Every morning at dawn, at his home racetrack of Belmont in New York City or at whichever track he happened to be, a Thoroughbred racehorse named Secretariat would stick his head out of his stall, waiting for his pal. The stall had a strong door, of course, but the typical way to keep horses in their stalls is to slide the door back into its slot and secure it with sturdy webbing attached to bolts on either side of the door, set at the horse’s chest height. This allows a curious horse to poke his head out, look down the hallways, and observe everything. If a horse hears human footsteps or the clip-clop of another horse, he can check it out, maybe even say hello. Since racehorses spend most of their time in stalls, having an open door helps relieve their boredom.
Early every morning, with sunrise still hours away, groom Edward “Shorty” Sweat would walk down that long hallway to begin his day’s work, and every morning, he would see the same thing: Secretariat with his head out, watching and waiting for his best friend.
Secretariat was a kind and playful horse. Eddie would toss the horse’s halter into the corner of the stall, and Secretariat would pick it up with his teeth and drop it at Eddie’s feet; it was a game they played. Secretariat would try to steal the brush from Eddie’s hand and tug on Eddie’s shirt like a pup playing tug-of-war.
Eddie was Secretariat’s groom—the man who cleaned his stall, provided his food and water, put on his bridle and saddle, picked dirt and stones from his hooves, loaded him in the van, and drove him to the next track and the one after that. This was Eddie’s job, and he did it better than anyone, according to many who were long familiar with horses and grooms and racetracks. But looking after Secretariat was more than just a job for Shorty Sweat. For him, that horse was like a son, brother, and best friend all rolled into one.
Eddie knew, for instance, that Big Red— as many now called him—hated having his ears touched. He knew that the horse slept standing, facing a corner. At night, when the barn was quiet, the horse would lie down, but not on his side. He would fold his front legs beneath him and listen for strange sounds. If he heard one, he would quickly stand up, ready to run if necessary.
When Eddie would arrive before dawn, Secretariat always stuck out his tongue. Eddie would grab it playfully and shake it as if he were shaking another man’s hand. Ron Turcotte, the horse’s jockey, had started this one day by reaching into Secretariat’s mouth and grabbing his tongue as a greeting. The horse must’ve thought this was another fun game because every morning after that, Big Red would stick out that big pink tongue, and Eddie would shake it.
“Hey, Eddie,” Secretariat seemed to say.
“Hey, Red,” his groom would reply.
This was their routine morning greeting through late 1972 and into 1973 when Secretariat was The Reigning King of Racehorses.
~By Lawrence Scanlan
THE HORSE GOD BUILT
