One Final Time

                                                                               

                                                                        One Final Time


October 7 this year marked the eighth anniversary of the death of one of racing's legends, the immortal and beloved John Henry.  A foal of 1975, John was born and raised in Bourbon County on Robert and Verna Lehman's Golden Chance Farm.  The farm, no longer in existence, had considerable success during its glory days several decades past, their achievements including Classic success with Dust Commander in the 1970 Kentucky Derby and Master Derby in the 1975 Preakness Stakes.  It is not, however, for these celebrated victories that the farm will be forever remembered in racing lore. Rather their name shall live forever because of their breeding of mighty John Henry, a rather plain looking, ill-tempered product with a less than stellar pedigree who, by all accounts, must be considered one of the great horses in the history of American racing and who rightly stands alongside Kelso, Forego, and most recently Wise Dan, as one of the grandest geldings to ever grace the turf.

Retired to the Kentucky Horse Park after his retirement, he was a fan favorite for many years, and many made a regular pilgrimage to see the old warrior.  Time was kind to John in many ways, perhaps in thanks for all he had given to racing, but even John was not immune to the inevitable.  Increasingly plagued with multiple infirmities of his very advanced age of 32 years, it became increasingly clear that John was suffering and the necessary decision was made that euthanasia was the only reasonable recourse.  Those closest to him were advised of this painful decision and given opportunity to visit and say their final good-byes to their very special friend.  On October 8, 2007 the great John  Henry was laid to rest, to be later immortalized by a bronze statue overlying his burial site in the Kentucky Horse Park.  It was but several days later that I was reminiscing about John and his stellar career when I began to imagine his final moments.  Fanciful, of course, but I wold love to think that this is how it might have been for John on that fateful day...

One Final Time

Dedicated to one of the bravest and greatest warriors the sport of Thoroughbred racing has ever known

 JOHN HENRY

A champion of the common man

Born 1975, Golden Chance Farm in Paris, Kentucky,

Died October 8, 2007, Kentucky Horse Park, Lexington, Kentucky

by

Murray D. West,

Paris, Kentucky

October 15, 2007.

John Henry, age 27 years

John Henry, 27 years, Kentucky Horse Park

One Final Time

A gentle autumn breeze softly tossed his flowing mane,

     warm morning sun caressed his weary soul;

Birds sang praise of the day’s new promise –

Men cried dread of the coming final toll.

Once hickory aged legs now trembled as he stood,

     his storied head held proud for all to see;

One final time, prepared to charge the charge -

One final time, no greater great than he.

He stands alone, perched upon the edge of time,

     prepared once more to face the fearsome tide;

The greatest riders from his vaunted past -

One final time, primed now for one last ride.

His dwindling strength he wills to life

     in gallant fight against the truth;

And seeks, through blessed aging eyes,

One final time, his storied youth.

On prancing feet, with pounding pulse,

     the gate looms large and cold;

But of courage born, his motto clear -

“’Tis laurels to the bold!”

 For an instant here he flashes back

     to that time of yesteryear;

To the golden days of Golden Chance,

In a time that held no peer.

When the rolling hills of bluegrass

     proved no match for his speed;

Where he raced for joy against the wind -

His spirit ever freed.

With his playmates in the heat of day

     he frolicked in the sun;

While the evening breeze off Stoner Creek

Calmed souls as day was done.

He steps now to the daunting gate,

     one final foray to be won;

Aboard, McHargue grasps his mane -

One final time…one final run!

He feels the force build deep inside

     and tenses for the break;

His mind now sharp, his will is strong –

Though aged muscles quake.

Behind him lies a gloried past

     that few have ever known;

Before him lies this final race -

That each must take alone.

The field is set, the flag is up,

     now all are in their place;

One final time, he now recalls,

Those stars he once did face.

 To his right he sees grey Relaunch,

     inside stands grand Perrault;

Then the queenly Royal Heroine -

This mare a kingly foe.

The Very One is standing firm

     while Peat Moss paws the ground,

Now The Bart steps forth - in time and bronze,

These two forever bound.

John turns his gaze to face the task

     just like those times before;

One final time to show his place -

A King in turfdom lore.

The latch is sprung, the bell screams loud,

     the field bolts on its way;

The break is good, they crash and fight,

To clear this earthly fray.

