From "My Guy Barbaro: A Jockey's Journey Through Love, Triumph and Heartbreak with America's Favorite Horse," by Edgar Prado with John Eisenberg. Copyright(c) 2008 by Edgar Prado. Reprinted by arrangement with HarperCollins Publishers.
When you get into the racing business, you learn not to get too attached to any horse. That's the first commandment. Be careful, you're told, they'll only break your heart. This is a tough, competitive business, not a romance novel. If you're a jockey, just get on them, get off them, and move on.
When Barbaro came along, I broke that commandment, shattered it into a thousand little pieces, like a stone tablet that had been hurled to the ground.
I couldn't just get on Barbaro, get off him, and move on. I loved him too much.
It wasn't just that he did so much for me, taking me to the Kentucky Derby winner's circle for the first time. It was the way he came to me when he saw me, ears pricked, anxious to communicate. It was the warm look in his eyes when he heard my voice. It was his sense of humor, the way he teased me when I fed him a baby carrot, looking away and then swooping back in with a gulp.
Ten days after he injured his right rear leg in the Preakness Stakes, I visited him at the New Bolton Center in Kennett Square, Pa. The place was crawling with press, but I went back a few weeks later, early one morning, when no one was around. I wanted to be alone with him.
He was happy. His leg was healing. He was spending his days devouring baby carrots and peppermints, like a horse that was going to survive. It seemed like a fantasy.
But then one day in mid-July, his surgeon, Dr. Dean Richardson, dropped a bombshell. Barbaro had developed severe laminitis, a painful and potentially fatal hoof disease.
I had to go see him.
The next day, my wife, Liliana, and I got up at 4 a.m. at our house in New York, near Belmont Park, and drove to Pennsylvania to see Barbaro. The roads were empty. We made great time. I had to be back in New York in time to ride that afternoon.
At New Bolton, we walked in, greeted the staff, put on scrubs and went to see Barbaro in intensive care. I called out when I stepped into his stall, as I had at the start of my previous visits.
"Hey, Barbaro. Hey, fella," I said.
He stared out the window in his stall, refusing to look at me.
"Look here, boy," I said. "I got apples. I got carrots and candy."
