The Kentucky Derby: Call to the Derby Post

A Saturday Afternoon: Parts I and II

by Bill Levy

These are the first and last chapters of the book The Derby, by Bill Levy (Cleveland and New York: The World Publishing Company, 1967).

NOTE: The opinions expressed in this article, and all other pieces of Call To The Derby Post's "Derby Culture, Documented" section are in no way affiliated with those of Call To The Derby Post. These essays are intended to portray various views and perceptions of the Kentucky Derby and the culture that surrounds it.

EDITOR'S NOTE: Please take heed of the fact this piece was written over thirty years ago, in 1967. If you think you can get into the infield for $3 today, or park your car for $5, you've got another thing coming to you. The dollar amounts listed for Derby tickets in this piece are laughable.

Part I

It is dawn in the Bluegrass Country, the land of bourbon, tobacco, beautiful women, and thoroughbred horses. The gently rolling Kentucky terrain is covered with light dew, and patches of fog shroud the low-lying areas. It is the first Saturday in May and people are on the road early. They are coming from such towns as Munfordville in the west, where the Confederate Army once captured four thousand Union troops in an epic Civil War battle. Cars are rolling in from the south, where Abraham Lincoln lived as a small boy before moving with his family to Indiana; from picturesque Bardstown, which inspired Stephen Foster to write "My Old Kentucky Home." and which served as the residence of General George A. Custer shortly before he made his last stand at Little Big Horn.

They are coming from the east, from the Lexington area, where stark white rail fences frame the lush, rolling bluegrass farms that have produced some of the world's greatest thoroughbred race horses; from Frankfort, where frontiersman Daniel Boone and his wife are buried. On Interstate Highway 75 from the north, autos are speeding from Newport and Covington, towns that have gained a twentieth-century reputation for gambling and vice.

The travelers all have one destination--Louisville, the City at the Falls--and one reason for being there on this particular day: It is Derby Day, time for another running of the Kentucky Derby at the historic racetrack Churchill Downs.

On this Saturday morning in downtown Louisville, a small metropolis that somehow seems to have failed to keep pace architecturally with other growing urban centers, visitors from every state in the Union are awakening in hotel rooms at the Brown, Sheraton, Sherwyn, and Kentucky and at Stouffer's Louisville Inn. They have paid dearly for their accommodations (up to five and six times the normal rate), and most have been forced to pay in advance for three days' lodging, because at the majority of hotels in Louisville either you take a room for three days or you don't get one.

Out in suburbia other visitors to Louisville awake in unfamiliar surroundings. They are staying during Derby time in houses that have been generously turned over to them for the weekend by their year-round owners for $600 to $800. The homeowners have pocketed the cash and have moved in with relatives or friends or have left town for the weekend, hoping that when they return after the Derby revelry there will still be something left of their house.

Anyone who has ever wondered out loud, "Whatever became of railroad travel?" could take heart at the scene being enacted at Louisville's Union Station and Portland yards. Special trains from Pittsburgh, Chicago, Indianapolis, Birmingham, Atlanta, Detroit, St. Louis, Cincinnati, and Philadelphia are rolling in or have already arrived. Some of the trains will stay for the weekend, providing a hotel on wheels for the passengers.

The sky above Louisville on Derby morning looks something akin to the swallows returning to Capistrano. The sound of the city awakening for its biggest day is punctuated by the high-pitched whine of commercial jets approaching Standiford Field, loaded with fun-seeking travelers from across the land, and by the incessant droning of hundreds of private aircraft that are also arriving for the big day. The influx of travelers is further swelled by the arrival of more than a hundred chartered buses, some of which have come from as far away as Toronto, Canada.

