Secretariet's Secret

     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      Her determination must have superseded mine because Susan made the first move, staring down the steps.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!