Secretariat - A Glimpse of Perfection

I've spent some amount of time on this blog revealing the respect that I have for figures that seem to transcend their positions, especially those in sport. While some may find such admiration for people who seem to merely play a "game" as childish, I find it to be more of an example of we all look for in ourselves - an inspiration to achieve something beyond others' expectations. When I look at LeBron James and marvel at the manner in which God chose to bless one human with seemingly unmatched athleticism, skill, confidence, size, strength, and understanding of the game I feel secure in the existence of both fate and pure greatness. Is such a combination of desirable attributes merely a coincidence - a result of odds and random genetic disparity - or a part of something more significant that we can't possibly understand? When first thrust onto the sporting world in a Sports Illustrated article his junior year in high school the cover story simply read "The Chosen One." Amazingly, the hype has turned out to be true, but the question that must be posed is whether or not there could have ever existed a set of circumstances where we would all be devoid of such a talent, a world where fate is nothing more than a four letter word. On the other hand, if you are one to embrace fate as a part of our world, I can't help but assume that you may find the story of a horse as an inspiration to us all.

It's hard to believe that anything as seemingly trivial (and non-human) as a race horse could illicit any true emotion to a casual observer, but Secretariat managed to do just that. Secretariat was born at Meadow Farms Stables in Caroline County, Virginia on March 30, 1970. He was the son of Sire, Bold Ruler, and Dam, Somethingroyal out of Princequillo. A horse of average size and build, the only exceptional characteristic of Secretariat to the outside observer was the beauty of a rich red coat that so many noted upon first glance, earning him the affectionate nickname of "Big Red." Those closer to the horse, however, were keenly aware from the beginning that the horse was something special, a prodigy that could speak no words, but still conveyed the message nonetheless.

Those who dabble in horse racing have said that there is a distinct difference between many race horses - some simply take the jockey's cue and respond to his actions and others seem to grasp the concept that they're involved in a competition. There was no doubt to those involved with Secretariat that he was undoubtedly the latter. While this quality would seem to be advantageous, more often than not a horse misuses this information and expends its energy too soon, fading late into the race. Much like the great Oregon track star Steve Prefontaine was taught as the competition grew more difficult, "front running" will win few long distance races.

In addition to his awareness on the race track Secretariat is remembered by those who worked with him as nothing short of the most intelligent of all horses, possessing an eerie ability to interact with humans in a seemingly professional manner. One respected horse racing historian remembers meeting the horse and being amazed by the fact that he would routinely look to the sky and watch planes as they flew overhead, something he had never seen any horse do in all the years he had observed them. On race day he was all business, and some would even argue that he wished to give a show to all his loyal fans.

While an exceptional horse indeed, Secretariat was not without loss. As was the downfall of even the greatest horses, he had days where a poor decision by a jockey or his own racing inexperience caused him defeat during his career as a 2-year old competitor. Despite these short comings he was still named the National Horse of the Year. Those within his team still knew that he was capable of even more, and during his 3-year old campaign he undertook a great journey that had not been completed for 25 years: the pursuit of the triple crown.

The triple crown starts off with the most famous of all horse races - the Kentucky Derby, and is followed by the Preakness and concludes with the Belmont Stakes. While not dominant, Secretariat won the first two races as expected and entered the Belmont with an historistic agenda on his mind. The horse that was before merely respected had gathered an almost cult-like following, with college co-eds especially mounting their presense at the great race. For whatever reason, this horse had caught the attention of the nation where so many other triple crown threats had failed, and maybe even he realized it.

The morning of the race Big Red could not be contained. He reared and bucked wildly, chomping at the bit in anticipation of an event that nobody at the time could have ever predicted. As the race began, Secretariat and his top competitor in the race, Sham, jumped out ahead of the other competition for a brief back and forth duel. As time went on however, race announcers across the country began to panic, as their beloved Secretariat seemed to make an almost suicidal move.

As stated before, no jockey directs his horse to go full throttle until the final push of the race, otherwise the horse will lose steam and be overtaken later. Much to the chagrin of Secretariat's jockey, Ron Turcotte, his famous steed had chosen the biggest race of his career to ignore his direction and he simply took off. Turcotte later admitted that he was certain that defeat was finally on its way, so he simply buckled down and let the horse do whatever it wanted. Replays of the race confirm that many viewers had given up at this point, but one creature still had not.

