In 1973, I believe my grandfather fell in love a second
time. As far as I know, my grandmother forgave him—the name, after all, was
Secretariat—and his hearers took dictation of his every accomplishment to
plaster on walls and in chambers. The Big Horse made his pen in hearts.
By the time Secretariat reached me, his sides had long since
stretched into wrappings of silt. Yet, the girth of his story never stayed
buried. Dust had no homestead in the greatness of his stride, the ears
attentive and ahead, the pulse that seemed to throb the whole of his red coat.
If the Triple Crown went untouched for thirty, forty years, we could still
extract stories; and my grandfather never refused to exhume his memories of
those days for me. We remembered what beauty had come in the past, and we
longed to see loam tremor under a like step in our time.
Every May and June, then, were stretches of holiday; a
ribboned time that left us on tenterhooks. Every May and June, we waited for a
release from the Triple Crown drought. With Derby Day’s close, my grandfather would
ask, “Is this the year? Could this be the one?” Still, the diluvian time did not
come with any of the chestnuts we picked.
This has been my first Triple Crown season apart from my
grandfather; and while I like to think that his excitement over American
Pharoah would match mine, perhaps he would only laugh a bit at our efforts over
what seems an absurd hope—that a champion would be revealed, finally.
But knowing my grandfather, perhaps not. Maybe, we could
recall together that the fervor of this season is only a pretend thing, in a
sense. We can make a hobby off of counting horses. But our real expectation is
for a different coming, the One who is Himself perfect, the driver and author
of all that is beautiful. We yearn for an end to the time of dryness. We have a
promise that the only glorious One will retrieve us from it, someday. Our fellowship and praise will be His only. It seems an absurd hope to some, perhaps. But we wait
upon its realization with eager hearts already signed by their buyer, and ears
against the track.
