From a photo of Taxi (on right) and JJ
I sat near the connections who seemed jovial surrounded by a tarantula of camera equipment, boom mics and lighting. They had good reason to be proud and tell their story. In front of me sat one of Hawthorne's crew who had a nice table set up with what appeared to be his nephews and nieces who were excited to not be at school enjoying a rare trip to the racetrack with hamburger plates that came with silver warming covers and individual bottles of ketchup and mustard. He was explaining what was going on after the horses left the gate, how no one seemed to want the lead and the frigid headwind that came with it, but watching the break was more exciting than any analysis for the kids whose awed reflections I could see in the window as the first vanguard began to separate. Hearing him explain the race made me think just how hard it is to put into words the feeling I get when I see a band of thoroughbreds rushing past me at nearly 40 mph. How you play this scene in your head using these sheets filled with numbers then are clobbered with the reality, the life of it.
Magna Fortuna would come in a non-threatening ninth. He didn't look bad; he just didn't really know what he was supposed to be doing. It was his first race. He ran with the pack and came back to be unsaddled in front of his adoring fans who didn't seem to care where he finished; just that he was able to start.