Another Crowning Blow for a Desperate Sport

It is the sad lament of broken-down horseplayers. Coulda, woulda, shoulda. Torn betting tickets tossed to the ground in disgust. Hopes dashed, obscenities blathered, sad souls hovering on the periphery of Pimlico, pushing empty shopping carts and asking people wearing high heels and hats if they need a ride from their Lexus to the track.

Horse racing, the sport, seemed nothing more than a broken-down horseplayer Saturday. A sorry soul with bad luck or no luck.

Once again there will be no Triple Crown winner. Once again thoroughbred racing will disappear from our sporting consciousness.

More than anything, horse racing needs a Michael Jordan and it coulda, shoulda, woulda had one. Almost.

Point Given won the Preakness Saturday. The bubbly chestnut colt ran wonderfully, filled with purpose, full of himself.

If only Point Given had run the same way two weeks ago at the Kentucky Derby. Because Point Given coulda, shoulda, woulda been just what horse racing so desperately needs. Its own Michael Jordan or Tiger Woods.

Point Given is a hoot. Point Given reared up on his hind legs Friday, dancing a crazy jig, trying desperately to throw his exercise rider from here to Camden Yards. It was play time for Point Given, a horse having fun, making a great video moment for television, giving us all a glimpse of an animal with personality.

Point Given is also an extraordinary athlete. Fifty minutes after the race, Point Given still had frothy sweat dripping from his neck and if you didn’t know better, you’d think the horse was smiling. He kept making smacking noises and wagging his head back and forth. As if to say, “I’m the star. Notice me, please.”

So if only. If Point Given had won the Kentucky Derby as he was supposed to, if Point Given had run at Churchill Downs as he did Saturday--with pride and flair, with confidence and entitlement, with a sense of himself and the track--horse racing would be looking forward to three exciting weeks of following the exploits of this crazy horse.

“He’s a big clown,” Bob Baffert said. Baffert, the Newport Beach trainer of Point Given, said he still hasn’t figured out why Point Given ran so poorly at the Derby, why Point Given disappeared down the stretch.

Stars don’t disappear. Jordan didn’t disappear down the stretch. Tiger doesn’t disappear down the stretch.

If only Monarchos had run on Saturday as he did two week ago at Churchill Downs.

Monarchos was a sweet story, born and bred in Kentucky, the Bluegrass State, trained by John Ward, a likable Kentuckian. We could have celebrated a horse bred and trained in Kentucky who would win the Triple Crown.

But Monarchos might as well have been wearing cement shoes Saturday. He couldn’t get started. He never got going. He finished sixth. John Ward, the trainer, said it was simple. Monarchos didn’t like the surface.

Monarchos’ own jockey, Jorge Chavez, could muster only perfunctory praise. “He’s a nice horse,” Chavez said. And then the Lakers and Spurs came on TV. Shaq and Kobe. Duncan and Robinson. By this morning, few will remember Point Given or Monarchos or that the Belmont is three weeks away.

There hasn’t been a Triple Crown winner since Affirmed in 1978. Jordan will have made at least two NBA comebacks before we have another.

NBC was so desperate for horse racing tales that it featured the only living Triple Crown winner, Seattle Slew from 1977. Slew had spinal surgery and barely survived the last year. And that was the best horse racing story to tell.

We live in a sports world where only superstars can make their sport matter. Men’s tennis is ready to take a big tumble as the skills of its elder statesmen--Pete Sampras and Andre Agassi--diminish. We don’t care about Marat Safin or Gustavo Kuerten. Not now, not ever.

That’s the life horse racing has lived for nearly three decades.

The last time we cared about horse racing, Los Angeles was still six years away from hosting its last Olympic Games. Jimmy Carter was fighting an energy crisis by wearing a cardigan sweater and telling us to stay warm with clothes, not Arab oil.

Baseball was revitalized by the charming home run battle between Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa. Basketball is eagerly looking forward to seeing Jordan and jocular Charles Barkley try to kick the butts of the young punks and win the Wizards a title next year. Hockey got Mario Lemieux to cheer for.

Heck, the last time horse racing had a Triple Crown winner,

NASCAR seemed barely away from racing on dirt tracks.

Horse racing mattered so much in 1977 and 1978. You didn’t need to have a Daily Racing Form stuck in your back pocket to appreciate the thrill of Seattle Slew charging down the backstretch. You didn’t need to understand past performance charts. You just needed to get goose bumps watching Affirmed hold off Alydar over and over.

We want immediate gratification even more now. We want winners we can recognize.

Outside Pimlico, Harold Conover, a 58-year-old unemployed construction worker, pushed an empty shopping cart. He offered to carry the equipment of a photographer to the track gate. “You know,” Conover said, “for 51 weeks a year this place is dead. It’s depressing. This week, it’s OK.”

That’s horse racing. An empty shopping cart heading to the gate.

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Diane Pucin can be reached at her e-mail address:

diane.pucin@latimes.com