Letter to the Editor: The Walkover–How it All Began

[Wandering Eyes]

The year was 1996, and Unbridled's Song was heading into the Kentucky Derby as the heavy favorite. D. Wayne Lukas, one of racing's superstars, also had the racing world on alert. Five horses from his barn were pointed to the Kentucky Derby; a show of force that made everyone else look like longshots. Included in the entries were two well-qualified runners from a relative newcomer to Kentucky, Bob Baffert.

Five years earlier, Bob had been a hotshot Quarter Horse trainer until a nudge from his friend and owner Mike Pegram convinced him to make the leap to Thoroughbreds. Bob packed up, moved his tack from Los Alamitos to Santa Anita, and quietly started filling his barn with some serious talent.

He got noticed when Thirty Slews won a Breeders' Cup race, and the snowball started rolling–more owners, better horses, bigger dreams.
Meanwhile, in Kentucky, Brian and Jeanie Mayberry–a respected training team from Southern California–sent their daughter, April, East to manage a small string of horses. By 1996, April had put down roots at Churchill Downs, claiming Barn 33 as home.

Visiting California trainers often shipped their horses into her barn. So, after Cavonnier stormed to victory in the Santa Anita Derby, and Semoran hand-punched his ticket to Kentucky, Bob gave his friend April a call to see if she had room in her barn.

I first met Bob that spring at Oaklawn Park, during the Festival of the South, thanks to April's urging to introduce myself. I had a thriving physical therapy and acupuncture practice working between Kentucky and Arkansas, and Bob and I hit it off immediately due to our Arizona and family connections.

When Oaklawn closed, everyone began shipping back to Churchill, just as Derby fever was reaching a boil.

The backside of the track pulsed with life: glistening horse flesh, flashing cameras, Derby hopes and dreams filled the air.
Bob, despite his Santa Anita Derby win, was still an outsider, and he and Lukas had a pretty healthy rivalry going on behind the scenes. The Kentucky press hardly gave Bob a second glance–their eyes were fixed on Lukas, who was the king.

Derby Day arrived. The grandstands were overflowing with racing fans, and the infield became a writhing sea of people.
In the stable area, it was it was a different scene–a tense hush fell over the barns sheltering Derby runners. It was a place of pacing footsteps, tight smiles, and deep, patient breathing. Waiting for the call.

As the clock ticked down, April asked Bob: “Why don't you walk over with your horse?” she said. “There's nothing like it.”

Bob looked at her, half-surprised.

“Really?”

Then he grinned. “Why not.”

At the time, walking over wasn't something the trainers normally did.

Tradition was the trainers waited in the paddock while the grooms trudged the horses through the dirt and mud.
The call came: bring the horses over for the 122nd running of the Kentucky Derby.

Lead shanks went on, buckets grabbed and out we stepped toward the gap to the track, and the moment swallowed us whole.
April, Bob, Mick, the grooms; hotwalkers, and me–together we stepped onto the sacred dirt.

The air snapped and buzzed with energy. The grandstands erupted into shouts, a storm of noise crashing around us as over a hundred thousand racing fans whooped and hollered.

Fans screamed out horse names, but also–to our amazement–“Go get 'em, Bob!”

Bob turned to us, beaming.

“I feel like my feet aren't even touching the ground,” he said. “This is unbelievable.”

April nodded and smiled, “I told you so. There's nothing like it.”

Cavonnier ran the race of his life, looking like the winner in the stretch, only to be caught at the wire by a nose by Jerry Bailey on Grindstone–one of Lukas's mighty five.

No one would have seen coming what was about to unfold in Thoroughbred racing and the Kentucky Derby. The white-haired California trainer with the easy grin and the unstoppable spirit had announced himself to the world.

And from that day forward, the Derby Walkover became a walk trainers and owners began to proudly do, defying traditions and risking ruined shoes. This moment would take on a life the likes of racing had not seen before.

Tricia Brophy is an equine physical therapist and acupuncturist.

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