As Secretariat charged around the track something mysterious began to happen - he didn't let up. Contradictory to common logic he seemed to pick up speed like a chugging locomotive. At the half-way point he had set a new track track record. Still onlookers were doubtful, but Big Red would not stop. Soon his lead on the other horses proved to be preposterous. As he rounded corners the other horses fell completely out of view. His lead just kept growing. Soon he rounded the final bend and the words of track announcer Chick Anderson sum it up best,

"Secretariat is alone. He is moving like a tremendous machine! He's going to be the Triple Crown winner! Unbelievable! An amazing performance!"

At this point a famous photograph was taken. Finally aware that his horse had beaten all the odds and ran at full strength the entire race, Turcotte famously torqued his entire body to look back at what had become of the rest of race. What he saw must have shocked him. As Secretariat crossed the finish line, 31 lengths separated him from the nearest competitor. Once Big Red had crossed, the camera fixated on the finish line became lonely for 2 full seconds as nothing but dirt occupied the screen. With no horse in sight to push him, Secretariat had broken the world record at that distance, a record that still stands today. Awe overcame the crowd. Secretariat had just dropped 100 points, run the 200 meters in 19.32 seconds, won 7 swimming medals in one Olympics. His feat was equivalent to 26 consecutive 4-minute miles in a marathon. No horse could compare.

Secretariat went on to win more races, but none was more memorable than his record win at Belmont, and none was more difficult to grasp. After a successful career as a broodmare sire the famous horse came down with a disease of the hooves, laminitis, and was put down at age 19 to the dismay of the horse racing world. As sad as his death was, Big Red managed to amaze once more in death, as his nick name proved to be especially fitting. A necropsy was performed and the results were shocking to say the least. The famous Notre Dame football walk-on Rudy was often cited for his great heart, or rather effort put into his sport, but even he couldn't compare to Secretariat, as the results showed that in addition to his unique mannerisms Big Red was endowed with a heart more than twice the size of an average horse. A genetic freak, Secretariat is believed to have the largest heart ever discovered in any horse.

Did this fact detract from any of his accomplishments? I would have to say no, it only confirmed his place in horse racing history as "The Chosen One." Under some other circumstances this amazing horse may have spent his life at pasture, but God saw fit to bless him in so many ways, to give people a hope in the form of an animal that many great people could have never hoped to convey. Question his importance you may, but I believe that Secretariat served a purpose beyond filling a gambler's wallet or winning a trainer some money.

That fateful day at the Belmont Stakes a camera panned the crowd following the improbable victory and it discovered many people of all ages breaking down and crying. How could a horse they likely had never seen before cause such a rush of emotion? It's my opinion that these people showed up that day hoping to experience greatness, but instead they were given a glimpse of perfection.

Some random thoughts...again

Every once in a while I like to move away from repeating stories that most people already know, and I like to touch on whatever topics have crossed my mind recently. One such topic was just mentioned, so here goes.

A relatively drunk (although most certainly denied on her part) Lauren recently harped on me for writing a blog about my witnessing a dead body. While I could understand this disapproval on moral grounds, her main reasoning seemed to be that she didn't really enjoy reading about a story she had already heard. I understand that this is a fundamental problem with the blog, but not one that has not been considered. From my perspective there are many reasons to do this, the first and foremost that many of my friends from high school read this and they rather enjoy it hearing how my life is going as I do not talk to them as regularly as I do my friends in Ann Arbor. Also, I really enjoying keeping up with writing about events from my life as I know that one day when I write anything of any real significance to me I will be drawing from these very events. Thirdly, it's just plain and simple good practice for an untrained writer like myself.

Facebook is one hell of a phenomenon. How many of you all have friends on the facebook that you have never even met? I have tons. Most of them are from my high school, and they simply want to create some form of solidarity by linking themselves to every other person from their small community. A couple though are completely random friends that every time I see them show up on my top 6 I wonder what the hell happened. I have a couple friends named Seaman or some very close variation because one day I decided it would be interesting to see who else at this school endured the same jokes that I still do. I even have a friend on here that I saw compete on The Price is Right when she was in LA during her spring break. She made some terrible decisions and Shea cajoled me to message her on facebook admonishing her for her poor shopping sense. I did - and she rewarded me with a friend request. Another girl on there friended me because she said that she thought us "hot engineers" needed to stick together. Thanks I guess, but I am still yet to have any conversation with her (and she wasn't even really all that hot). Another girl from Eastern Michigan of all places friended me saying that she thought I looked like a cool guy to hang out with from my profile and that I could write her back if I wanted to meet her. She looked pretty cute actually, but any girl who thinks I look cool from my profile hasn't read it. It's completely retarded! Look at it, even my wall postings are pathetic. Like three of them are typing characters in the form of a (supposedly gay) man masturbating. That's not very cool. I don't even have any music listed that I listen to, and my favorite books are all non-fiction (and one is about theoretical physics). Completely lame.