The time at which the Derby-goer reaches old Churchill Downs, a landmark that has graced the corner of Central Avenue and Fourth Street since 1875, when the first Kentucky Derby was held, depends on several factors. If he doesn't have a reserved seat and plans to spend a modest $3 for general admission and a place in the infield, the sooner inside the sprawling racing center the better. Thus, at 8:00 a.m., thousands of people begin to line up outside the gates, armed with cases of beer, picnic hampers, and folding chairs and makeshift platforms that may enable them to catch a glimpse of the country's greatest three-year-olds as they hoof it around the oval nine hours later. A location along the inside of the infield fence will insure seeing at least a portion of the race.

If the Derby fan is one of the 42,000 persons lucky enough to have a reserved seat, his arrival will depend upon his social schedule for the morning, or failing that, on how many of the six races preceding the actual running of the Kentucky Derby he wants to see. Post time for the first race of the day is 11:30 a.m., but thousands of reserved-seat ticket-holders are participating at that hour in traditional pre-Derby breakfasts and brunches in homes, hotels, and private clubs. These breakfasts range from small gatherings of two or three couples to the traditional Governor's breakfast, at which some 1,500 politicians, VIP's, members of the press, special out-of-town guests, and social friends of Kentucky's chief executive dine on country ham, scrambled eggs, grits, hot biscuits, fruits and coffe. No liquor has been served at these functions in the Governor's mansion since A.B. "Happy" Chandler, one-time baseball commissioner and U. S. Senator, occupied it. As a matter of fact, "Happy" once barred the press because of the way the members of the fourth estate treated him when he was bossing baseball. But while the spirits may be in short supply at the Governor's mansion, it is flowing like the Ohio River throughout the rest of Louisville. Such standards at the "Kentucky Orange Juice," a potent combination of the sunshine drink and bourbon, and mint juleps help to embellish the bacon, ham, eggs, and hot rolls. Some of the less hearty folk drink Bloody Marys. But it is safe to say that by the time hundreds of the party-goers arrive at Churchill Downs they are already candidates for a pot of black coffee and a steam bath.

Those who haven't been invited to one of the parties can always avail themselves of the special Derby Day breakfast sold at one of the track dining rooms. Breakfast is really a misnomer. For $7.73 plus tip the menu offers a Florida fruit cup, a choice of any one of three entrees--cold Kentucky ham, breast of chicken, deglace of filet mignon--vegetables, fancy-form ice cream, and a nonalcoholic beverage. Liquor is available, too, at bar prices.

The trainers, owners, jockeys, general track hands, and others who have business in the backstretch area, take their breakfast a few yards from the barns at Thompson's Kitchen, a modest frame cottage on the track premises, where on of the favorite morning dishes is biscuits and hot milk gravy.

The great crush of spectators moving toward the Downs begins at 10 a.a., and the entire Louisville traffic system is geared to getting vehicles--cabs, automobiles, and buses--to and from the track as quickly as possible. Fourth Street, the swiftest artery from downtown Louisville to the racing oval, is limited to cabs and buses. The fastest, most painless way to Churchill Downs is by cab--that is, if your pocketbook can take the heavier tab inflicted by the cab companies on this day of days in Louisville.

Other major avenues in the area are converted to one-way traffic toward the track from 10 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. and are then reversed until 7:30 p.m., when hopefully the last vestiges of the race-goers have been cleared away. The man brave enough to fight Derby Day traffic can have his choice of parking accommodations. He can park in one of the track's many lots or in a driveway or on the front lawn of a home in the area. It is not difficult to locate the private facilities. From sunup hundreds of youngsters and their parents throng the streets hustling parking spaces, and the prices range from a quarter to $5, depending upon how close the front yard is to the Downs.

As noon comes and goes and the sun begins to dip eastward, the grandstands begin to fill. The infield has been a sea of faces and gaily colored hats for several hours, however. Dress there is casual, to say the least. Shorts, pedal pushers, slacks and even bathing suits are the order of the day for women. Many of the men are shirtless. Ladders, tents, chairs, platforms, blankets, baby carriages, and strollers and their owners are crammed together; picnic baskets and beer and soda pop hampers are everywhere. It is like New York's Jones Beach with a fence around it on a hot summer afternoon. High atop the infield totalizer board, National Guardsmen with binoculars scan the infield crowd, trying to spot trouble before it erupts into a major incident. Most of the infield crowd is well behaved. This is a fun day. They have paid $3 a head and want to be part of the spectacle.

