It was May 6, 1978, and I was a nine-year old whelp who would soon be 10. We had gathered at a relative's home - I'm pretty sure it was my cousin Peggy Ryan's apartment in Flushing - for one of the dozens of family gatherings we would regularly have on the weekends throughout any given year when I was a kid. We were a very close-knit Irish clan scattered around New York and New Jersey, but with the exception of my father's brother Gerald (who lived and worked in El Paso, Texas as an official for the US Border Patrol) we all lived in the greater metropolitan area within an hour of the Big Apple. The idea of gathering together a bunch of us from across a dozen different families once or twice a month was never any harder than figuring out some lame excuse to have a party.
That day, the excuse was actually a fairly good one, hatched by Aunt Nora. Two branches of the extended family spawned by the Four Famous Forkin sisters and their equally rambunctious brothers, the O'Conors and the Kellys spent so much time together, my Dad and "Uncle Bill" were more like brothers than first cousins, and Nora was Bill's bubbly better half. It was Nora's idea that year that we would have a Kentucky Derby party. Of course, it goes without saying that a Kentucky Derby party is pointless unless you follow it up a couple of weeks later with a Preakness party, to see if the Derby winner might take the second jewel. And if the lucky horse had another strong showing, it should follow two weeks later with a Belmont Stakes party, so we could all watch the mile-and-a-half dash for a Triple Crown.
In other words, Nora was betting we'd be fortunate enough to need three parties held at three different homes over the course of five weeks. With my sister getting married in June, and my brother getting married in August, we'd all be spending a good portion of the summer hanging around one another. Again. And we'd expect nothing less.
Nora was sure we were going to have a good show that day. Two horses were so well regarded, it was the first time since 1960 that two different entries were coming in at less than 2-to-1 in the odds. And to make the day especially fun, we'd have a pot luck draw of numbers at a buck each, just to make the race all that much more interesting. I vaguely recall my father allowing me to put his $1 in the bowl and draw our number. Looking back on the details I find on the net, "Believe It" may have been our horse, but I'm not really sure.
But there was a lot I do remember clearly from that day. First are the names of those two chestnut colts that were so highly rated that spring and summer: one was named Alydar. The other was named Affirmed. I remember like it was yesterday the smile on the face of Peggy's husband Tom Ryan - son-in-law of my Dad's sister Agnes Clark - when he pulled the name of Alydar from the bowl. And I remember the cocky, freckle-faced grin as my Aunt Mary Dunn's youngest son picked the name of Affirmed. His name was Patrick, and he was 16.
As the race started, Tommy - ever the kid at heart - jumped in front of the TV and started bouncing up and down on his knees. "COME ON, ALYDAR!"
Patrick, of course, would have none of that. "COME ON, AFFIRMED!"
"COME ON, ALYDAR!" Tommy would yell again.
"COME ON, AFFIRMED!" Pat would screech back.
It went back and forth like that for the entire stretch. And though I sat with a lump in my throat and a losing piece of scratch paper in my hand, I was laughing hysterically as the red-headed kid from Fords, New Jersey was merciless in his torment of big Tom Ryan at the finish. I admired his fearless spunk as Pat waved his newfound cash in the nose of a guy that had to be standing a foot taller than him at the time. Of course, I wasn't even 10, and couldn't fully appreciate that Tom was probably the most gentle creature in the room, and Pat had nothing to fear from him in any case.
Two weeks later, Nora tried in vain to set up another pool like we'd had on Derby Day. But when the bowl started around, Tommy wrestled it away from the little round woman, and wouldn't give it up until he'd found the piece of paper with Alydar's number on it. Patrick, not to be outdone, came up next and did the same until he found Affirmed's number. And so the scene was replayed again on the floor of another house, in front of another TV.
"COME ON, ALYDAR!"
"COME ON, AFFIRMED!"
If you're old enough to remember, you can guess the utter dejection Tommy went through that afternoon. By the time we got to the Belmont, Nora didn't want to waste anyone else's money - or Tommy's sanity - on yet another rigged pool. But there they were again, back on the floor.
"COME ON, ALYDAR!"
"COME ON, AFFIRMED!"
It's getting close to 30 years now, and Affirmed remains the last horse to win the Triple Crown. To this day, I can't meet Tom Ryan at a wedding or a baptism without hearing the echo of hoofbeats in my ears.
And it's that freckle-faced, red-headed teenager with the cash in his fist I think of whenever someone says, "Never forget".
This essay is dedicated to my cousin Cdr. Patrick S. Dunn, for the 2,996 Project. Additional reflections will be added to the extended entry until Patriot Day on Monday.
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