Lost In The Fog: Life, Family and The Breeders’ Cup

SNOW DAY

The morning of our trip, I watched Nick sleep—curled under the covers, a deep, carefree eleven-year-old sleep. Waking for school was about as popular as a dentist visit. I nudged him. “Nick,” I whispered. Nothing.“ There’s no school today.” A grunt. One eye.

I slid the blanket back and held up two tickets. “We’re going to the Breeders’ Cup.”

Surprise and joy swept over his face the way a first snow hushes a city—sudden, sparkling, complete. It would be his first Breeders’ Cup Day.

A month earlier, in late September 2005, my longtime racing friend had called. I didn’t know that call would give me a story I’d tell so often my friends pretend it’s new. When I start in, Nick rolls his eyes and taps an imaginary STFU button, and we both laugh—New Yorkers at heart; that’s our love language.

By eleven, he’d already been to the track a few times, somehow winning each time and assuming that was normal. With me placing the bets, he couldn’t really lose—but he guarded Dad’s money like it was his, which is more than I could say for myself at that age. When he said he wanted a pick-3, I didn’t lecture him about how hard it is to pick one winner, let alone three. We just made the bet.

Race 4 — Juvenile. I slipped in my namesake, Stevie Wonderboy, who came flying late to beat the heavy favorite First Samurai and paid $11.20.

Race 5 — Filly & Mare Turf. Nick circled Intercontinental. She held off the 2-1 favorite Ouija Board and paid $32.

Now the whole section knew an 11-year-old was alive in the pick-3. Strangers turned into honorary grandparents, cameras ready to catch the moment.

Our favorite, Lost in the Fog, had captured the year’s headlines—ten straight wins in stakes company heading into the Breeders’ Cup Sprint. He went off at the lowest odds of the day, the kind of horse who steals limelight even from the Breeders’ Cup Classic.

The gate popped. He got jostled at the start, hung wide on the turns, and in a sprint that’s a mountain. The streak ended.

Here’s where you expect tears. You don’t get them. Fans gathered around to console Nick—welcome to the club, kid, the club of big hits and just misses. He shrugged, opened the Form, and lined up the next race the way a big leaguer brushes off a 97-mph heater at the chin.

Years later, I still tell this one. Friends act like it’s the first time. Nick mimes the mute button, and we crack up. Once, Lost in the Fog felt like my life—until I married and Nick arrived and lifted it.

What I remember most isn’t the loss, or the odds, or even the near miss; it’s the look on his face when I said there was no school and held up those tickets—the morning our fog lifted.