I
owe my happiness to the greatest horse who ever lived. There’s
no end to the mystery of God, but every now and again He’ll
use a tool or two to remind us of it… the
mystery, that is.
June
9, 1973, the Belmont Stakes, Floral Park, New York, and there were only two
horses taking the track. Scham versus Secretariat. Then it was only
Secretariat, ‘the horse
that God had built’. And those
that weren’t rooted in
awe-struck silence were rooting for him every gallop of the way. Faster and
faster, there seemed to be no end to his speed. I was one of the folk that was
hooting and hollering, never taking my eyes off this powerhouse of an animal.
It was only because of him that I was here.
I
was a twenty-four year old intern looking to impress my hard-headed boss with
my journalism skills. What better way then to hop in my wreck of a car and
drive down from Albany to write a personal expose on the thoroughbred that had
taken the world by storm. It seemed as though all my hopes and dreams were
riding with Secretariat, but what he pulled off that day… it
transcended all expectations, all logic. And I pumped the air when he flew
across the finish line.
My
mouth agape and smiling, my eyes wide in shock, I subconsciously turned to my
left to scan the crowd’s reaction.
Only to stop, doing a double-take on the second row above me. Susan Hollis
stood there that day, the same ecstasy across her face, yet quietly expressed
in a glossy-lipped smile. Tight blonde curls brushed her shoulders as she
swayed with the excitement of the stands. The moment of held breath has passed,
all mouths erupted in disbelief and joy. The sweat of collected bodies and the
perfumes of a thousand Southern belles had assaulted my nose all day. The
smells, sounds, and colors blended, fading to a dull roar.
Susan’s
eyes had found mine. Eyes of blue-gray ink that had stories to tell. I have
blue eyes myself and was suddenly very concerned of how they would look to her.
We were locked together across the chaos, neither moving. Then Susan tilted her
head. The lines of her face were stolen from a film noir, elegant and
mysterious. Her nose caught my eye, pointed and proud above the full lips of a
rich voice I had yet to hear. I imagined the cutest freckles splashed over it,
but I couldn’t tell from
that distance. I was determined to change that.
Her
determination must have superseded mine because Susan made the first move,
staring down the steps. I met her at the end of my aisle, practically plowing
over the eight people to get there. We paused there in the middle, Susan no
doubt taking stock of my wiry frame and black hair that I couldn’t
decide whether to grow long or keep short. I hadn’t
worn a tie, like I’d notice so
many other men wearing, but I had on my best shirt and slacks. And I still had
a smile on my face which I’ve
been told is quite dazzling. “Some
race, huh?”
Susan’s
gaze went to the track, nodding. “Indeed.
Unlike any other.”
She
spoke unlike any other girl I had met or dated.
“I
knew I wore this short for a reason.” I
blurted. “It’s
my Sunday shirt. Never been worn anywhere else before today.”
Susan
looked back to me, curious. My cheeks flushed hotter then they had only a minute
ago. How stupid, how elementary, how…
“That’s
a lot of faith for just one horse.” she
observed, eyebrow lifted. An invitation to talk further. I swallowed. “Well,
if you’re going to have faith in something,
better to go all the way.” I smoothed
the front of said shirt. “Figured I
just remind God how much faith I was putting on Secretariat.”
Susan
took in every word, then tossed a loose curl from her eyes. She then extended
the hand not holding her purse. “Susan
Hollis.”
It
took me a moment to realize that this illumination of female perfection had
just given me her name. And with it, she had given me passage from the gate and
into the race. With the same heart-stopping surge of adrenaline, I shook the
smooth skin and slender fingers. “Bruce
Rutherford.”
The
story of Secretariat made it under the fold of the front page of the Albany
newspaper. It took almost three weeks afterward for my boss to approach me with
the proposal of a part-time job at the office. But I had to refuse so I could
start working in the public relations position at Churchill Downs, naturally.
Even four state lines away, the stands and ticket booths glowed in the wake of
Secretariat’s blazing
run. I could only bask in the glow of the head-over-heels love the Almighty
Lord had thrown me into. Or perhaps I’d
willingly jumped.
The
day after I started my job, there was a ball being hosted in honor of the
Fourth of July. Susan and her family were to attend, thus so was I, spending
every spare dollar and dime I had on a suit appropriate for the occasion. But I
could make no efforts to match myself to Susan. Her curls were swept up that
night, unveiling the curves of her neck, the mature width of her shoulders. The
way that girl could carry herself at only nineteen rivaled that of the queens
of England. I was speechless before her in her crimson dress, except to convey
how stunning she looked.
“Are
you ever going to stop being so flattering?” she
had laughed. My response was to sweep her onto the dance floor. “Only
is you stop being you.”
“Not
likely.”
Susan whispered with a playful wrinkle of her nose. A saucy
little quirk I’d discovered
beneath her Southern-bred surface. Along with her quiet strength and
inquisitiveness that pushed to succeed, to always pursue an answer. We talked
as we danced; where I heard Susan’s
voice I could tell she listened to mine. Her gaze becoming intent and focused,
unwavering from whomever would be speaking to her…
It
was in out fourth dance that I finally said “I
love you.” Three steps
later, she answered. “Bruce, I love
you too.”
It
took us three weeks to admit it to each other and only four months to plan and
conduct a ceremony; September 18th, 1973. Many couples have said that their
wedding day was the best day of their lives. They’ve
said that it’s the happiest
because it’s the day
when their life really begins. Rightfully so they should say that. Gad made
each man’s happiness
his own.
I’m
sixty-five years old now, a married man of forty-one years and it’s
not September 18 that takes me back every year. September 18th is not where it
all started for me. No, the happiness started on June 9, 1973, in the deafening
stands of the Belmont Stakes Triple Crown Venue. Secretariat made history that
day for a generation of riders and horse lovers. And with his history was
marked the first day of my future with Susan.
Amen
to the horse that God built!
