The day Belmont Park took out Smarty

The home stretch at Belmont Park is punishingly long and relentlessly unforgiving, littered with the bleached bones of failed Triple Crown contenders, guarded by ghosts that are fiercely zealous sentinels of its reputation: Graveyard of Champions.

Into that foreboding venue the field for the 2004 Belmont Stakes turned for home, hoof beats drumming like rolling thunder, the rest of them in panting pursuit of a gutty little fireball, America's darling.

Smarty Jones.

He was 4 lengths clear of the pack of predators and right where he was supposed to be - on the lead, ready to pull away and rumble through the shadow-streaked splendor of a glorious afternoon, across the finish line and triumphantly into history - the Triple Crown, racing's Holy Grail.

Yes, it was going precisely as planned.

And then it wasn't.

His lead shrunk to 3 lengths . . .

Then 2 . . .

Then 1 . . .

Then . . .

Up in the press box, where protocol and history demand it be silent as church and where stone-faced objectivity be rigorously adhered to, there was an outbreak of yowling, howling chaos.

We shredded the code of silence, and as the field gained on Smarty we moaned in anguish. The code says that in my profession you root for the best story. Clearly, Smarty was the best story. So I, like my not-so-sophisticated brethren, broke into a chorus of pitiful protest.

"N-o-o-o-o-o-o!"

We thought by sheer volume we could stem the tide, root him home by sheer dint of will. . . .

"N-o-o-o-o-o-o-o!"

But Smarty's lead melted and the unthinkable became achingly clear and inevitable - he was going to lose and there wasn't one damn thing we could do about it.

"Oh-no-o-o-o-o-o!"

It's just a horse. Right? So why do you pour your heart out?

Well, there's something noble about them, a certain majesty, the way their muscles bunch and coil, those powerhouses that rocket them along, the way they run with all four legs off the ground until it looks like they are running on air . . . you look into those liquid eyes and wonder if maybe that's where the secrets of the universe lie . . . See? See how easy it is to get carried away? Just a horse, that's all, just a horse. . . .

I spent summers on a farm in Illinois, rode a gray mare called Lady Tipperary, and even as sedate as she was I could feel the power. And it was as though there was a connection. They tap a deep emotion in us, horses do. They have "it." Smarty had that.

He was the people's horse. He was a gutty little tiger and in Philadelphia especially, where we dote on grit and guts, he was a quick sensation.

He came out of Philadelphia Park of all places to win the Kentucky Derby, slogging gamely through the slop that bogged down the rest of them, and then the Preakness, on a sticky day in May when he ran away from all of them, just destroyed them, 111/2 lengths ahead, a record.

He was indestructible. He was 8-for-8, over five different tracks in five different states, and he beat 77 different horses, and here's what the people really, really liked - he never, ever, let another horse pass him. Smarty took no prisoners. The strategy was simple: Go to the front and improve your postion.

And now, ah now, he was going to win the Triple Crown, he was going to become only the 11th winner of the race that has foiled so many.

Champagne for everyone!

And then, just like that, the champagne turned to vinegar.

There is no mercy in horse racing. So they did the smart thing in that Belmont a decade ago, they ran at Smarty in ravenous relays, taking turns pressing him, like a boxer body-punching, and sure enough, they caught him. Well, not all of them. Only one, actually, a 36-1 shot named Birdstone. He got to the finish line one length ahead of Smarty. One length. One lousy, stinkin' please-say-it-isn't-so length.

In our press box aerie we slumped to our seats, swearing softly. In a half a century of this business, I don't think I ever felt such an emotionally wrenching moment. We were, all of us, empty.

And do you know what the Birdstone stable did? They apologized. They apologized for winning, even more for defeating Smarty. It was a touching, poignant moment of class. Such was the allure and the appeal of a race horse. A horse, that's all. Just a horse. . . .

Quite a cushy gig you have here, Smarty. Three squares a day. Built-in escort service. Not only that, they want the ladies to become preggers.

Yes sir, this standing at stud is a sweet life. Ten years since that Belmont and the people still remember Smarty, dropping in to ooooh and ahhhh, bearing treats and unashamed adulation.

It's enough to make a man dream of reincarnation.

Smarty has enjoyed moderate success in the breeding barn. His progeny are, for the most part, solid money-winners. The wait goes on for another Smarty.

In his trophy case, John Servis, Smarty's trainer, has preserved under glass a single rose petal taken from the blanket of roses that is draped across the neck of the winner of the Kentucky Derby.

A horse, that's all . . . just a horse. . . .