It's Derby weekend here in Louisville, and naturally, my thoughts turn to my cousin, Jim. Jim lived in Kansas City, and for years, no, make that decades, he came home the week before the big race to take in the spectacle that surrounds the First Saturday in May. Jim was my oldest cousin on my dad's side, a kind of hybrid uncle/cousin/big brother kind of guy. He was funny and interesting, and he never hung up the phone after a chat without saying, "I love you, Sharron."
Jim loved the horses. He loved the track. He loved studying the racing forms and going to the backside and getting a look behind the scenes. Beyond the track, he loved the Pegasus Parade and the Great Steamboat Race and the hats and the SHOW that was the Derby. And, he loved the people. He was the people-ist people person I knew.
Every year he came to Louisville for the races, but he never had a ticket when he left for the track. He knew he could find someone selling them outside the gate. Sometimes he ended up in the infield. Most of the time, he got in the grandstand or in a box. A few times, he made it to Millionaire's Row. Regardless, he almost always paid less than everybody else, and, rain or shine, he always had a good time. I can picture him heading to the track now...sports coat, a colorful tie, a hat on his head, racing form in hand, wearing sensible shoes in case he ended up in the infield. He'd have a big smile on his face, ready to go.
He stayed with his dad, my uncle, until he passed away. Then he stayed with my dad. After my dad passed, he stayed with me a year or two until he found that he could have a place of his own for a minimal cost in the dorms of the Presbyterian Seminary just up the road.
He came alone for many years, then he met his wife Patty and introduced her to all things Derby. She came with him most of the time, but if she had to work, he would come by himself. We would always get together, sometimes for lunch, usually dinner, and he would regale us with his stories from the track, this year or years past, and he always had a story.
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| Jim with my sister, Colleen, and me, May 5, 2017 |
He never met a stranger. Jim could talk to the hitching post and have a great conversation. He was interested in people, and when people know you are interested in them, they talk. It must have been the reporter in him, but he could get anyone to open up, and usually find a connection between himself and whoever he was with. He was amazing like that.
I always called him each year to see who he was betting on. He gave me excellent tips, but I am a shy bettor, so I never won much. Jim was the first person I called when my best friend and her husband won big on the Derby after Maximum Security was disqualified. He was the first person I called when I learned Bob Baffert had been banned from Churchill Downs. I'd like to call him today and get his thoughts on the deaths of the horses this week and the suspension of Saffie Joseph. I'm sure he'd have some things to say. Even though he lived in Kansas City, and I am in Louisville, he always had the scoop.
Jim passed away suddenly in February. He was on a long vacation in Florida with Patty and their friends, and he and the guys were about to hit the links for a round of golf. We got the news one day that he was in the ICU and the next day, he was gone. I still can't believe it.
I'll be thinking of him tomorrow when we sing, "My Old Kentucky Home." I'll picture him in the grandstand, hat on his head, racing form in hand, shouting, "Go, baby, go!" as the horses round the last turn and head down the homestretch. This year, I know he will win big.
I love you, Jim