Access to the infield from the grandstand area is through two underground tunnels. Years ago when there was only one tunnel, the army of people pushing and shoving to get through the passageway entrances was so great that progress often ground to a halt. "We want in! We want in!" the massed mob would chorus loudly if the jam-up lasted for more than a few minutes. At a recent Derby, a woman fainted in one of the tunnels and had to be rescued by a squad of National Guardsmen, who worked several minutes to clear a path to her.

There is also a mob in the grandstand terrace section, where spectators have paid $8 to $10 for a seat. There is more elbow room and less congestion in the grandstand box area, where tickets go for $15.75 to $17.25, providing the seat-holder paid regulation prices. Naturally, the view gets better and the price gets higher as the spectator moves up the line to a seat in the clubhouse area, near the finish line. Prices range as high as $37.50 a seat for a fourth-floor clubhouse box seat.

The ultimate in luxury is the new skyline section, a posh clubhouse area that was built after a fire destroyed a small section of Churchill Downs in 1965. Only a favorable wind kept the blaze from making charcoal out of the entire structure. The skyline section is a long, rectangular-shaped room with thick green carpeting and sliding glass windows overlooking the finish line. There are 70 long brown tables, each outfitted with 16 chairs. A table of 16 cost up to $1,200 or $75 a seat. At race time, the spectator steps out of a sliding glass door adjacent to his table, watches the race, and then returns to the table to eat, drink, and handicap the next race. An ample number of mutuel windows line the opposite side of the room, and because of the limited number of people in the section there are usually no long lines.

Sandwiches, liquor, beer, and soft drinks are served in the skyline section, but anyone can bring his own refreshments, and some do, although it doesn't make the waitress assigned to the table too happy.

Female attire in the skyline section and in the clubhouse boxes resembles a giant Dior fashion show. Women, especially those with social connections, drag out their finest and most colorful dresses and hats. The chapeaux tend to be extravagant--one woman was seen at a Derby wearing a hat shaped like Churchill Downs. A sage observer once described the scene as Easter Sunday, New Year's Eve, and Christmas all rolled into one, with each woman trying to outdo the next in splendor of her attire.

Regardless of where one sits at the Derby, part of the uniform of the day is a mint julep in hand. Some spectators bring their own. Others purchase the refreshing drink from hawkers who gingerly tote trays of juleps in glasses especially decorated and inscribed for the occasion. For $1.65, one gets a mint julep and the glass as a souvenir. By day's end, many have a complete set of Kentucky Derby glasses as well as a headache.

There are crowds and lines wherever one goes. People are packed two and three deep at bars that dot the clubhouse and grandstand areas and at which you can get a martini or scotch or rye if you are not a fan of mint juleps or bourbon, which in Kentucky is tantamount to treason. No one will arrest you, though. They will just take your money and pour your favorite. Business is also brisk at other concession stands. The longest lines, of course, are at the regular mutuel windows, especially those marked SELLER. Business is not quite as good at those marked CASHIER.

People don't seem to mind the long lines. If they haven't over-extended themselves at the betting windows, they are having fun. Most are just happy to be at Churchill Downs, where tradition, continuity, and great horses have made the Kentucky Derby the great popular spectacle it is today.

Part II

Shortly before 4 p.m. the first Saturday afternoon in May, the sixth race is completed at Churchill Downs. The next is the seventh and the most important in all of American racing, the $125,000-added Kentucky Derby. In the mutuel department a technician flicks a switch and the results of the pre-Derby betting on Friday and up until 2 p.m. Saturday are flashed on the big totalizer boards in the infield and paddock areas. There are oohs and ahs from the crowd as they see for the first time how public sentiment, backed up by hard cash, has rated the horses for the race. The first line of odds sends thousands scurrying to the selling windows, which have just opened for wagering on the Derby.

