Rest easy, Cigar
— -- Cigar died Tuesday.
I type the words, but I don't believe them. What's the saying? "Heroes get remembered, but legends never die." I know that sentence isn't literal, but you kind of always hope it is.
You will read better obituaries today about Cigar. I know that. Good journalist are never too close to their sources, and Cigar was more than just a racehorse in my life. He was a friend and a teacher, and right now I don't really care about statistics.
I spent my college days working in the Hall of Champions. When John Henry passed, I worked at the Blood-Horse and was far too low on the totem pole to write about it. Today, three paragraphs in, let me tell you that writing an obituary for a friend is impossible.
I should tell you that Cigar's record is something that we will likely not see again. In 1995, he was a perfect 10-for-10, including the Breeders' Cup Classic. Today, we celebrate if a top-level colt has 10 career starts, much less makes that many in one season.
Instead of retiring, Cigar helped give the Dubai World Cup legitimacy the following spring. When people list how many Grade 1 races Cigar won, many forget that the Dubai World Cup wasn't one of them. He won the race, of course, but it was the inaugural running and thus an ungraded event.
Imagine the sportsmanship in shipping your Horse of the Year halfway across the world to run in an unproven, ungraded international race. Now, imagine doing it with a horse who was also trying to beat the record for number of consecutive victories.
I partially owe my career to Cigar. The day of his last race, I walked into the living room and asked my dad what he was doing. He explained that one of the best racehorses of all time was running his final race. I thought that was nice, but I thought a big white horse was prettier, so I picked Alphabet Soup. My dad jokingly threatened to disown me, especially when my big white horse crossed the wire first.
Cigar may have lost that day, but the magnitude of that race made me fall in love with horse racing. It wasn't the first race I had seen, but it is the first one I specifically chose to watch. I didn't live in a racing state, but I followed the sport the best I could in those days before everyone's phone was also a mini-computer.
When I decided to attend the University of Kentucky, it was partially because it was in the heart of horse country. Through a series of very fortunate events, I ended up working and volunteering in the Hall of Champions.
This morning, when I was walking my dog, random memories kept coming to me. Silly things.
Cigar loved food. I mean, he loved it. He would prance like a king when it was feed time. He got three scoops of sweet feed in his blue bucket. The blue was to match one of the colors in his racing silks. Carrying that bucket to his feed trough was like telling a kid he was going to get to meet Santa. Every single day.
Cigar also loved mints. We always asked people not to sneak the horses treats. One, we didn't want any accidental bitings to occur, and two, we wanted to know what our horses were eating. Cigar, however, was a champion beggar and got illicit peppermints all the time. People would deny it, of course, but in his quest to savor every bit of essence of mint, Cigar would start licking his stall door. It was his tell.
Cigar was a master at downward-facing dog. He got his morning bath on the back walkway, and it was very common for him to stretch and yawn in a way that would make even the most skilled yogi jealous. That back walkway was his safe spot. In addition to getting baths, that is where we would take him for visitors to have a meet and greet with the mighty champion.
He knew that back there he was supposed to do no more than stand and pose. Sometimes, the sun and contentment proved too much and he would also nap. But people could pet him and tell him how great he was, and he would take it all in stride. Now, if we needed him to puff up and prance for official photos, all we had to do was take him to the front walkway. That was his stage to strut on. Behind the barn was his place of peace.
Cigar was skilled at playing to an audience. When it was time to turn him out in the afternoon, he would always run to the front right corner of his paddock. Usually he would roll, sometimes he would rear. If he drew a crowd, the more he would gallop. The more cameras that said crowd had, the more he would show off.
On his 20th birthday, there was a big celebration. Ever the ham, Cigar had to check out the poster of himself that was hanging on the barn wall to commemorate the event.
It is for that reason that I believe Cigar's greatest victory in life was being sterile. Let me explain. This horse loved his public. He would push his hay from the corner of his stall to the door so he could munch and watch all at the same time. He thrived in an environment where he was fawned over by an adoring crowd. He did more for the sport and for himself by being an ambassador than he would have accomplished at stud.
More times than I care to count, I was asked when he won the Derby. After being told he never did, I would get the inevitable follow up of, "So, why is he considered great?" One person at a time, Cigar showed how racing is more than just one Saturday in May, and he had $9,999,815 reasons to back up that argument. That figure, his earnings mark, is burned into my brain, by the way.
One particular park visitor was a good lesson in patience. She tried to argue with me that not only did Cigar win the Derby, he won it three times. When I gently corrected her, she told her friend to ignore me, that I was just a groom. That moment is something that I hold with me to this day.
Horses are not robots. They don't magically show up in starting gates so you can bet on them. A lot of time and effort goes into it from a lot of people. But no one, and I mean no one, knows a horse better than his or her groom. I have so much respect for the people who work day in and day out behind the scenes to make this industry run, even though most of their names will never be in print.
Part of the reason Cigar made such a great ambassador is because he was kind, especially for a stallion. Sure, he was mouthy and liked to chew on things; that is what stallions do. He liked to play, and if he thought you were unworthy he would test you, but he never did anything out of malice or spite, unlike his equally famous barn mate John Henry. They were such a study in contrast.
And now, they are both gone. It doesn't seem possible, but John Henry died on Oct. 8, 2007. There is something about October, I guess, but it is eerie that their death dates are so similar.
Yesterday, I was traveling, but all I heard about was the insane weather in Lexington. Breathtaking thunder and lightening, possible tornadoes, impossibly strong winds. It seems appropriate somehow. It's nice to think that Mother Nature wasn't going to let Cigar's passing occur on just any day. Today, well, today, we have crystal-clear skies.
This morning I stopped at a table in my living room. Sitting there is a photo of me holding Cigar, with my dad's arm around my shoulder. Technically, it is not a great photo, but it has long been a personal favorite.
Then, I sat down at my computer to do my job. Cigar's halter is hanging on a hook behind me. I am choosing not to turn around. I am very fortunate to do what I do, and I can count on one hand the times I have not wanted to do my job.
Today is one of those times.
Because today, my job is to tell you that Cigar died.
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