The scene was set for the perfect Hollywood ending. When Zenyatta lined up in the Breeders’ Cup Classic at Churchill Downs, Kentucky, on Saturday night, the wonder mare was bidding to bring the curtain down on an unblemished career by registering a twentieth consecutive victory.
It’s not just the statistics of a remarkable record that have endeared Zenyatta to the American – and indeed global – racing public. It is the heart-stopping manner of her victories. Her signature race is as follows. Break slowly from the stalls, allow the oppo a significant lead, lob along lazily at the rear of the field, and then gobble up the ground with a stride seemingly twice as long as that of any other animal in the race, scoring by a cosy margin (about half of her successes have been gained by under a length). The most celebrated example of this was in last year’s Classic, where she overcame a self-imposed deficit of 15 lengths to swoop past everything and become the only female horse ever to win the race. A literally breath-taking performance, as commentator Trevor Denman will testify. In those final few strides as Zenyatta flew into the history books, a hyper-ventilating Denman screamed his now legendary phrase: “THIS…IS….UN….BE….LIEVABLE!”
And of course in racing it takes two to pull off this sort of drama: a wildly talented horse and a skilful jockey with balls of steel. The man in the plate aboard Zenyatta was Mike Smith, who had ridden her in all but three of her career starts, including that historic 2009 Classic. Smith had publicly declared that his mount was “the best racehorse that ever lived” in the build-up to this year’s race. If he were worried about heaping undue pressure on himself and his partner, he had a funny way of showing it. But then Smith doesn’t lack for confidence and, in the words of one American pundit, is renowned for having “ice in his veins”.
This time, though, the ice melted under the Churchill Downs lights. As the stalls pinged open, Smith took the usual pull on Zenyatta to settle her at the back. But instead of finding her rhythm, she hardly broke into a canter through the first two furlongs, looking for all the world as though she’d either ‘gone wrong’ or was refusing to race. So instead of the 15 lengths she’d surrendered to the leaders twelve months ago, it was more like 30 this time round. Smith didn’t panic, nudging her gently into the bit to make up ground on the tail-enders of the main group, themselves 12-15 lengths ahead of her.
Still, it looked an impossible task in a race of this calibre. And yet. And yet. This was Zenyatta. By the time they reached the home turn, she had picked off a few stragglers and, despite still having ten lengths to find, was now poised to strike. Smith was confident enough to sit still for a few strides and whip off his goggles: an astonishing display of bravura under the circumstances. Having rounded that final turn, Smith elected to pull Zenyatta wide, as he had done twelve months earlier. The manoeuvre forfeited a little more ground but at least she had a clear run to the line.
Now Smith really got to work on her. In fact, that’s a euphemism. What he actually did was to administer a brutal flogging to his champion mare: thwack, thwack, thwack thwack! Four blows in as many strides. He switched his whip to his left hand and did the same again: thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack! A disgraceful act of savagery (the British Horseracing Authority’s Paul Struthers was quoted as saying it would have led to a month-long ban in Britain) and the desperate act of a man who knows he’s got it dreadfully wrong. To her credit, Zenyatta responded to these ‘urgings’, picking up late and mowing down all her rivals bar one, the eventual winner holding on by a short head.
The recriminations were immediate. Blogs and forums were flooded with angry fans (and punters, no doubt), raging at Smith’s exaggerated waiting tactics. TV commentators and pundits were united in condemning him, too. If Zenyatta wasn’t right on the first circuit, why did he not pull her up? If she was fine, why on earth was he show-boating like that? The crowd at Churchill Downs left in shock and near-silence. Smith himself broke down in a post-race interview, saying “It hurts more than I can explain, just because it was my fault.”
The name of the horse that beat Zenyatta? Blame.
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Horse racing, by its nature, frequently throws up such stories. Paul Carberry famously failed to land the 2005 Champion Hurdle despite his mount Harchibald travelling like the best horse in the race until 50 yards from the line. Harchibald was a well-known ‘bridle horse’ who was best when cruising into his races off a strong pace, but often found little when asked for an effort in front. That same year, in a more freakish incident, Roger Loughran celebrated an Irish Grade 1 victory aboard Central House by standing up in his irons and giving it the full round-arm celebration in front of the grandstand. The only trouble: he was 80 yards too early, having mistaken the end of a running rail for the winning post, and was overhauled by two rivals before the line. Magnifying this crass error was the fact that it would have been not only Loughran’s first Grade 1 but his first victory as a professional rider.
But it’s not just horse racing. All sport is littered with examples of brinkmanship gone wrong. Here are a few that spring to mind.
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Saint Jonny’s intercepted pass – Melbourne, Australia, July 2001
Rugby union is a game won and lost at the margins. Infinitesimal differences in strength, technique, skill and canniness are magnified into significant gaps on the scoreboard. Backs-against-the-wall defence can be turned into game-changing attack in the blinking of an eye. Never was this more starkly illustrated than in the second Test at the Telstra Dome that July evening in 2001.
The British and Irish Lions were underdogs in the series with the then world champions, Australia. Thrillingly, though, the Lions had blitzed the first Test in Brisbane, stunning their hosts with a scintillating display of running rugby, scoring four tries and running out convincing 29-13 winners (I remember seeing Matt Burke wink at the camera while singing the Aussie national anthem and having a premonition that that little show of cheeky pride would precede a fall).
