RIP Barbaro

I was the kid who followed the Derby, the Preakness, the Belmont.

I was the kid who read horse stories.

I was the kid who grew up to know who Russell Baze was and why I should care.

I was the kid who talked Dad, sweetheart that he was, into buying a certain brand of pipe tobacco so I could choose the best name for a Derby winner's colt or filly and win it for my very own.

(and I promised him that should I win I'd somehow be able to feed the critter, exercise it, take care of it ...)

He indulged me each year for a few months while the contest ran.

Sure, Sal. Maybe sure, you'll win the pony. I'll smoke whatever pipe tobacco I need to smoke to get the chits you need to enter the contest to get your Derby winner's foal.

I learned they'd put Barbaro down while we were out on the road today, listening to the news in the car.

I didn't burst into tears. Honest I didn't. I'm grown up now, you know.

Damn.

I didn't burst into tears until tonight when I saw Asha's clip.

Damn. OK?

Just damn. Just ... damn.