Barbaro

And if he makes it through the surgery, he won't be doing that for a long time (which is the point BBAM was making).

 

Big fucking deal.

The essence of sports is you put an emotional investment in the participants you're watching. At the core of it, that's why most of us got into spectator sports to begin with.

If you can't have empathy for the participants when something befalls them -- especially when its life or death in this case -- then you're cynical beyond the pale. And, no, that's not a fucking badge of honor. It's sad.

There is nothing wrong with anyone being sad over Barbaro. Frankly, if you're not moved by it, there's nothing wrong with that either, but there is something severely wrong with criticizing someone for being sad over it.

Despite what some think, callousness is no fucking badge of honor either.

 

i was covering the jets when dennis byrd broke his neck in 1992. after writing the story, i sat next to the other beat writer who was closest to dennis, looked at him and simply said: "do you effin' believe this?"

a year later, the once paralyzed byrd was able to stand and cut the thanksgiving turkey at his parents' home. he told me, "shockey, who would've thunk it?"

byrd's eldest daughter and my eldest son were born about the same time. we used to share stories about sesame street kids books and do impressions of the animal sounds.

if stories like byrd's and barbaro' don't move you in this biz, maybe that says a lot about you. the fact that barbaro's "just" a horse doesn't mean he doesn't merit compassion. a beautiful animal was running for our pleasure. if you can't locate your humanity over this, may i humbly suggest you have none.  :'( :'( :'(

 

Just out of curiousity, I wonder how many respondents on this thread have ridden, taken care of, or owned a horse.

"There is something about the outside of a horse that is good for the inside of a man." --- Sir Winston Churchill.

 

My family owned multiple horses when I was a kid. In fact my sister and my stepmother both showed horses, and my aunt was once featured on the cover of Horsewoman or some other niche mag.

Horses are wonderful animals, high-strung and not for the weak-willed to deal with, but wonderful animals for those with the strength (physical and mental) to deal with them.

In high school, I found riding mine to be rather theraputic. There's something about the connection you feel while riding that makes bad stuff seem like not such a big deal.

 

Cut-and-paste, my friend. Cut-and-paste.

 

I for one would like to see what the fucking badge of honor looks like.

 

Here you go:

 

So the cops got off for beating Rodney King because they're accustomed to gettin ... okay, got it.

 

I hope no one will find this offensive or tasteless, but this sad story reminded me of WC Heinz's Death of a Racehorse--widely regarded as one of the greatest pieces of sportswriting ever.  It has been reprinted here before, here it is again...

Code:

Death of a Racehorse
 by W.C. Heinz

They were going to the post for the sixth race at Jamaica, two year olds, some making their first starts, to go five and a half furlongs for the purse of four thousand dollars. They were moving slowly down the backstretch toward the gate, some of the cantering, others walking, and in the press box they had stopped working on the kidding to watch, most of the interested in one horse.

"Air Lift," Jim Roach said. "Full brother of Assault."

Assault, who won the triple crown ... making this one too, by Bold Venture, himself a Derby winner, out of Igual, herself by the great Equipoise ... Great names in the breeding line ... and now the little guy making his first start, perhaps the start of another great career.

They were off well, although Air Lift was fifth. They were moving toward the first turn, and now Air Lift was fourth. They were going into the turn, and now Air Lift was starting to go, third perhaps, when suddenly he slowed, a horse stopping, and below in the stands you could hear a sudden cry, as the rest left him, still trying to run but limping, his jockey -- Dave Gorman -- half falling, half sliding off.

"He broke a leg!" somebody, holding binoculars to his eyes, shouted in the press box. "He broke a leg!"

Down below they were roaring for the rest, coming down the stretch now, but in the infield men were running toward the turn, running toward the colt and the boy standing beside him, alone. There was a station wagon moving around the track toward them, and then, in a moment, the big green van that they call the horse ambulance. 

"Gorman was crying like a baby," one of them, coming out of the jockey room, said. "he said he must have stepped in a hole, but you should have seen him crying."

"It's his left front ankle," Dr. J.G. Catlett, the veterinarian, was saying. "it's a compound fracture; and I'm waiting for confirmation from Mr. Hirsch to destroy him."

He was standing outside one of the stables beyond the backstretch, and he had just put in a call to Kentucky where Max Hirsch, the trainer, and Robert Kleber, the owner, are attending the yearling sales.

"When will you do it?" one of them said.

"Right as soon as I can," the doctor said. "As soon as I get confirmation. If it was an ordinary horse I'd done it right there."

(more)

 

(Heinz continued)

Code:

He walked across the road and around another barn to where they had the horse. The horse was still in the van, about twenty stable hands in dungarees and sweat-stained shirts, bare-headed or wearing old caps, standing around quietly and watching with Dr. M.A. Gilman, the assistant veterinarian.

"We might as well get him out of the van," Catlett said, "before we give him the novocaine. It'll be a little better out in the air."
The boy in the van with the colt led him out them, the colt limping, tossing his head a little, the blooding running down and covering his left foreleg. When they saw him, standing there outside the van now, the boy holding him, they started talking softly.

"Full brother of Assault." ... "It don't make no difference now. He's done." ... "But damn, what a grand little horse." ... "Aint he a horse?"

"It's a funny thing," Catlett said. "All the cripples that go out, they never break a leg. It always happens to a good-legged horse."

A man, gray-haired and rather stout, wearing brown slacks and a blue shirt, walked up.

"Then I better not send for the wagon yet?" the man said.

"No," Catlett said. "Of course, you might just as well. Max Hirsch may say no, but I doubt it."

"I don't know," the man said.

"There'd be time in the morning," Catlett said.

"But in this hot weather--" the man said.

They had sponged off the colt, after they had given him the shot to deaden the pain, and now he stood, feeding quietly from some hay they had placed at his feet. In the distance you could hear the roar of the crowd in the grandstand, but beyond it and above it you could hear thunder and see the occasional flash of lightning.

When Catlett came back the next time he was hurrying, nodding his head and waving his hands. Now the thunder was louder, the flashes of lightning brighter, and now rain was starting to fall.

"All right," he said, shouting to Gilman. "Max Hirsch talked to Mr. Kleberg. We've got the confirmation."

They moved the curious back, the rain falling faster now, and they moved the colt over close to a pile of loose bricks. Gilman had the halter and Catlett had the gun, shaped like a bell with the handle at the top. This bell he placed, the crowd silent, on the colt's forehead, just between his eyes. The colt stood still and then Catlett, with the hammer in his other hand, struck the handle of the bell. There was a short, sharp sound and the colt toppled onto his left side, his eyes staring straight out, the free legs quivering.

"Aw--" someone said.

   That was all they said. They worked quickly, the two vets removing the broken bones as evidence for the insurance company, the crowd silently watching. Then the heavens opened, the rain pouring down, the lightning flashing, and they rused for the cover of the stables, leaving alone on his side near the pile of bricks, the rain running off his hide, dead an hour and a quarter after his first start, Air Lift, son of Bold Venture, full brother of assault.