Now the mood of the series was different. The Lions started the second Test brightly, surging into an 11-3 lead thanks to a Neil Back try. The lead stood at 11-6 at half-time but the tourists were good for more: dominating possession, showing more invention and generally asserting themselves over their feted opponents. From the kick-off to the second half, the Lions drove to half way. Quick ball was presented to Jonny Wilkinson, who aimed a floated pass towards Dafydd James on the right wing. But Joe Roff, who’d pushed into a dangerously advanced defensive position, reached skyward and plucked the ball from the air. Roff scooted away and was too quick for the pursuing defenders, touching down in the corner to level the scores. It proved to be the pivotal moment of the series. The Lions were stunned, Australia revitalised. That game finished 35-14, and the Aussies went on to secure the rubber with a 29-23 win in Sydney.
As for Wilkinson, it was an uncharacteristically expansive pass for a man whose reputation is built on an obsessively grooved place- and goal-kicking technique. But let’s not forget he was still a young man at this stage, barely 22 years old. Perhaps he was callow enough to have been swept up in the moment, intoxicated by the exhilarating manner of that first Test victory. Perhaps the opportunity to stamp his team’s authority at a crucial stage prompted him to take a risk. Perhaps he simply didn’t see Roff lurking. Whatever the case, it was in keeping with the exuberant style that the Lions had brought to a series few had expected them to compete in; unfortunately, it was a case of live by the sword…
To make matters worse, on that very day, England’s cricketers were in the process of being humiliated by Australia at Edgbaston – the start of yet another Ashes mauling. I’d watched the Lions Test over a few early-morning pints in a Birmingham pub. “Never mind,” chirped one wag after the final whistle had blown in Melbourne, “at least we’ve got the cricket to look forward to.”
Bristow refuses bull, Deller takes title – Stoke-on-Trent, January 1983
Keith Deller’s defeat of Eric Bristow in the 1983 World Darts final is regarded by many as the biggest upset in the history of the sport. The circumstances of the victory, however, make it even more remarkable. Not to mention providing the source of some regret for the vanquished Bristow.
The score was locked at five sets apiece and, with Deller just a leg away from the title, Bristow visited the board requiring 121 to level the set up at 2-2. He hit single 17, then treble 18. With a single dart left in his hand, Bristow opted not to shoot for the bulls-eye, preferring single 18 to leave double 16 for his next visit. He knew Deller was sitting on 138 but clearly reckoned on his failing to take it out. Deller – coolness personified – hit treble 20, treble 18 and double 12 to become the champion and create one of the great giant-killing stories in any sport. Not the craftiest move the Cockney ever pulled.
A footnote. Deller’s victory should not, perhaps, be viewed as such a shock. Prior to beating world number one Bristow in the final, he’d already taken out numbers two and three: John Lowe in the quarters and Jockey Wilson in the semis. Deller remains the only player to beat each of the top three at the World Championships.
Lennox Lewis KO-ed by Hasim Rahman – Gauteng, South Africa, April 2001
Brinkmanship or just not taking an opponent seriously enough? I’m going to nail my colours to the mast here and say it was a clear case of the latter. Still worthy of inclusion, though, as it concerns the over-confidence of an individual who ends up with egg on his face.
Lewis was the heaviest he’d ever been for a professional fight: some 253 pounds (over 18 stone). If that suggested he’d not trained as hard as he might have, then his lacklustre display just lent further weight to that theory. The jab lacked its customary snap, the footwork was sluggish, the eye-lids drooped. His demeanour was that of a deep sleeper sent downstairs to fetch his wife a glass of water in the middle of the night.
It’s just possible that Lewis was thinking ahead to the much-anticipated clash with Mike Tyson that would follow this supposedly regulation defence. Why so? Well, I can think of about 100 million reasons.
Rahman, a 20-1 underdog for the fight, capitalised on his opponent’s complacency with a swinging right hand at the end of the fifth. Lewis had been holding his concrete hands low throughout the bout and his defence generally looked lazy; he had no answer, therefore, to the challenger’s hopeful shot as it bisected his gloves and caught him flush on the button.
If nothing else, the experience appeared to teach Lewis a lesson. He comfortably beat Rahman to regain his crown later that year, and went on to conquer Tyson and then Vitali Klitschko before retiring while still in possession of his title.
Yann Kermorgant – Play-Off Semi-Final, Cardiff, May 2010
Leicester City’s French striker isn’t the first to fall foul the footballing gods, nor will he be the last. His is a particularly de nos jours tale. For one thing, it concerns the Championship play-off final (or attempt to reach it), a game that now comes with the tag ‘most valuable club game in world football’. For another, it features a quite monumental example of ill-advised show-boating.
After a typically stirring two-legged play-off, Cardiff and Leicester were level and, when extra time failed to separate them, the tie went to spot kicks. The penalty score was 3-3 when Kermorgant stepped forward. What goes through a player’s mind in these situations? One can only imagine. If I were to have a wild stab, our Yann might have been thinking something like: “Hey, I can look pretty cool here, and make the ‘keeper look like a doofus into the bargain. I’ll be a You Tube sensation.” Well, he got the last bit right.
Because, you see, he dinked it at about three miles an hour towards the middle of the goal. Goalkeeper David Marshall might actually have been fooled by Kermorgant’s kick. But such was the feathery floaty-ness of the attempt that Marshall was able to dive, go to ground, and then shuffle back across the goal line on his buttocks before sticking up a hand and patting the ball down.
If you haven’t heard disgruntled Leicester fan David Henson’s brilliant ‘tribute’, follow the link below.
Confidence is one thing but you took it too far
Did someone tell you you were Eric Cantona?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Iad3gV-9C1U