While I'm on the subject, don't anyone out there read this and say, "Is this guy some kind of facebook stalker?" You all know that if somebody knew all the people that you've looked up for random reasons on facebook that you'd look more hopeless than a journalist looking for an insightful quote in a Paris Hilton interview. The anonymous searching is often the very fun of the site, not its flaw. Oddly enough I can't even begin to tell you how many people I've actually recognized in real life from merely looking through pictures bored. Weird? No, not even maybe, it's what makes the thing so addicting. The relatively small degrees of separation on campus are typically mind blowing. So please just enjoy and take pride in being a glorified stalker.

It's beginning to get a little late, so I might have to finish this off a little more abruptly than I had planned. Let me leave you by saying that I hope to have watched numerous oscar quality pictures in the next couple of weeks, so be looking for some reviews. Also, for reasons bordering on a stream of consciousness rampage, I have a strong desire to write a blog about my all-time favorite race horse, Secretariat. Yes, I have a favorite race horse. No, I don't expect anybody to actually read that entry, but I think you might enjoy it if you do. Alright children, have a great night/day, and good luck.

Today's Blog: Boot and Rally? It's not what you may think

Tiger Woods is in my opinion the greatest golfer to ever play the game. People who are inclined towards an historic view of sports will tend to look at career victories and grand slams in which Woods has a long ways of going to match the legend of Jack Nicklaus, but his pure domination of the sport in a time where golf is more popular than ever is truly fascinating. I could even argue that Woods dominates his sport moreso than did Michael Jordan during his reign of 6 championships in eight seasons. The criticism of Woods early in his career however was that he was all business and no fun, scowling and intimidating his opponents on his way to victory. The exuburance of a long putt fist-pump seemed to only be a break from personal frustration. This opinion of Woods changed in my mind though when I read a quote he gave in a post victory press conference after suffering through a day of the stomach flu and constant vomitting during his Sunday round. "It's just like college, boot and rally, you know."

If you're not familiar with the term, "boot and rally" refers to puking from too much drinking and then saying what the fuck and continuing to party. No, this blog is not about Tiger Woods at all, but rather a story near and dear to my heart that lately I think about every time I think of that phrase. Can I say I've never puked and taken a few swigs of mouth wash before exiting the bathroom, hoping my fellow partiers wouldn't realize the evidence in my breath? Well, use your imaginations. Either way, here is very true story of a very literal "Boots" and rally that I endured not so long ago.

Skipping most of the irrelevant set up, I found myself driving a girl named Rachel Boots (notice the last name) back to my house one day following such exciting events as her pounding four margaritas and in turn knocking my pint of Miller Light all over my crotch region. I knew it was time to leave, and for whatever reason this girl had a strong desire to play my home edition of the original Playstation version of Dance Dance Revolution. Her mannerisms were telling me a rare (for me) hook-up was in the cards, but fate thought otherwise. One last detail, without elaborating too much, you just have to know that the girl in question on this night was fucking crazy as hell...but that's another story.

The session of DDR didn't go so well, as Rachel managed to fall over sooner than she achieved a proper dance step. The same was true of her attempt to walk down the stairs to the bathroom, but despite the car-wreck like sound she bounced right back up when I investigated. This girl was drunk, and I was only partially so...what would the moral police say? At this point, I heard no sirens...

So she returns from the bathroom and plops down on my couch. I fear that she's mere moments away from passing out belly down in my living room. I decide to act fast, as I sneak up behind her and begin to give her a back massage, to which she responds rather well. After a few minutes of conversation in this position she requests that I lie down next to her for a minute before she goes down to the bathroom one more time before we go to bed. I figure this is an obvious invitation. As soon as I get next to her her expression suddenly changes and something resembling a hick-up emerges from her mouth. I'm slightly startled, but was not worried until the same grimace and suffocating noise returned a couple times in quick succession, to which I decided it may just about be time to sit up. No more than 1 second after I was resting on my palms in an upright position did Rachel begin projectile vomitting directly into the corner of my couch. She hit everything. Our coats, her brand new purse, her blouse, and due to the nature of her position she covered her own face as well as anything.

