Talk to anyone round Keeneland about
Bassett, from the track kitchen to the
trustees, and you'll notice the same
light come into their eyes. It's not just
admiration for his vigour, or respect for
a patriarchal figure. It's devotion. A de-
votion earned in what, for all the money
at stake, remains essentially a frivolous
field of human enterprise: the breeding,
raising, and selling of Thoroughbreds. So
you just know that each and every one of
those men back in the Pacific, where the
stakes were so much higher, would have
taken a bullet for Bassett.
The list of his awards, honorary de-
grees, citations is as long as your arm.
But the irony is that vainer men will nev-
er win so many accolades. Leading, for
Bassett, was never about imposing him-
self. If anything, it was quite the reverse.
"I had a hell of a good time doing these
things," he shrugs. "And enjoying what
you do is key. You don't have to be out
there rattling a tin can all the time. It just
means you have some built-in energy,
that you have something you want to pur-
sue, something you're determined about.
And even today, at four score years and
17—although the world isn't depending
on a thing I say or do—I'm excited about
coming through those back gates every
morning."