In the backstretch area, that small city of green-painted barns where hundreds of horses are quartered, a dozen or so grooms walk nervously to the stalls housing the starting horses. "Come on, let's go," a balding Negro groom says to one of the horses, as he slowly leads the splendid thoroughbred from a stall, being ever so careful that the horse does not bump his legs on the door frame.

One by one, the thoroughbreds emerge from the barns and are walked slowly to the big gate at the beginning of the backstretch. The procession turns left and continues along the outside edge of the track, giving patrons beside the fence on the clubhouse turn a close look at the starting entries. By the time they have passed the clubhouse section and turn left into the paddock tunnel, they have traveled more than half a mile from the barn. The horses continue slowly through the tunnel, then emerge into the paddock area, where thousands are crammed against a maze of fences to get one last close-up look at the thoroughbreds before making their bets on the race.

Just before entering the paddock, a large rectangular-shaped, fenced-in area where the horses are saddled for the race, the procession stops. Each groom lift the upper lip of his charge, so the horses can be identified by W.K. Coleman, a tall, gray-haired man who bears the title of "identifier." Each horse has an identification number tattooed under the upper lip. The four numbers and a letter indicate to the bespectacled Coleman the year the horses were foaled. He carefully checks each set of numbers with his record cards, while Dr. L.J. Scanlon, track veterinarian, looks over each animal quickly, in an effort to detect any signs of late illness or bruise. It is standard operating procedure for all races and is designed to protect the bettor. When the identification and examination are completed, the horses are led into one of eighteen stalls--lined in two rows, back to back--in the paddock.

Dark-haired Frank Arsenault, the paddock judge, walks slowly from stall to stall. "Being the paddock judge here, you just watch the horses," says Arsenault. "You make sure they leave the paddock approximately eleven minutes before post. You make sure the riders get out on time, giving them two or three minutes to talk with the trainers, and then make sure the horses are wearing the proper equipment. That's really all there is to it. Is the Derby any different? As a rule, no. Good, classy horses are real sensible. If there are too many horses, we'll space them in the paddock. We'll try to leave a stall between them or keep two together in side-by-side stalls and then have an empty stall. With all the people in the paddock just before the Derby, we want to prevent an accident--sometimes horses have a tendency to kick--and keep the horses quiet. Good horses are very little problem. Because of the television coverage of the race, the biggest thing is to get them on the track at just the right time. They want the horses out there exactly ten minutes before the post time."

In a cluttered room, about seventy-five feet from the paddock, the jockeys have donned the silks they will wear for the Derby. It is a tense moment for the little men, even for the experienced ones like Willie Shoemaker. One by one, the jockeys step on the big scale near the doorway, a saddle, pommel pad, and girth in hand. Charley Gormley, clerk of scales, looks closely as the large needle moves from zero to a hundred and twenty-six pounds. All horses in the Derby--except the rare filly entered--carry the same assigned weight. Jockeys and equipment must hit it on the button in the weigh-out and in the weigh-in after the race.

Frank Arsenault signals a guard at the door of the jockey room, and the jockeys, oblivious to the large crowd surrounding the paddock, walk briskly to the stalls where their mounts are waiting. On go the saddles. The girths are tightly secured under the abdomen. Trainers, owners, and jockeys huddle momentarily for a last-minute review of the racing plan for the day.

