by Matt Barr

I will never understand the Kentucky Derby

Tommy Crags says we misunderstand it:

Somewhere along the line, the Kentucky Derby became known as "America's Race," which seems a bit of a misnomer given that the Derby is not a) America's best race, b) America's oldest race, c) the Daytona 500. But so it is with the relentlessly hyped Derby, where undeniable bunkum runs stride for stride with quaint nostalgia and willful anachronism. You can see all of that in the name alone. Since 1896, when the mile-and-a-half race was shrunk to a mile-and-a-quarter, the Derby hasn't been, strictly speaking, a derby.

I'm all about tradition in sports. But: The Derby is a longer race than most thoroughbreds who run it are used to. It's a much more crowded field than most races. And those aren't the only ways in which the Derby isn't an obvious tip of the thoroughbred racing pyramid.

The winner earns, as Craggs puts it, "a sort of brief prefab stardom -- not necessarily greatness, but something that resembles greatness on television." ("Maybe it is America's Race, after all," he concludes.) But it hasn't made legends out of its winners -- its winners become legends by winning lots of races, or a few important races convincingly, or both. A legend anywhere, including horseracing, is made up of at least two parts longevity to three parts excellence. Ask Roger Maris.

Nor have the greatest racehorses had to conquer it to earn fans' respect. In that way, it's not like a major in golf (though the Derby has had its share of Ben Curtises).

But isn't part of the Derby's -- thoroughbred racing's -- charm that a horse can come out of nowhere and win? I suppose, but you don't earn your way into the Derby field by scrappily pulling off a run of unexpected minor race victories. Your owner sleeps on pillows stuffed with cash, that's how you get into the Kentucky Derby. Undercuts the underdog myth somewhat. (See also Craggs, The myth of the working-class racehorse.)

Beyond whether it's the pinnacle of horseracing, a sport I learned everything I know about from reading Seabiscuit, it's a two-minute single-elimination event. Sports In (North) America is I'm afraid going to have to insist you dispatch a series of opponents, after exposure to the possibility of failure for a lot longer, before anyone really cares.

I guess its exemplar in more familiar sports is the Daytona 500 (Indy, if you prefer). The most celebrated, storied and visible event among many. But again: 500 mile races are routine; the field is not appreciably larger (and if it were, it wouldn't matter as much to a car as a horse); and if you win chances are very good it's because you're an outstanding race car driver with an outstanding race car. It's 500 miles, not a mile and an eighth. Flukes fall to the wayside the longer they have to stay in the race. It's manifest in sporting competition that the more you're tested the less likely you are to succeed if you're unworthy.

I get that all horse races are by necessity short, so any one you would pick to be The Race To Watch would have this feature. But I still come back to the question why I should care who wins this one.

I mean no actual judgment on the question whether horse race fans or sports fans in general should or shouldn't be paying attention to the Kentucky Derby. I don't know enough about horse racing to say -- I do know enough about what makes a sporting event important, but a lot of it has to do with how its participants see it, so don't go by me. I just don't understand it.

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