Go for Gin died Tuesday, March 8, due to heart failure at the Kentucky Horse Park, where he had lived since retiring from stud duty in June 2011. The 31-year-old was the oldest living Kentucky Derby winner. Horse racing photographer Ciara Bowen penned the following “goodbye” to the champion Thoroughbred, reprinted here with permission.
When morning came on May 5, 2018 we all knew we were in for a long day – and not only because it was Derby Day. It was raining already; there was no hope of a partially dry day or a fast track. When I got to Churchill, I greeted my fellow media friends and did my usual tour around the grandstand before the gates opened to the fans and before I headed off to shoot for the day.
There are a few spots I go without fail, looking for a particular name, as if I'm afraid that it'll be gone for some reason. It never is; it sits up there, solid, written in history forever.
Ritual complete, I went about my day. It was miserable weather to be shooting in. No matter what I did, I couldn't get away from the water. I went through a couple ponchos throughout the day and sacrificed a third to make another makeshift cover for my camera after the first one died its valiant death. I'd moved up to the stand at the second gap on the backside, ducking under the roof to get a momentary respite a couple races before the Derby, when I heard someone behind me speak.
“This weather absolutely sucks. This has got to be the wettest Derby since…”
He trailed off and there was a slight pause.
“Go for Gin. May 7, '94,” I finished for him.
He and his buddies laughed and agreed – which I didn't need. I can't list all the Derby winners, and sometimes I can give you a name but not the year they won. But I don't need any help or supplementing on that one.
I felt the wind shift, rain hitting my face and hands again, and added, “He's probably enjoying this today.”
“You act like you know him or something.”
“Just a little.”
The track was a disgusting mess, with water literally streaming off of it around my feet as I waited for the horses to load in the gate later, and then standing in hoofprints until they dragged the track again. The field raced by and as I heard the thunder of their hooves, I imagined I was watching a bay horse, his strides strong and confident as he glided through the mud easily, those yellow silks clean and the small yellow shadow roll across his nose striking in contrast to his dark coat.
I've watched his Derby thousands of times. Some were on my laptop late at night, where the only light in my room was that of the video as I pretended to be at Churchill. Some were at the Derby Museum, played on repeat as friends watched other editions close by. Most of them were at the Park.
I know the call like I know the back of my hand.
His winning time is tattooed on my wrist.
If you've ever been out to the Kentucky Horse Park at the same time as me, and have come up to the Hall of Champions, you've probably seen me standing at the back of the pavilion with a camera around my neck, eyes on the screen up above me, mouthing the words until the precise moment I knew Gin would head into the ring.
I can recite the facts that Cindy or Kathy would tell during his portion of the show, facts that I don't need to list here because they are all things that are easy to know. The things that anyone can Google. Things like who his connections were, what he accomplished at stud, and the fact that his arguably best son, Albert the Great, lived in nearby Georgetown at Old Friends. There were other things too, like how he was part of the welcoming committee to the barn and sometimes a line about how he loved treats.
But those shows, fabulous as they are, are just a small portion of the time I spent with Gin. I only met him a couple times before moving to Kentucky, but I had already been a big fan of his. When I moved here, I was thrilled to be able to visit him just about whenever I wanted. And oh, did I.
There were visits on days that I only said a handful of words to Dave, Gene, Jenny, Kelly, Laura, Paul, or Rob and anyone else in the barn, and they always understood that I just wanted to be by Gin. I would stand at his window or by his stall door and talk to him, pet him, give him a few treats. If he was out in his paddock, I'd just watch him graze. Other days, when I wanted to talk, everyone would wait until I'd at least greeted him and, temporarily appeased, would spend some time with them laughing and conversing. Thanks to Gin, I've gotten to know all of them and to some degree or another with each of them, consider them friends.
I'm glad to have spent that time with him, no matter what people may have thought of it. He wasn't mine but I loved him like he was, and I'm so, so lucky that I got that opportunity. I made it no secret what I thought of him – many of you will attest to that. There are some people who initially only knew me because of that love. The first time I officially met Wendy Wooley was at the Park on my way to go visit Gin, actually. She was showing her horse that day and we passed each other on the path and she said something along the lines of, “You're the Go for Gin girl, aren't you?!”
That's me. Forever.
I'm not going to list every single thing I loved about him, or every little thing that I'm going to miss. Not today, at least.
There haven't been any books written on Gin yet, and there's a part of me that says I should save those for the first one. I'm not a nonfiction writer, but I think I could make an exception.
And the next time I'm at Churchill and the field is dashing across a sloppy track, I'll look at the twin spires that are woven into the very being of our sport, and I'll smile. The people around me will think I'm crazy, no doubt. But it won't be the weather I'll be smiling about.
It'll be you, Gin. Always.
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