Meanwhile the pageantry of the Derby is beginning to unfold in the infield. The governor and his wife and Downs president Wathen Knebelkamp, his wife and family, accompanied by top-ranking officers of the Kentucky National Guard, walk from the paddock tunnel, across the track into the infield, make a right turn, and walk inside the rail. A slight breeze is blowing, and the spray from the fountains near the totalizer board is blown in the air as a fine mist. The entourage walks several steps, then turns left and proceeds to the white presentation stand. They pass rigid rows of blue-clad Air Force ROTC candidates on one side and Air Force ROTC sponsors from the University of Kentucky, dressed in white, on the other side. The band strikes up the national anthem. After the song is over and the singing stops, the buzz of the crowd is overpowering as all wait expectantly for the horses to emerge from the tunnel onto the rich brown racing surface for the parade to the post.

In recreation rooms, dens, living rooms, and taverns across the United States, millions have a front-row seat as the television announcers run down Derby prospects in prerecorded interviews with trainers, owners, and jockeys. The audience on two hundred stations is tremendous. It is in the tens of millions, because for most Americans the racing season begins and ends on the first Saturday in May with the running of the Derby. It is the only horse race with which they identify. Hundreds of thousands of TV spectators have already made wagers with their bookies or have participated in office pools, where they put up a specified amount of money and draw blindly for the name of a horse. If the horse named on the little sheet of paper picked at random wins, the participant collects the jackpot, probably Monday morning. Joining the vast television audience are hundreds of thousands in the Louisville area. Downtown Louisville is like a morgue, because most of the major retail outlets close in mid-afternoon so that employees can watch the race on television.

Those watching the television coverage in color see twin-spired Churchill Downs, a throwback to the days of the Victorian period, in all its colorful glory. They see a close-up of the shimmering ponds and immaculate gardens in front of the huge totalizer board in the infield. They are taken to the clubhouse paddock area, where thousands of red and yellow tulips, grown in the Downs' own greenhouses, provide a stark contrast to the white grandstand structure and another big totalizer board that tracks the odds on the race for those in the paddock. Benches are crowded with bettors, taking a last-minute look at the odds before stepping to the mutuel windows and laying the cash on the line.

The TV audience will surely see more of the actual race than most of those assembled at Churchill Downs on this day. But somehow watching the spectacle of the Derby on TV is not quite like being there in person. The coverage is complete, the close-ups of the personalities are good. But it's like watching football--you usually see more of the game on the screen than you do in a seat a hundred yards from the field. But it's impossible to capture the groundswell of spirit that engulfs the crowd.

So it is with the Derby. One can't possibly imagine the almost oppressive tension that builds up while the crowd waits impatiently for the moment when the horses make their appearance on the track. Part of the thrill and glamour of the Derby is just being there in that throng of more than 100,000; of being part of a tradition that has grown and nurtured for nearly a hundred years. It is something that has to be seen and felt in three-dimensional reality.

At 4:18 p.m. Paddock Judge Frank Arsenault gives a signal and the jockeys climb into their saddles. In a moment the horses are on the way out of the paddock gate and headed for the tunnel that will take them out onto the track. Some of the people who have been watching activities in the paddock hurry to the mutuel window to make a last-minute bet. They move for their seats. At 4:20 there is the blare of a trumpeter playing the call to race on the track public-address system.

Led by one of three mounted outriders attired in white pants and bright red polo shirts, the horses emerge from the tunnel. The lead outrider raises his hand. Across the rail in the infield the University of Louisville band, dressed in crisply pressed red-and-black uniforms with red berets, strikes up Stephen Foster's mournful "My Old Kentucky Home." As the Derby field jogs slowly onto the track in front of the clubhouse, 100,000 voices join in singing what has become the Kentucky anthem. It is perhaps the most emotional moment in all of American sports, a moment that brings tears to thousands as they sing the words:

The sun shines bright in the Old Kentucky home,

'Tis summer, the [people] are gay;

The corn-top's ripe and the meadow's in the bloom

While the birds make music all the day.

The young folks roll on the little cabin floor

All merry, all happy and bright;

By'n by hard times come a-knocking at the door

Then my old Kentucky home, Good-night.

