Page 199 - Speedhorse, February 2019

Then a streak of red and out ahead the stud had broke on top.
The Juarez crowd cheered long and loud, and hats were in the air;
For no equine, when broke behind, had ever caught Joe Blair.
The gangling mare, with chestnut hair, came out with a leap and a bound;
Tho her start was slow, the jock bent low, she began to cover ground.
But little Joe Blair, ahead out there, was winging on his way;
In the jockey’s eye, there was do-or-die, and they had four lengths of day.
Many a man, as gamblers can, began to count their win;
Then a mighty wail as along the rail, they saw the mare begin.
As she hit her stride how the jock did ride and she began to close;
With a pace that burned around the turn and again they were nose-to-nose.
The stud was game and the jock the same and they fought like demons there;
He’d strive and strain a yard to gain, then come back to the mare.
The quarter was done in twenty-one – three-fifths of a second more; Three-eighths to be in thirty-three and two-fifths was the score.
On they went, as a bullet sent from out the mouth of a gun;
Side by side and stride by stride, and both were full of run.
Each jock was quick for every trick to help his mount along;
As artists can with a master hand, how they nursed them babies on!
The colors streamed and flashed and gleamed as they raced the track like a team; The pink and blue, and purple hue, and the red and gold and green.
It was nip and tuck, and the gods of luck were playing neither one;
They were on their own, and all alone, to run and ride and run.
In forty-four and four-fifths more the blazing half was done;
They’d just begun, for it was then – they settled down to run.
With a maid’s disdain for an arrogant swain the mare’s eyes blazed and burned; From the stud’s cold scorn, contempt was born, that soon to hatred turned.
Then ears were backed, and sinews cracked, and pain with every breath; ‘Twas nerve and vim and struggle grim, and battle to the death.
Though I’d bet my all, I stood enthralled and sure forgot my greed;
And gain or loss, gold seemed but dross, as I watched two game hearts bleed.
They’d surge and lunge, and leap and plunge, like tigers after prey;
As on they came with eyes aflame, like demons raised to slay.
And as they’d jump, from head to rump, the straining muscles flashed;
And rolled and spun in the glittering sun, as on for home they dashed.
My heart stood still at the might and skill as the jocks would lift them on; At the rhythmic beat of flying feet, and the surge of flesh and bone.
The stud was crazed at the burning blaze that stuck there by his side;
The gangling mare, with chestnut hair – she seemed to hurt his pride.
In the sun’s bright glare, he fought the air although there was no use;
Like a phantom, grim, she stuck to him, and he could not shake her loose.
The crowds were mad and wild and glad, as fortune ebbed and flowed;
And all around, a ceaseless sound that ever growed and growed.
As hopes would soar, the din and roar would ever rise and rise;
As if lightning flashed and thunder cracked, from out the clear blue skies.
Then a mortal fear as the end drew near and both jocks held their whip;
With the wire, so gray, just yards away and something had to slip.
The stud was spent, for that deathly sprint had wore him to the bone, Yet there is no blame, his heart was game, and he tried to carry on.
But blood will tell, we all know well, when in the purple bred;
Like a flaming star, she hit the wire, the mare - a length ahead.
There was but few in that crowd then knew a record had been won;
Until they read what the stop watch said, ‘twas fifty-seven and one.
The crowd all cheered, tho many had erred, and some had lost their all;
Such gameness shown, they ne’r had known – and there was no squawk at all.
Though I lost my roll, and now I’m old, and I’ve wandered everywhere;
All broke and bent, without a cent – you see, I liked Joe Blair.
But I’ll always say, till my dying day, the race was on the square;
And the gamest queen I’ve ever seen, it was the chestnut mare.
If there is a place where they always race in some Elysian Land;
Where from below, game hearts will go, with the Great Judge there in the stand;
True sports of yore, and champs galore will all be there to greet her;
The gangling mare, with chestnut hair, they called her – Pan Zareta
LOOKING BACK - AN EXCERPT FROM JANUARY 1970 ISSUE
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