What happened at the Breeders’ Cup World Championships in late 2019 looked like the end of horse racing in California, maybe in America. It was the twelfth and final race of a two-day series, at Santa Anita Park, the storied track near Los Angeles. Sixty-eight thousand people packed the Art Deco grandstand, the apron, the infield, the high-priced suites. The “handle”—the total betting for the day—was a healthy hundred and seventeen million dollars, but thoroughbred racing itself was on life support. Since the beginning of the year, thirty-five horses had died at Santa Anita. Public dismay had risen to the point that Gavin Newsom, California’s governor, had told the Times that racing’s “time is up” if it did not reform. Dianne Feinstein, the state’s senior senator, had released a letter calling the Breeders’ Cup races a “critical test for the future of horseracing.”
Outside the track, animal-rights activists had been heckling racegoers under a banner that read “HORSERACING KILLS HORSES.” They had a call-and-response going, street corner to street corner: “Horses don’t want to be forced to run!” “Just like us!” “Horses feel pain!” “Just like us!” Heather Wilson, a nurse anesthetist, wore huge fake eyelashes and an absurd cocked hat. “I’m making fun of the women who think that killing horses is glamorous,” she told me. “My hat is quasi-glam.” She had been arrested at a previous protest at Santa Anita. “Right now, our focus is on California,” she said. “Just get it on the ballot.” She meant a statewide referendum, which she felt sure would result in a ban.
Santa Anita management and Breeders’ Cup officials were desperate to have their event run smoothly. Their foremost concern, they told anyone who would listen, was the safety of their “equine athletes.” They had flooded the zone with veterinarians and expensive imaging equipment, screening for preëxisting conditions. The animals were repeatedly tested for banned drugs. During morning workouts, vets used binoculars to study their gait on the track. Thoroughbreds, which can weigh twelve hundred pounds, have notoriously delicate ankles.
The Breeders’ Cup Classic, which is a mile and a quarter and offers a six-million-dollar purse, came late in the day. The sun was sinking into the palm trees west of the stables as the horses, eleven of them, were loaded into the gate. Mongolian Groom, a dark-bay four-year-old gelding, had beaten the favorite, McKinzie, just a few weeks before, right here on this track. The handicappers didn’t think he could do it again; he was a 12–1 shot. The whole group had raced together, in various combinations, at Saratoga and Churchill Downs, Belmont and Del Mar, in Pennsylvania and Louisiana. They were all campaigners, with maxed-out airline-loyalty accounts. Some seemed more enthusiastic than others.
One thing you could safely say about the horses was that they were thirsty. They had all been injected that morning with Lasix, a diuretic, noted on the racing form with a boldface “L.” The given reason for Lasix is to prevent pulmonary bleeding, which hard running causes in many horses. The bleeding can be dangerous, and can certainly be unsightly, leaving horse and jockey painted with blood—not a good look these days. But only a small minority of thoroughbreds are serious bleeders, and for decades nearly every thoroughbred in the U.S. has received race-day Lasix. The drug’s diuretic function causes horses to unload epic amounts of urine—twenty or thirty pounds’ worth. The advantage of running light is obvious, as is the reason that critics consider Lasix a performance-enhancing med. Race-day Lasix is banned in Europe, Asia, and Australia.
The activists outside, suggesting that horses don’t like to race, were half right. Running fast comes naturally to thoroughbreds, but racers need to be trained to outrun opponents. Most, it is thought, need “encouragement”—whipping—to continue going hard when they’re tired. Racehorses, especially those running on oval tracks, give their lower legs a terrible pounding, straining ligaments, tendons, joints. Mongolian Groom’s lower hind legs were wrapped in blue bandages, which is not uncommon; horses tend to kick themselves. He wore a heavy blue hood, to keep him concentrated on what’s in front of him, and a shadow roll across his nose. Horses can startle at shadows on the ground, and the roll reduces the number they see.
