Dead roses

 Mage, a 15-1 shot with Hall of Fame jock Javier Castellanos up, surged past Two Phil's in the stretch to win the Kentucky Derby yesterday, and everyone wondered where that horse came from, and why didn't they put a stack o' green on his nose, and. well, you just never know in this sport of kings (so-called).

Me?

I think they should have given Mage his blanket of roses just for being alive.

Seems that was a hell of an accomplishment in its own right this week, with thoroughbreds -- perhaps too Thoroughly Bred these days -- dropping like bluebottle flies. Seven of 'em died this week at Churchill Downs, including two on Saturday in the Derby undercard. Five others were scratched from the Derby itself, four for health reasons.

That of course included the 3-1 favorite, Forte, whom the vets nixed because of a bruised foot that had him looking not quite right during a couple of Saturday morning lopes.

Forte's corner, naturally, thought he looked fine. But the docs pretty clearly decided an abundance of caution was best, given the week's significant carnage.

So out Forte went. And maybe he'd have been fine and outrun the field and got the blanket of roses himself -- or maybe he puts the bruised foot wrong and the leg snaps and we're talking about eight dead thoroughbreds instead of seven.

Look. As the Blob frequently (and usually humorously) admits, it doesn't know withers from Bill Withers about horse racing. But I do notice things, and I notice an awful lot of racehorses are turning up dead these days. And I suspect a lot of that is because someone whose job it is to develop stakes winners are jacking them up in ways that ought to be better policed.

So hooray for the vets at Churchill Downs for pulling Forte. And hooray for Mage, because for all its darkness, thoroughbred racing frequently gives us storylines we can't resist.

Mage, for instance, didn't even race as a 2-year-old, and came to Derby Day with just three previous starts. Castellano, meanwhile, was 0-for-15 in the Derby, despite being one of his era's most accomplished jocks. He's 45 years old now, and yesterday was his day, bringing Mage from well off the pace with a stirring sprint that began as the field turned for home.

It was a hell of a Run for the Roses -- dimmed, of course, by all the week's dead roses.

Years and years ago, one of the best ever to do it, W.C. Heinz, wrote a legendary piece about the death of a racehorse named Air Lift, who broke his leg in his first start and had to be put down. Those of us who value the sportswriting craft can still cite Heinz's last paragraph, almost word-for-word:

" ... They worked quickly, the two vets removing the broken bones as evidence for the insurance company, the crowd silently watching. Then the heavens opened, the rain pouring down, the lightning flashing, and they rushed for the cover of the stables, leaving alone on his side near the pile of bricks, the rain running off his hide, dead an hour and a quarter after his first start, Air Lift, son of Bold Venture, full brother of Assault." 

Were he alive and writing about horse racing today, W.C. Heinz would have had to write something like that seven times this week. Seven. Times.

Something to think about this day, once you’re done thinking about mint juleps and women in silly hats, and men in their seersucker suits.