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1 5 2 LOUISVILLE MAGAZINE 4.14 Patterson leads Orb to the quarantine barn. Drug test. Bath around back. A handful of interested backsiders gather to watch Orb washed and pampered. Patterson stays with him always. Barn No. 43. Stall No. 1. A horseshoe's heave from Longfeld Avenue. Tree college kids have rather cleverly decided to fnd Orb's stall and do what college kids do these days: Take "selfes" in his stall with beers in hand. It's not exactly the poignant moment Tarquinio and I are looking for, though the kids seem harmless enough. Tey backed the winner, it's Derby, and the day has become as much about foolish pleasures as the next Foolish Pleasure. "Here come the cops!" I yell, just to see them scatter. Orb returns, accompanied by Patterson and trailed by a mini-pack of admirers — far fewer than the number of media members who followed him out for his frst workout. Now wearing a princely white blanket, edged in red, across his freshly groomed back, Orb tours shedrow with head up but not high. Ten the strangest thing happens. (It sounds so staged that I fear some may believe it's made up, except that Tarquinio was there and heard it too.) As Orb passes, several of the other horses, sinewy athletic necks extending from stalls, whinny at high volume, an equine symphony of salutations. As if in acknowledgement, Orb lifts his head higher. Hail to the king! A woman in her 60s, wearing a light-blue windbreaker and thin scarf, arrives outside barn 43 for a look. She didn't go to the track, no. She saw the race on television, and now she has arrived to pay her respects. And so she does, stoically standing in the cold drizzle — it's started to rain again — observing quietly as Orb, after several turns around the barn, is led into his stall. Patterson and two others stab hay with pitchforks and feed the winner his victory snack. "Doesn't he look beautiful?" the lady says rhetorically. She didn't bet on him, no. I ask Patterson for a few minutes of her time. Te usual questions. How long had she ridden him? (From his very frst trip to the track to train.) When did she know he was special? (Ditto.) How long had she worked for Shug? (Seven years; he's like family.) To read Patterson's comments in retrospect, out of context, they sound boilerplate. She loves the horse. Knew he was ready. Believed he could do it. But to hear Patterson, to see her talk about her baby, is to believe that she believes every word, syllable and letter. And why not? What's the point of all this without faith? Patterson politely thanks her interrogator for his interest and turns back toward stall No. 1. Tis time, she doesn't pirouette. Tis time, she foats. www.hatsforhopelouisville.org City Guide Publishing June 2014 Call 625-0100 or email advertising@loumag.com for more information 138-160 BACK.indd 152 3/20/14 12:46 PM