Tony Giro, The Examiner
2008-05-19 07:00:00.0
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BALTIMORE -

When is a horse race not really a horse race? When it’s held in the land of pleasant living and most of the 122,000 people in attendance care more about beer-bonging a Bud Light than Big Brown trying to become the first Triple Crown winner since 1978.

Other than horses and $12 cocktails, the first and second jewels in horse racing’s Triple Crown have very little in common. That’s OK — it’s just the way we Baltimoreans want it.

At Churchill Downs, a pristine, twin-spired grandstand, mint juleps and women in hats large enough to cause an eclipse are brands used to make the Kentucky Derby the Masters of horse racing.

Here on the Middle Branch of the Patapsco River, our one-day Mardi Gras complete with horses is more tattoo than brand.

Our grandstand resembles a pig in lipstick and has more spectators wearing mesh Van Halen lids than Liz Harbosin designed hats.

They don't call it “Freakness” for nothing.

It doesn't hurt our feelings that Churchill Downs is considered the National Cathedral of the “Sport of Kings” and Pimlico is more akin to a Las Vegas wedding chapel with flood damage.

We are fine with the Preakness being a colon cleansing to the Derby’s tummy tuck and liposuction.

We relish the Met Life blimp flying over the venerable old track in north Baltimore, showing the world there ain’t no party like a Park Heights party, cause a Park Heights party don't stop — or at least doesn't start winding down until all the patrons have passed out and no air is left in the kiddie pools strewn across the infield.

And while the first Saturday in May annually draws such “A-list” all stars as Chelsea Clinton, Michael Jordan and Hugh Hefner along with three of his finest fillies, the celebrities come out in full force to Ol' Hilltop as well. Let's see, I saw Marty Bass, and who else? Oh, Marty Bass.

Baltimore doesn't need Entertainment Tonight to patrol the suites and infield tents emblazoned with corporate logos to know we had a good time.

Even before you reach the anything-goes infield, there is a scene replete with men in seersucker suits and women in thousand dollar boots canoodling — a scene deliciously Baltimore.

Add the palm readers and painters; big bands and waiters; filet mignon and paid daters and you've got the mature version of the 20-something infield party going on a horse shoe pit away — just with a few more wrinkles and Rolexes.

(On a side note: There was a definite Anna Nicole Smith/rob-the-cradle situation going on in corporate land. Not that I'm one to blow the whistle on another man's decisions, but some of the gentleman escorted ladies who didn't look old enough to go on the rides at Six Flags. I'm not saying all of these gorgeous ladies were in it for the money, but I haven't seen that many people digging for gold since I taught kindergarten at School No. 34 in Pigtown.)

And do you know why none of us care what other people think? Because every year, no matter the outcome of the Derby, the whole damn Triple Crown balances on Baltimore's shoulders.

People tune in to the Derby because it’s a glorious spectacle. People tune into the Preakness to see if the Derby winner can get a nose closer to winning the Triple Crown.

And if the same horse doesn't win — no offense to the Belmont Stakes — we pack horse racing up for the summer and start planning for the next third Sunday in May.

Be proud, Baltimore. We throw one hell of a party for the rest of the world to see. Here’s hoping this part of our city’s proverbial soul never sneaks out of the stable for greener pastures like the Colts once did.

Tony Giro is a lifelong Baltimore sports fan who blogs on examiner.com for fans. If you subscribe — it’s free — you’ll be e-mailed each time Tony posts a column. He can be reached at timeout@baltimoreexaminer.com.