"And here we are, and I'm 75," he says,
shaking his head. Back at Keeneland, on
a quiet bench; away from the crowds, be-
cause nobody walks past Hancock these
days. They are honoured to know him.
"It's weird, but that was my exact thought.
What I'd want to have done with my life, at
75. I mean, growing up I always thought I
would be down there [at Claiborne]. And
I thought well, the Kentucky Derby, that's
what Daddy's life's dream had been. He
had three or four horses that could have
won—and something happened to every
one of them."
How Hancock exorcised that obsession—
its twin dimensions, personal and ances-
tral, looming over his career like the spires
that preside over the Derby stretch run—
is one of the great tales of the American
Turf. As such, it is also one of the most
familiar, and scarcely needs reprising here:
above all, how destiny reserved him the
He was a gift from God, I'm just telling
you. It's such a miracle that I ended up
owning him and he bailed me out.
"
"
