The Walls May Crumble, but Memories Are Here to Stay

The assignment this week for all writers of a certain age is to wax nostalgic about the building located at 5201 Park Heights Avenue in Baltimore, soon to be mercifully demolished. Memories have gushed forth in a bittersweet flood of happy days and horror stories involving the Pimlico Race Course grandstand and adjacent clubhouse. Human nature tends to forgive, but not forget, which is why the worst experiences related to the physical plant tend to be mitigated by the spectacle of a memorable second jewel of the Triple Crown. Yes, the blackout of 1998 was a trip, and reporting on the day is recalled as a sweat-stained adventure through darkened stairwells, a sweltering mainline, and a view of the scorched rooftop where a kitchen fire blew a generator and everything went dark. But then Real Quiet and Victory Gallop put on a grand show in the feature race, and all was forgiven. Walking alongside the winner, heading around the clubhouse turn to the test barn, a breeze came up to lend a bit of relief from the oppressive heat, along with the promise that such a day could never happen at Belmont Park. I locked my keys in my rental car at a Preakness—it might have been the one won by Louis Quatorze in '96—but for that brain cramp I cannot blame the grandstand, and I got phone help at a friendly neighborhood bodega. There are fond memories of the Preakness eve of 1994 when I was joined near the grandstand gift shop by the man himself for a signing of my "Whittingham" biography. Looking up, I noticed a mature woman in a quietly stylish dress and carrying a handbag waiting patiently in line for Charlie Whittingham's autograph. It was Jane du Pont Lunger, owner of Go for Wand. Charlie rose, went 'round the table, and greeted her like a long-lost cousin. I suppose a lot of these recollections could have taken place in any old building—even one with rotting floorboards in the cheap seats and exposed wiring—but they happened at Pimlico, and so they will remain long after the place is torn down. At the Preakness of 1999, for instance, while wandering the plant, I found a crowd gathered around Miss Preakness (apologies for not having her name at hand) and chatting about Charismatic's chances. "I do hope he wins," Miss Preakness said. "I've been hoping for a Triple Crown winner all my life." She was 18. The Pimlico grandstand dates to 1954, which makes it older than every major league ballpark except for Fenway and Wrigley Field. The clubhouse was added in 1960, right around the time they were building Dodger Stadium in Chavez Ravine, near downtown Los Angeles. It is presumed that those venerated baseball stadiums have undergone substantive renovations without the loss of their emotional appeal. With Pimlico, not so much. Recent ownerships—primarily the ever-evolving Magna Entertainment-Stronach Group-1/ST Racing—have operated under the philosophy that, heck, the place only has to handle one crowd a year, so why bother? At some point earlier this century, and heaven knows why, nearly every inch of the building facades was painted a shade of red seen only on stop signs or emergency room floors. Cinematic references leapt to mind, most alarmingly from "Marnie," the Hitchcock thriller in which the red silks of a jockey triggered a panic attack in the heroine for reasons later discovered. I have been told the new building will not be red. In fact, plans for a new structure are inspired by the venerated Members Clubhouse that burned in 1966. Further, the proprietors of the reconfigured Maryland Jockey Club have assured worried history buffs that preservation of important Pimlico artifacts is a priority. Everyone has their own wish list. Here's mine: The massive bas-relief stone sculpture painted in gold leaf and mounted on the grandstand exterior wall must be carefully removed and ultimately displayed. Created by Bernard Zuckerman, the four-ton piece depicts the Currier and Ives lithograph of an image from Pimlico's Great Race of 1877 that pitted Ten Broeck, Tom Ochiltree, and Parole. It wouldn't hurt to keep a couple of those tall wooden columns standing sentry in the claustrophobic saddling paddock. They exude a classy, solid feel to the prerace proceedings, even after being painted red (see above). Please salvage a piece of the railing from the jockeys' room porch, where Chick Lang, aka Mr. Preakness, broadcast his race day radio show and always welcomed this West Coast pilgrim to enjoy the intimate view of the stretch and finish alongside riders who didn't make the race. Preserve that place in the back of the jockeys' room where, in prehistoric times, Julie Krone had to create a makeshift changing room behind a curtain in order to efficiently ride consecutive races, which was, in those days, unheard of for a female jock. She was provided with a hook for silks, an apple crate desktop for her Racing Form, and a couple of buckets of ice. I also have been reliably informed that the downstairs quarters for women riders (converted from a photographer's room) once was decorated with a clipping from a 1968 issue of Life magazine quoting Bill Hartack, winner of six national championships, as saying: "The tracks won't have to worry about being flooded with women because a female cannot compete against a male doing anything. They might weigh the same as male jockeys, but they aren't as strong. And as a group, I don't think their brains are as capable of making fast decisions. Women are also more likely to panic. It's their nature." If the clip is still there, I'll take it. Turf writers tend to take things personally, which is why there must be some effort to retain at least a piece of the press box elevator to memorialize its chronic struggles with reliability. Perhaps a replica can be created, as an interactive museum piece for visitors to the new Pimlico, affording them the chance to step inside and feel the same desperate vibes of famous turf writers trapped there on deadline between floors on Preakness days past. So requiescat in pace, dear old Pimlico grandstand—which I believe translates from the Latin as "rest in pieces"—and make way for a glorious new beginning.