Restrained the first time past the stands,

     John jostles for his place;

He holds his spot just off the speed,

To stalk the dawdling pace.

His stride is long, his rhythm smooth,

     all pain now disappears;

Once more the carefree youth of old –

He runs to distant cheers.

The midday sun beams down on him,

     his coat a burnished bay;

Pincay aboard restrains his speed -

Too soon to win this day.

 The whistling wind and the flying turf,

     thunder of pounding hoof;

The joy that comes from a charge unleashed –

All else he held aloof.

He remembers well the fields of fire,

     where none but the bravest dare;

Of a time before and a time to come –

Of greats men must compare.

He too had wondered, long and hard,

     often dreamed he’d had the chance;

If lined abreast, standing toe to toe -

Could he dance this greatest dance?

Forego and “Red” and mighty black “Slew,”

     what of Kelso, Affirmed and Cigar?

And could he withstand the charge of “the Bid” -

Was his comet the match of each star?

He fights the bit at the thought of that race

     as his dream pours fuel to his fire;

Another might win - may just get the nod -

But no other would best his desire!

Now into the turn in the afternoon’s glow,

     here “the Shoe” lets out just a notch;

In the blink of an eye he quickens his pace –

‘Tis a thing of wonder to watch.

He begins now his surge as the crowd starts to scream,

     and the roar just pushes him more;

For this is the moment he cherished the most –

Yes, this is the time he lived for!

 He moves off the rail as so often before,

     and forces the others aside;

And as he prepares to launch his attack,

He thinks of the odds he defied.

From plebian stock by accounts of the day,

     his brilliance was never foreseen;

His demeanor was such that he fell to the knife –

The price for being so mean!

He was sold more than once for a trifling amount,

     oft raced for a tag in his time;

With patience he learned what the game was about,

And by five was just in his prime.

A Grade One that year, and a final at nine,

     and thirteen more won in-between;

But if he was a colt and never been cut,

Such heroics would never have been.

He ran on the dirt and he soared on the turf,

     and great weight he carried with pride;

The common man claimed him as one of their own,

And to him such men felt allied.

He was trained in the end by a man of much grace,

     who listened and learned from his horse;

No arrogant pride set his horse to the task -

His steed set the pace and the course.

And mounted atop of his strong, sturdy back,

     sat some of the best of all time;

As great as they were, how fortunate he,
They climbed aboard him in their prime.

Midway through the turn, as the sun settles low,

     here his magic he weaves once again;

Through the narrowest seam he moves near the fore

And prepares to attack down the lane.

The quarter is passed, restraint tossed aside,

     the race now a sprint to the wire;

This moment of truth will prove who is best-

And none ever fired with more fire!

John feels the cross thrown as McCarron leans low

     and whistles and shouts in his ear;

This urging is music, a love song to John -

A song in his heart he held dear.

Swung quickly outside as they straighten away,

     so smoothly he switches his lead;

The finish in sight, he sets on his flight,

And attacks with great courage and speed!

Perched low on his back and high on his neck,

     McCarron and John dance as one;

In rhythm they glide as a Bolshoi duet,

Or like Ginger and Fred in the sun.

“John Henry,” they scream as he moves to the lead,

     “John Henry is pulling away!”

These sounds that he loved all the days of his life,

Echoed deep in his heart night and day.

The wire fast approaching, the sun nearly set,

     yet his grace still a thing to behold;

And he feels no fatigue, not an ache nor a pain,

Though he’s thirty two mighty years old!

 All his pain disappears in the sun’s final glow,

     his breath catches life from the wind;

His vision is clear and he hears all the cheers…

And at this old grumpy boy grinned!

For there stand his comrades from time long ago,

     his friends and his allies – and foes;

And they gather as one and surround their old chum -

And the tales that are told, Heaven knows!

The boys are all here that passed before John,

     and some of the ladies as well;

And they offer a toast to the best that they knew -

This great to whom most of them fell.

The champagne is poured, the glasses are raised,

     and of John they make much ado;

He answers the toast, “Well thank you my friends -

If you please, just make mine a brew!”

So many times, against the pain,

John fought and did defy;

        Then came the day he heard the toll -

                                                        One final time…goodbye.

 John Henry,

1975 - 2007

Murray D. West,

Original October 15, 2007,

Paris, Kentucky