At the starting gate, Mongolian Groom balked. Horses who balk—are they frightened, angry? Bettors like to look at a horse’s coat in the walking ring before a race. If it’s bright, rippling with just the right amount of sweat and muscled excitement, the beast is believed to be ready to run. Was Mongolian Groom’s coat bright? It looked bright enough. His rider, Abel Cedillo, a journeyman from Guatemala, was patient, the gate staff slightly less so. The horse’s owner was there that day: Ganbaatar Dagvadorj, a Mongolian tycoon who made his first fortune in post-Communist supermarkets. He and his friends wore traditional robes, big leather belts, and velvet caps that came to a shiny point.
The eleven horses finally settled, and broke cleanly from the gate. The track was dirt, rather deep and slow. War of Will, that year’s Preakness champion, took an early lead and held it around the clubhouse turn. Mongolian Groom was just off the pace, with McKinzie, a small-framed bay, a nose behind him. Horses are prey animals, who instinctively prefer the safety of the middle of the pack. But being in the middle of this pack would have been miserable—dirt getting kicked in your face, nothing to see but horse butts.
In the backstretch, the pack started running into the last of the sun. From the shadowed grandstand, horses and riders were drenched in pinkish light, moving with huge strides and hypnotic smoothness. War of Will had the inside position, hugging the rail, but on the far turn you could see that he was tiring, despite his jockey’s whip. McKinzie and Mongolian Groom surged past, with McKinzie a half length ahead. Then, at the top of the stretch, Vino Rosso, a big chestnut colt, made a powerful move on the outside. Sixty-eight thousand humans switched from cheering to shrieking. (Betting on a horse is a known intoxicant. Also a stimulant.) The Classic turned into a two-horse race, Vino Rosso and McKinzie, and mass hysteria seemed to crackle the air. Vino Rosso pulled away and won by four lengths.
I was on my feet in the press box, along with dozens of other reporters. But I noticed a turf writer next to me, peering through binoculars at the top of the stretch. There was a commotion on the track—workers throwing up a green tarp wall, a van, a pickup, a bigger van. It took me a moment to realize that a horse was missing. Mongolian Groom had disappeared from the race, pulled up by his jockey, Cedillo. The bigger van was an equine ambulance.
The show went on, with television lights illuminating a scene of jubilation: flower wreaths, a shining horse, exultant connections. The liquored-up crowd partied on. The turf writers hustled down to get a quote from the owners, Vinnie Viola and Mike Repole, who were incoherent with joy. But the news, it seemed to me, because I’m not a beat reporter, was back on the track, in the gathering dusk.
Mongolian Groom, we eventually learned, had broken his left hind leg. A small stress fracture had propagated upward, splitting a ligament and smaller bones and shattering the cannon bone and the fetlock joint, damaging soft tissue and blood supply. That is a fatal injury. The vets who euthanized him could have fought a hopeless battle for a few days, with the horse in agony, if they had wanted to postpone this announcement for publicity reasons. That wasn’t what they did.
The day that Mongolian Groom died, Nick Alexander had a horse at Santa Anita, too. His filly Just Grazed Me, the reigning star in his stable, won the day’s first race: the Senator Ken Maddy Stakes, named for a politician from Fresno who supported racing.
Alexander grew up down the street, in Pasadena, and he knew the track in its heyday, in the fifties. “When I was growing up, horse racing was pretty much the only game in town,” he said. “No Dodgers, no Lakers, just the Rams. But I was already a Dodgers fan, because of Jackie Robinson. We were both from Pasadena.” Alexander, who is seventy-eight, lanky, and blue-eyed, with a sun-blistered nose and a white soul patch, names horses for old-time Dodgers: Johnny Podres, Pee Wee Reese. “First bet I placed here, when I was ten or eleven—two dollars on Gold Man,” he told me. “Won twenty dollars. I’ll never forget it.” As a teen-ager, he landed a job as a “get-ready boy” at a car lot. He later had his own dealership, which he advertised on the radio with the slogan “Nick can’t say no!” Old locals still greet him with that one. “KNX, everybody listened to it. Santa Anita used to advertise on there. They’d broadcast the stretch call, from the eighth pole. Really exciting—you could hear the crowd. I say we should do that again.”
