"What has been my most memorable moments during my long career, you ask?" posed Max Maxwell, the dean of the RGV sportswriters, as we quizzed him about his many experiences during an extended drinking session on the patio at ex-Mayor Trey Mendez's Dodici Pizza & Wine.
"I've told this story on several occasions, but nobody believes me," he commenced. "I attended the Kentucky Derby in 2015. It was one of those objectives on my bucket list. It was incredible, not only the ambience, but the historic outcome of the race as well.
"Everyone was dressed to the nines, even yours truly. I thought back to my youth attending mass when all the women once wore hats although not quite as decorative as the ones I saw at the track. I drank a Mint Julep in honor of tradition, but I switched to The Oaks Lily, a combination of vodka and cranberry juice, that has become fashionable in recent years and gulped down more than my share.
"When I heard 'My Old Kentucky Home' as the horses started their walk to the starting gates, I felt the same shivers whenever I'm at South Bend and the Irish take the field to the music of their fight song. The day itself was overcast and the track was muddy, but Maximum Security, the favorite, took the lead from the outset and won wire to wire, but he was disqualified 20 minutes later because he went too wide on the final turn and the officials ruled that he hadn't stayed in his lane. For the first time in the derby's history a winner was disqualified and The Country House, a 65-1 longshot, was declared the champion. Not even boxing has had a more controversial decision.
"I shot the shit with several individuals. Everyone was extremely friendly and gracious. I was luxuriating in that much-hailed Southern Hospitality. One gentleman suggested that if I was going to remain in Louisville a few days, I might consider a drive to Coolmore Ashford Stud Farm, which he said was less than an hour's trip. I noticed the puzzled look on your faces.
"Coolmore Ashford Stud Farm is home to some of the finest thoroughbreds in the business. American Pharoah, the Triple Crown winner in 2015, stables there and I couldn't resist the temptation to view this magnificent specimen with my own eyes. I went Monday morning. I feared there might be a crowd remaining from the Saturday spectacle who might share my idea, but I suppose most tourists departed the next day. There was hardly anyone there. I compared the tranquility to the calm after the storm.
"There is a greeting center. A young Southern belle was manning the desk. I told her I had driven all the way from Brownsville, Texas to catch a glimpse of American Pharoah. She told me with a smile that she would summon an employee who would personally escort me to the horse's stall. I couldn't believe my luck. Five minutes later I was in a golf cart. My escort told me he had to run another errand. He pointed to American Pharoah's stable and informed me he would return in 20 minutes.
"I entered the stable, built like a typical American barn, and walked down the breezeway until I located his stall. I leaned against the gate just as he turned to meet my gaze. I recognized him immediately with the faint white star on his forehead. I had read that unlike his more high-strung mates, his trainers inevitably praise him for his gentleness. True to form, he approached and raised his head slightly as I stroked one of his cheeks. I've shaken hands with famous athletes, but I've never touched such greatness. For ten minutes I ran my hand all over his face and he never stirred. Overcome by the moment, I retreated a few steps to catch my breath. I was looking at my faintly trembling hands when someone said, "What's your name?"
I looked around and there was nobody in the stable. Maybe I was so overwhelmed by my circumstances that I thought I must be hearing things when I heard the same question again, "What's your name?"
I stood dumbfounded.
"What's your problem, grandad? Don't you understand English. It's me, American Pharoah. What's your name?"
"Max Maxwell," I stuttered. "But you're talking!"
"Of course, I'm talking," he neighed. "My great-great-grandfather was Mr. Ed."
"The talking horse?" I stammered.
"None other."
"But nobody has mentioned that you talked."
"Do you think I'm a fool? It would be the end of my tranquil existence. I don't need any intrusions into my private life. I don't want to meet the same end as Mr. Ed."
"What happened to Mr. Ed? "I asked as I pinched myself wondering if I was having an alcohol flashback from drinking too much Bourbon the previous night.
"He died from a drug overdose, but it was Hollywood that killed him. His real name was Bamboo Harvester. With his nervous temperament, he wasn't meant for the bright lights and the flashing cameras. My family told me he regretted leaving the blue grass serenity of Kentucky."
"Do you talk with anyone else? Does anyone else know you speak?"
"Nobody. You can't trust anyone. Besides, nobody would appreciate my speaking talents. As a horse, the media would be curious about my perspective speculating on the existence of God or if I believed in abortion, the usual meaningless issues that you humans endlessly debate."
"I'm curious. Why did you choose to reveal your secret to me? I'm little more than a tourist who is indistinguishable from the thousands of other tourists who must wander through these facilities."
"You are the spitting image of Wilber."
"Wilber! Mr. Ed's only true friend with whom he had the confidence to communicate."
"I saw you and and I felt an instant trust. Besides, like poor Wilber, if you started telling people that you were having a conversation with me, they would think that you were crazier than Wilber. As for me, I talk to myself all the time and I had this need for somebody else to hear me speak."
"I'm honored, American Pharoah. This has been an unexpected surprise to say the least. Do you mind if I ask you a question? As a longtime sportswriter, it's my wont to interrogate subjects and I have never had the privilege to interview someone as famous as you. Instead of traveling the world, you have chosen this secluded existence. Why?
"You drove down from Louisville, right? The countryside is second to none. I'd have to wear blinders in a city. The endless and pedestrian congestion would drive me crazy and I'm not a people person. Mules are more compatible to me than the asses you have to deal with every day. Plus, I have everything I need here."
"Can you be more specific?"
"I have my privacy. The food is second to none--only top of the line alfalfa, timothy hay, oats, barley, corn and beet pulp. Beet pulp is my favorite. Most of my equine acquaintances prefer their beet pulp dry, but I like my moistened. It brings out the juices. I trot every morning and every other day I'll finish my workout with a gallop. In the evening I'll stroll around the paddock for 30 minutes. I have to stay in shape.
"What for besides the logical health reasons?"
"I'm fucking my brains out and that output requires stamina because I'm a money-maker. At a minimum my bosses receive at least $250,000 for the birth of every healthy foal."
"How many fillies are you fucking every year?"
"I would estimate at least 200 different mares. Sometimes I have to do the same one several times before I hit the mark. I'm sure King Solomon would tip his hat to me. They say he had a 1000 women at his beck and call, but many became his wives and he had to endure marital problems on several occasions. I don't deal with that bullshit. I have the luxury of fucking them and forgetting them."
"Are there times when you become attached to one?"
"My handlers only bring me only la crème de la crème. Imagine that all the contestants in the Miss Universe are not only available to you, but they want to be with you because of your reputation. Do you think one is going to dominate your time when you have 99 others only too anxious to open their legs? And the following year there are 100 brand new contestants. That's my existence, Max. I exercise, I eat well and I fuck and fuck and fuck."
"Do you ever feel bored by this surfeit of riches?"
"You know as well as I do, Max: Pussy never gets old."
Just then my escort came careening around the corner into the breezeway.
"Take care, bro," he whinnied. "I enjoyed it."
I wanted to reply, but the attendant was was in a hurry. I knew one thing: If anyone or anything was going to gambol into the sunset, it would be American Pharoah.
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