Fine. I'll ride in steerage.

I'm on it.

I'm on the Big Brown bandwagon; he reminded me today of what it is I love about this game.

The sheer joy of running, inherent in every drop of blood; the southerly wind made real. Once the gates open, all the noise of bravado and the poison of recrimination is forgotten in the halcyon drumfire of hooves and the test to the wire. Ownership becomes irrelevant and all eyes are on the horse, hoping for an honest run.

So much has been written and said about Big Brown and Curlin and the soap opera that has become their racing path, that the spirit of the game has been forgotten. Like a teardrop in the ocean, their ineffable qualities have been drowned out but through it all, the horses just kept running.

When Big Brown turned for home and Proudinsky switched out to loom a threat, I thought BB would fold like origami; he had never been collared and forced to fight but he proved that he is game. In that last furlong, Big Brown showed me that he never relinquished his nobility to the Borg.

Now all that is left for him is the Breeder's Cup. He will not race at 4 and we are made the cheaper for it. Iavarone has taken that home run horse and decided to shelve him in exchange for a pay-day when he could win himself a following and keep the horse in training; maybe even tackle Curlin's (soon to be) all-time earnings record. Instead, we watch as another proverbial pitch floats by.

You miss enough of those, that's the ball-game.