Weep no more my lady, Oh! weep no more today!

We will sing one song for the old Kentucky home

For the old Kentucky home, far away.

At the finish a great cheer goes up from the crowd. The horses continue down the stretch, then turn and move toward the starting gate at the head of the stretch. In a small enclosed box off the main press box, the track announcer Chic Anderson peers intently through the binoculars, studying the maze of colors worn by the jockeys because that is the way he identifies the horses as they streak around the oval. Memorizing colors and numbers is no trick for Anderson. He must do it eight times a day during two Churchill Downs meetings. But calling the Kentucky Derby is different. "It is a nerve-wracking day," he admits. "It's the biggest horse race in the world and it requires a little more preparation. It's the only time I do any advance preparation."

Anderson's pre-Derby preparation consists of a trip to the jockey room the day before the race, where he studies the jockey silks as they hang limply from cold, gray pipe racks. "Sometimes two of the colors worn in the race are similar and they look the same from half a mile away." In that event, the caller studies the habits of the riders as a means of helping to identify the horse. Anderson does not want to call the wrong horse at any stage of the race. It's something announcers never live down.

Nearby, there is another man going through the same torment, the announcer who calls the race for the television network. A mistake by Anderson will be heard by 100,000 plus. A muff by the TV announcer will be heard by two hundred times that many people. The almost oppressive tension in the last few moments before the start of the race filters down to Jack Clark, a balding, red-haired cameraman who is part of the five-man film crew that records the entire race for use in case of a foul claim. Clark, who has been taking movies for fifteen years, checks and double checks his camera as the horses approach the starting gate. "There's much more pressure during the Derby," he says. "You've got to keep your mind on your work. Everybody's here." To calm himself, Clark swallows a nerve pill.

High above the track, three hundred to four hundred sports writers and broadcasters are crammed into a long series of press boxes, their necks straining to see the starting gate at the head of the stretch, more than a quarter of a mile away. A corps of about one hundred writers will be filing stories and columns for Sunday's papers. Banks of Western Union teletype machines stand behind them, ready to carry their stories via direct line to New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, and dozens of other cities across the United States. Advance arrangements for Derby transmissions have been made by H.G. Foster of Western Union. His work done, Foster beats the tension by staying home on the day of the race and watching it on television.

It is now almost 4:30 p.m., and Chic Anderson, his glasses trained on the field of horses under care of the three outriders, flicks a switch and announces over the public-address system, "They're at the post." There are many dry mouths in the boxes to the left of the paddock tunnel where the trainers and owners sit during the race. Tranquilizers won't help them at this moment.

The long green-and-white starting gate is strung across the track just at the head of the stretch. The three outriders, one in the front, one on the side, and one behind the field, ease the Derby horses behind the gate. The gate is the domain of starter James Thompson, a tall man of few words whose red hair is flecked with gray and who is wearing a conservative gray business suit. Thompson, whose brogue reflects his Scottish heritage, has been around starting gates for thirty-three years and knows his profession.

Thompson stands on a platform just inside the infield. He grips a hard rubber cylinder in his hand. A button on the top of the cylinder activates the front gates to send the horses bolting down the track. He watches as the assistant starters lead the thoroughbreds into the back doors of the long gate. One by one, the horses are eased in. Some are difficult, get half way in, and back off. The assistant starter handling the horse coaxes the animal back into the stall. "You pretty much get a line on most of the Derby horses and know how they react at the starting gate," says Thompson, who got his first taste of racing as a groom. "The faster you get them away, the better off you are. If you wait too long, it makes for a much more rugged start."

As Thompson's assistants lead each horse into the gate, slam the back door, and climb on the gate to hold the horses steady, the crowd, sensing that the start of the Derby is only seconds away, starts chanting in one massive voice: "Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one..." The thoroughbreds aren't quite ready and they start again: "Ten, nine, eight, seven..."

