Please, Preakness, Make Us Proud

My grandmother got me in to Triple Crown horseracing. I remember eating popcorn with her on that first Saturday in May, watching the Kentucky Derby, sitting in a recliner in what she called "the bird room" because of its bird print wallpaper.

Moving to Baltimore two years ago I was thrilled to be near Pimlico and the Preakness. Then I talked to people who'd been in the infield: it was debauchery. Long gone were the hats and Southern grace of the Kentucky Derby and far in the future was the Belmont Stakes' faint air of aristocracy. Here at the Preakness we have we have the manimal, Kegasus. It's less about the horses and more about the...fillies.

Please, Preakness, you are already the red-headed stepchild, you don't need to race to the bottom with a mascot that is half man half '70s hair band. Horse racing is the game of kings, not leering adolescents. It's supposed to edify us, Baltimore, to host the second leg of the Triple Crown.

Horse racing  is the definition of "sprezzatura," seeming ease, feigned artlessness, making the terribly difficult look like a breeze. It has an ugly underbelly, with drugs, inbreeding, and mistreatment, but when it comes to watching from the rail, all you see is a pure rare form of beauty.

We watch and learn from the pounding horses running the homestretch what it means, despite all the odds, to have heart.