To be perfectly honest the first few moments were nothing less than mortifying, but that soon changed. Does anyone remember the feeling you got when your mom caught you misbehaving and you almost started to cry before she even had the time to discipline you, as you were in that instant so sure of your eventual fate? Well, although quite a bit short of a tear my initial reaction was one of pure frustration along the lines of 'how the fuck am I supposed to clean this shit up?' After about 10 seconds, however, I felt a smile cross my face as the reality of what had just happened occurred to me. I could already see everybody from work swinging their fists together like a set of double doors closing my oportunity to ever hook up. But when you become used to such tragic events, as I surely have, you learn that at least the story is better than nothing.

Perhaps the most amusing image from that evening was when she first began to stand up following her purge. The puke that had covered her face had even managed to cause her eye make-up to run down her cheeks, quite a variance from the all too common sight of a woman crying blue streaks, as these streaks were red and altogether not appealing. In hopes of saving the reader's lunch and continuing the rest of the story at a somewhat bearable pace let me just say that I escorted her to the bathroom downstairs and told her it might be wise to take a shower. I returned back upstairs to formulate a plan to eradicate the mess she had created. I took the coverings off of the couch cushions and grabbed all the clothes that had been hit by the torrent and took them downstairs immediately to be washed. At this point another completely ridiculous surprise awaited.

As I came around the bend to the door of the bathroom I could hear the shower running quite easily. I soon discovered that this was because Rachel had not only neglected to close the bathroom door, but she hadn't even considered closing the shower curtain to protect our bathroom floor. Oh, and she was completely buck naked. I wasn't quite sure what to say or do, so I remember matter of factly telling her to shut the shower curtain as I grabbed the door and shut it promptly. I started the washer and returned to the door to inform her that I would return to check on her in a few minutes after I had done some additional cleaning to the living room.

Once the time came for me to return to her I found the door closed but the sound of splattering water was not audible. I asked what was going on in there and she responded by telling me that she was now taking a bath. In my mind I responding by saying, "Who the fuck takes a shower and then takes a bath at somebody else's house after they just puked all over themselves?" but instead I remained speechless. Then she continued to inform me that she was bored and wanted me to come in to keep her company. (?) I cautiously did just that to find her taking a bath with the shower curtain closed (did her parents confuse her at a young age). She did on the other hand manage to sit up once I got in and pull the curtain back to address me, at which point she obviously exposed her naked breast, which for good reason at this point actually turned me off more than ever.

Just when I thought things couldn't get any more peculiar, they did. I asked her if she wanted a tooth brush seeing as to how she had just vomitted and she agreed, so I journeyed to my room and found a spare and returned to her. When I offered to leave it on the bathroom vanity she shut me down, requesting that I just paste it on up and hand it to her there in the bath tub. Who the fuck was I to turn her down at this point? I did just that and she rewarded me by taking the bizarre request to a new level when she matter of factly spit her mendament enriched mouthful directly into the very bath water she had just cleansed herself of puke. All I could remember thinking was "classy!" I made sure to tell her that I was sure she would come out of that bath smelling minty fresh. By this time I had already brought her some back-up clothes to wear in place of her previous attire, and despite the protests of several guys who have heard this story, I did not make any attempt to hook up with her (I'm sorry, I don't know about anybody else, but a shower, bath, and tooth brushing do not cancel out the mental image I was forced to endure that evening).

By this time it was close to 4 AM, and I was exhausted. I called into work the next day requesting that I could show up a little late, citing a house emergency, and in typical fashion Monica obliged given that I tell the story in great detail later that day. And as you can all be assured, I most certainly did.

So, have I ever decided to boot and rally? Well, sure I have. But I was given a very rare opportunity that night, the opportunity to "Boots and rally," and my outlook on that one is most assuredly that no amount of mouthwash, or even a bath tub full of toothpaste for that matter, will ever wash away the mental image of margarita mix painting a crazy girl's face.

Triumphant Return?

I have come back on here every few weeks or so promising to return to the regularity that I once enjoyed, however I have not yet managed to live up to the hype. Well, after a few consecutive weekends of ridiculously excessive spending I must say that I believe that the time will finally be available for me to squeeze a few entries in every week (aka I dont feel like spending the money to go out every other night until my finances recover). In the absence of the Brown Jug will be some of the entertaining stories that I have alluded to so many times in the past. Just by looking through a few recent posts I realize that I have all but guaranteed to touch on nearly being puked on and the Dollar Bill Christmas party. I still intend to do so, but won't tonight. Something happened much more recently that I feel that my loyal readers would be much more interested to hear (or should I say read?).