Thompson is cool and collected as he peers down the line at the horses. If what he says is true, he is the only man who has an important role in this race who doesn't feel any extra tension on Derby Day.

The jockeys are crouched forward. The horses' heads are still. "Six, five, four, three..." the crowd chant. It is the right moment. Thompson pushes the button and there is the shrill sound of a bell that rings as the gates open and the ticket-dispensing mutuel windows are automatically locked.

They're off. The horses charge out of the starting gate, cut toward the rail and accelerate rapidly as they pound down the stretch for the first time to the accompaniment of a thunderous cheer. Anderson begins calling race positions over the public-address system, and for thousands in the infield it is the only way they will know what's going on.

Past the clubhouse the horses go and head out around the first turn, some prodded by a brisk whipping from jockeys fighting for all-important position. Within seconds, they are driving down the backstetch, where hundreds of grooms, exercise boys, trainers, and other barn-area workers are clinging to the fence for a fleeting glance at the greatest three-year-olds at work. Around the turn they move again, some of the horses in the field already hopelessly out of contention.

It is now do or die for the contenders as they swing out of the final turn and into the long stretch run, where champions are made. The roar of the crowd is deafening as the fans shout encouragement to their favorites. It is in the stretch at Churchill Downs where dreams are shattered or come true. Now there is just an eighth of a mile to go, and the shouts reach a crescendo as a few horses battle for the rich victory. Finally they reach the finish line, and the horse with the most heart, the best conditioning, and the best jockey on this day crosses the wire first.

The whole trip around the fabled oval has taken a shade over two minutes, but for the winner the price is right, better than $50,000 a minute. Not even the millionaires that are much in evidence at every Derby can make it that fast. The momentum of the furious stretch drive carries the horses out onto the first turn. In a moment, however, they are turning and heading back for the clubhouse. On this day, the cheers are for only one--and they are the cheers that have been heard through the years by such stalwarts as Gallant Fox, Whirlaway, Count Fleet, Citation, Northern Dancer, Kauai King, and dozens more.

With a broad grin from ear to ear, the jockey brings the winning horse back around the clubhouse turn to a thunderous ovation and then takes the Derby champ into the presentation area. On cue an aide from the steward's office, wearing a blue uniform trimmed with gold, hands a bouquet of red roses to the winning jockey and then tosses a six-foot-long carpet of red roses over the winner's neck. Then, the happy groom, wearing his barn-work clothes, proudly walks the winner around the presentation circle as fully a hundred photographers push and shove for position to get "just one more" shot of the winner and jockey. It is sheer bedlam.

The jockey dismounts and with some help removes the saddle. The groom carefully places a blanket over the thoroughbred's back, takes a firm grip on the reigns and leads the winner out of the presentation area and onto the track. Then there is the long walk back to the barn area, a walk that is punctuated by applause and cheers as the horse and the groom, perhaps the man who knows the animal best, share an unforgettable moment.

There are two more races on the schedule for the day, but for thousands the climax of the presentation ceremony in the white-railed infield stand marks the end of their day at Churchill Downs and they begin slowly moving toward the exit. It will be hours before the parking lots are cleared.

At this moment the jockey room is crowded with newsmen and photographers waiting for the winning rider to hold court in a press conference. It is hot and stuff and there is not a breath of fresh air in the gray wooden room, which is ringed with open lockers containing riding clothes and street clothes, liniment and shaving cream and other personal belongings. Riding silks of every color imaginable hang limply from pipes overhead. It is not a place for a man with claustrophobia.

Finally, after the crowd has been waiting for what seems like eternity, the winning jockey walks into the room with his valet, who is holding the last remnants of the bouquet of roses. At this point he is trying to salvage a few petals for the winner, and it is difficult because other valets are trying to get a souvenir for themselves. The jockey pushes his way slowly through the crowd of reporters, photographers, and cameramen and takes a position in front of his locker. The floodlights for the movie cameras are turned on, and the room now becomes a steaming cauldron.

