogled in reverie. You see moments like this in the movies and say to yourself, "Nobody does that. That never happens in real life." By God, it does when you're surrounded by award-winning authors who knew legends of literature. Hunter S. Thompson actually typed out Gatsby's novel to learn how to form beautiful sentences. Bill told us a story about Hunter's sense of humor, how he found ridiculousness, black comedy in moments that were supposed to be serious and foundation-shaking; he also told us about the mounds of drugs he would take and barely seem affected by them. Of course, Hunter opperated on drugs, so it's possible nobody ever knew what he was like when he was off them.

I found out that Jenny was the person who was looking to buy my picture of Curlin I took in last year's Stephen Foster. Strange how things come full circle. At the time, I had been credentialed by nobody and had no idea what to tell the intern who asked me how much I wanted for the photo to run in an ad in the Daily Racing Form. In desperation, I had contacted Charles Pravata, a photographer I have deep respect for I knew through Flickr. He told me he would charge no less than $200 for three-day usage in print, so that's what I asked for. Obviously, that price was too high for NYRA. Jenny said their going rate for one photo is $100. Damn. The sad thing is, I'd told the intern I'd negotiate, but being an intern, the kid obviously didn't know what that meant and the deal never happened. Jenny and Bill exchanged a glance at this. In this moment, I suddenly felt like in a way, I belonged.

The night ended late for me, who was barely getting by on my measely four hours sleep, but I could've stayed for hours more with that great conversation. I discovered Bill likes wine, and one of his rules for drinking is to never drink alone, or while he's working. He was disapproving of my un-alcoholic beverage that night, but he was gentlemanly about it and didn't pressure me about it. They gave me a second chance to redeem my faux pas the next night: Jenny invited us to the press party on Belmont eve.

I found myself once more asking myself the phrase that would become the mantra of the trip, "How did I get here?"