Who Else? Zenyatta

A Breeders' Cup recap can't start with anything else. Here is a picture of Zenyatta (courtesy of ESPN.com), crossing that invisible line in the sand (synthetic sand, they'll remind you) ahead of America's top turf horse, Gio Ponti, and with the rest of the best American colts in shambles behind her. One ear on Mike Smith, one ear pricked forward. No attention to spare for the horses she has left reeling in her wake.

I had to wait for the replay to hear Trevor Denham's call: "Un - be - lievable!" as I was too busy screaming myself hoarse to hear it live.

The beginning of the race was rather more thrilling than anyone would have liked. An incident-free Breeders' Cup, what a marvel! And then in the load for the last race of the event, the feature race, the king-maker (queen-maker), no one seemed particularly eager to load - after all, the gate for a mile and a quarter race at Santa Anita is directly next to the barn entrance, and it's half past dinner hour by post time for the Classic - and Quality Road said, "No."

Some horses say no with a wink and allow themselves to be shoved into the gate with a shrug. These are the sorts of horses that duck out of crossrails because it is entertaining. They don't particularly want to dump you, but gosh - it is funny the way you yell and flap your arms when you're losing your balance! Can you do it again, please?

Some horses say no with a sharp buck and a few kicks, and allow themselves to be shoved into the gate after a determined gate crew grabs hold of ear and tail and whip and sends them in. These are the sorts of horses that duck out of serious fences because they simply don't want to jump. They want to dump you and they are deeply pleased with themselves when you hit the ground. Dirty, we call these horses, and while they're easily cowed by an assertive rider, a novice can't get anywhere with them.

And some horses say no with expletives. They'd sooner kill you than go in the gate, and even if you're clever enough to blindfold and disorient them, they know once they've gone in and they're going to tear the place down.

Quality Road was the latter horse at the Classic. He had hands over faces, he had hearts pounding, he had tears welling. The crowd had come to see Zenyatta demolish the field, not to see a good three-year-old tear himself to pieces in the starting gate.

The look on his face from the start was more than the usual mulish expression of the naughty horse. Anyone who has dealt with Thoroughbreds can tell you - when you see that face, you better keep that horse in motion, because if he is allowed to halt, he will explode.

Quality Road exploded in a million pieces, outraged, kicking out sharply, aiming at the gate crew. No one could get hold of an ear - he would have flipped over if they had. They finally got a blindfold on him - turned him in a quick circle - got him into the gate - and he lost his mind.

I almost hope we didn't gain any newbie viewers for the Classic this time around, because heaven only knows what they were thinking. The gate isn't ideal, we all know that, but it's all we have besides the jog up starts that the steeplechases have, and that's less than perfect, as well. It seemed to take a quarter of an hour for the last Grand National to get away.

Eventually, after the gate shook and shuddered under his blows, after the blindfolded colt broke through the front gate and managed to stumble out, shuddering and kicking, after the crewman who caught him managed to slide the blindfold off, the trembling, adrenaline-charged colt was led away, stripped of tack, and diagnosed with a scrape. The rest of us? Palpitations.

And in the aftermath, the anti-climactic realization that the greatest race of the year was yet to be run. The horses were backed out of the gate and, surly, re-loaded. Zenyatta was back in Spanish-walk mode; Mike Smith had to let the crew load her before he could climb up on the gate, reach over her broad back, and gently step a toe into the right stirrup of her polished saddle. There was a creeping knowledge that anything could happen. Quality Road had been the acknowledged pace in the race. Zenyatta seemed off her game, unhappy in the gate. All the variables and unknowns - Gio Ponti, the turf king come to synthetic; Einstein, the elder statesman, who'd blown himself out in a work earlier in the week; Summer Bird, the champion of the summer (as long as Miss Alexandra wasn't in the equation) loomed even larger.

They broke.

Zenyatta broke last.

No one watched the race. Did anyone watch the race? I didn't. I watched Zenyatta. I watched her loping along, lengths behind the pack, with a loose rein and floppy ears, out for an afternoon gallop, with all the enthusiasm of a foxhunter freshening before the fall meet. There were fractions - slow early times, I remember that. And yet the race was won in just over two minutes - in very good time - which means that the last few furlongs - the short Santa Anita stretch run - must have been very fast indeed.

She was on the rail at the final turn, making her move. Mike Smith shook out his reins and away she went. Between horses - between, instead of around the pack! - and suddenly her way was closed to her. Mike asked her, "Go to the right, please," and she took a hard right, galloped around the horse in her way, and found herself five or six wide, with all the path before her wide open, and less than an eighth of a mile to go. And she went. With ears pricked, in great leaps and bounds, all seventeen hands of her afloat in mid-air, she went.

The crowd roared, went wild, lost their minds. She paused to listen and savor the love. Mike gave her a few taps with the stick: "This is urgent, dear, you must go faster." And faster she went. With an ear on Mike and an ear pricked towards the finish line, she went.

The drama of two minutes before was forgotten. Quality Road, in disgrace at the barn, forgotten. All that was left was the mare of a lifetime, the Horse of the Decade, as Mike Smith would call her. There was no love left for Gio Ponti, second to the Queen, for the third place finisher - does anyone even remember who finished third? His connections, no doubt. But when you fall to a champion, you truly fall from view. The best that can be said of you is, "Second to Zenyatta," and for those who saw her run, that is high praise indeed.