Clutching the few rosebuds in his hand, the jockey patiently answers a stream of questions fired at him by the reporters. "How does it feel to win the Derby," a writer shouts. "I'm the happiest hillbilly in hard boots," the jockey replies. And so it goes for several minutes.

In the press box the clatter of typewriters is almost deafening as sports writers and sports columnists tell the world what happened at Churchill Downs on this day. And in the teletype room thousands of yards of yellow paper tape pile up on the floor as operators dutifully send the prose to anxious sports desks, approaching deadlines for the next morning's editions.

The "in" place to be now is the Matt Winn Room in the clubhouse, where the champagne has started to flow at the traditional party thrown by Churchill Downs for the winning owner. Only a selected group of track officials, writers, VIP's, and friends and family of the winning owner are invited. A few glasses of the bubbly stuff and everyone is feeling mellow, including the owner, who is telling one and all, "I'm thrilled out of my mind. There's no thrill like it."

The day's program is now over and save for those who have business at Churchill Downs--the writers, track officials, and employees--the mob is leaving and soon there are only a handful of hardy souls in the grandstand, clubhouse, and the infield. The mob has left behind a monumental mess for the Downs maintenance crew. There are tons of rubbish, not the least of which are hundreds of thousands of tickets purchased on the wrong horses on this day. The rubble includes shoes, pocketbooks, umbrellas, coats, stockings, water jugs, and even an occasional pair of false teeth. It takes a small army to restore Churchill Downs to some semblance of order before racing resumes on Monday afternoon.

Outside the Downs there is chaos on the streets as cars, cabs, and buses inch their way at a snail's pace toward homes and hotels, railroad yards, and airports. It will be a long and tedious trip to Munfordville in the west, Bardstown in the south, Lexington in the east, and Newport in the north.

By 8 p.m. serenity has returned to the intersection of Fourth and Central. Darkness is enveloping Churchill Downs and the famous twin spires are barely visible. The action has now shifted to the hotels, bars, and restaurants in downtown Louisville and in the suburbs and to private homes and clubs, where people are drinking mint juleps and other refreshments and reliving great moments of the day and of past Derbies and talking about plans for next year's run for the roses.

At Standiford and Bowman airfields, some of the Derby-goers who flew in for the day in private aircraft are still waiting for control-tower clearance to get airborne. Bus stations are crowded with the homeward-bound, tired from a long day in the sun. At the rail yards, some of the special trains which came to Louisville for the Derby are beginning to roll slowly away from the station platforms.

At Bob Whitehouse's rambling ranch home in the suburbs, his three-day-weekend guests are sipping cocktails before enjoying a sumptuous dinner and more games. The Ashland Oil entourage of corporate executives is being lavishly entertained at an elegant Derby Ball in the Executive Inn. The bourbon is also flowing at countless other parties, some for those who spent the day at the races and some for those who just stayed at home and watched the Derby on television like the rest of America.

Thousands have already fled Louisville, but the streets in the downtown area are still crammed with visitors in cars and on foot, and police are still vigilant for the remnants of the teen-age crowd that invaded the city for the Derby. The crowds are not as large as the night before, but the restaurants and bars throughout the area are doing a standing-room-only business, and no one seems to be minding the inflated prices, least of all those who had tickets on the winning horse in the Kentucky Derby.

As on Derby eve the reverly continues until the early hours of the morning, and then for many it is back to the hotels, motels, and private residences for a few hours of sleep, and then the final round of post-Derby brunches and the traditional Kentucky Colonels' Barbecue at Anna Goldman Friedman's big spread.

When the time comes for saying "goodbye" to friends and hosts, the conversation invariably turns to next year's Derby plans. Most will be back, because once you get hooked on Louisville and the Kentucky Derby, it's hard to break the habit.

It's simply because the Kentucky Derby is so much more than a two-minute horse race.