Smarty Jones' failed Triple Crown bid reminds Joel Hammond of the perfect drama of sports.
By Joel Hammond
210 west Writer [send email]
What I enjoy most about sport is its ability to invariably unite persons who would, on any other terms, not be joined together. Professional teams, as we have seen during this year's NBA and NHL postseasons, unite entire cities.
Detroit's success has once again merged perhaps the most diverse city in the country into one sea of blue, Laker-hating animals.
Tampa Bay, the city of the 95-degree June days, has become enamored with a -- gasp -- Stanley Cup Champion that entered the league only 12 years ago.
Smarty Jones had the same power.
That was the brilliance of this year's Triple Crown threat's storybook ride to the top of front pages, newscasts and American hearts everywhere: He enveloped a nation with a sense that they were a part of something special, that he had provided and would continue to provide a steady figure in a time where not much else was so.
Then, he lost.
With Sunday's loss at the Belmont Stakes, the last leg of horse racing's Triple Crown, Smarty provided a link to what I truly enjoy most about the sporting world: If you don't have the goods, you're not going to win, no matter what you've done for the down-and-out city of Philadelphia or masses of people across an entire nation.
Smarty taught me a valuable lesson about the cruelty of sports: It is everything.
It provides the drama nestled in each and every sporting event -- the
virtual glue required to provide intrigue and make aforementioned cities
unite on the most peculiar terms. Smarty's ride through the Kentucky Derby was fun to watch. His domination at Pimlico in the Preakness forced the nation to become downright smitten with the strikingly beautiful creature.
But, in victory, Smarty managed to mask even the possibility of failure
-- the cruelty of sport. Philadelphians, down on their luck because
the Phillies haven't recovered from the 1992's CarterGate, the
Sixers are in a well with no bucket and the Eagles are the epitome of the
close-but-no-cigar theory, pinned their dying hopes on the three-year-old
thoroughbred's broad shoulders.
And Philadelphia, on the Friday before the Belmont was a sight to behold. Signs
exhorting Smarty Jones. Televisions in bars and cheesesteak grills tuned to
racing coverage that people don't normally watch. A wrap around the day's
Daily News.
Then Birdstone, by defiantly charging past the overwhelming favorite
in the last 1/8 of a mile and triumphantly ending yet another Triple
Crown hope, reminded every one of the millions watching that day of the
cruelty that makes sports so beautiful.
The cruel truth that belied Birdstone's superior day was that Smarty
Jones, who in his two glorious wins had been labeled too smart to lose by
so many "analysts," was outsmarted by a horse who seemed out of the
race on the backstretch.
The favorite fought off Rock Hard Ten and Eddington while Birdstone,
entering the final turn was still 5-6 lengths behind, biding his time.
Then came the fitting finish: Birdstone slowly gained ground on the
outside. There was a surreal point in the stretch run where it was
painfully evident to so many who desperately wanted another Smarty Party that
he would not be able to withstand Birdstone's charge.
Smarty lost by a length.
Shoulders slumped.
Tears flowed.
Smarty, his old owners, criminal jockey and likeable trainer were
gracious in defeat. Trainer John Servis admitted Birdstone was the
better horse, perhaps more suited for the one and a half mile length of the
Belmont, the longest of the three triple crown races.
Birdstone jockey Edgar Prado said he was sorry, only to remind the
world that this was "his job."
So cruel.
So right.