If you are especially disturbed by all things morbid or already know more than you want to about this story if you've already heard, try skipping ahead a little bit in the post. Otherwise, read on to learn more about the first dead body this author has ever seen without a coffin surrounding the corpse. Note: this description will leave out several of the details that people have thus far reacted quite negatively to, so if you need to know more you can always contact me on IM or by phone for a more detailed analysis.

I awoke at exactly 8:15 AM on Tuesday the 31st of January feeling particularly sore following the debacle that was my IM game from the previous evening. My phone began to ring within 5 seconds of my having turned off the alarm, an event that was rather interesting to me as it marked the second consecutive day that I received a phone call at the exact instant that I was crawling out of bed. Not surprisingly it was from work, a sign during the current drought of copying demand that my services were not to be needed. Turns out I was half right, there wasn't a whole lot to do at work, but my presense was still implied, as my manager Monica said I may still want to show up to witness the fact that there was a dead body located in the alley behind the shop.

I reminded Monica that a fellow co-worker, "The Ion," had started his vacation that morning and that I may be needed for back-up. She agreed and asked me to show up a little later, 10ish we eventually agreed on. She relayed some details and rather disturbing information regarding the body, but I'll either touch on that later or give what I leave out to anyone who's interested in inquiring further.

As I pulled into the parking structure directly behind my work place I could already see the vast stretches of yellow police tape fluttering all around the vicinity. The entire alley was blocked right up until the point where I would have to cross to get to the back door of the shop. Being later in the day I knew that I would have to park a little higher in the structure than usual, but on this day and with the sense of morbid facination I was entangled in I was all too willing. The reason? The aforementioned dead body had originated from one of these upper levels, a presumed 7 story back flip with a half twist into the solid concrete pool beneath. In other words, a student had jumped down nearly 70 or 80 feet to a quick and convincing death on the tiny one-way road running along the side of the structure, and only from one of these upper levels could anyone see the results.

If this offends you, sorry, I'm sure you've never slowed down to look at a car wreck. If you have, give me a break, hell, either way, I just wanted to see. Nobody walking by on the street could, as a small orange fence was placed around the crime scene, causing the entire event to look more like a quick construction job rather than a police investigation. The only way to see the aftermath was to look directly down, and there was only one place in the structure that I knew that I would get a clear view. I also knew that without the knowledge I had already been given over the phone, I wouldn't have known where that spot was.

For a little background on those reading this not familiar with the lot I'm referring to, once you get over maybe 2 levels on the side of the structure this all occurred you'd seem a fool to not take the elevator down, as each set of stairs is unjustifiably separated by about 30 feet of walking in a giant rectangle, making them nearly unusable. I got off on level 6 and headed right toward these stairs, but was forced to pass the elevator on the way. Making this act appear especially odd was the fact that two girls were already waiting and glanced at me oddly when it became obvious that I had chosen the stairs and a slow awkward decent. What I was really heading towards was the giant glass wall encompassing the stairs with a clear view below, what turned out to be a glance of no more than 2 seconds that I will likely not forget for some time.

So, cutting to the chase already as my bedtime approaches, what I saw did not truly disturb me, but rather surprised me, as both the scene of the crime and the results of such a fall were in many ways not what I had expected. Firstly, I was given prior information that the body was covered in a white sheet exposing only the arms and legs dangling out the sides. This is not what I saw. As three detectives leaned over the body during my ever so brief blink of a look, I saw not a white sheet, but instead the blank stare of a pale white face covered only by the chilly air surrounding him.

!ALERT! GRAPHIC CONTENT AHEAD

Everybody has asked me how bad it was or what he looked like, but to be quite honest it wasn't all that bad. The one aspect that immediately jumped out at me was the fact that both his mouth was ajar, and along with his nose spilling blood out onto the sidewalk on either side of his face. His hair was of medium length and seemed brownish. A slightly larger guy, not quite chubby, wearing what appeared to be a suit. Very little blood. Sprawled out as if ready to make a snow angel. He was not thrown or did not accidentally fall. Instantaneously I knew - he had faced the structure and allowed himself to free fall backwards. No other fall could explain the manner in which he lay exactly perpendicular to the building with limbs forming a star. The impact was received rather equally across his body, as he had very little trauma and more blood pooled around him from the internal bleeding coming from his mouth than the injuries to his midsection.

One second passed, then two, then I had seen enough, and walked to the other side of the structure to expediate my decent on the more logical staircase at the West side of the building. The image does not haunt me, but I will never forget.