The Preakness
May-1988
"Hello?" I said, wondering who could be calling at such an hour.
"Morning, Matt, are you ready for the party of your life?"
"Roy?" I mumbled, wiping sleep from my eyes.
"Yes, it's Roy! Are you ready to knock back a few beers?"
"It's Saturday, Roy, and still dark out. Can I have breakfast first?"
"We can eat on the way to Baltimore."
"What's in Baltimore?"
"The Preakness, don't you remember? Pimlico? We're going there to party like we have never partied before. I told you about it months ago."
"I thought the Preakness was a horse race?"
"It is," Roy said, "but it's also a tremendous party. You'll see, get your ass out of bed, and come to my house. I'll drive. Oh, and bring a change of clothes; we'll be staying the night."
"Okay."
I took a quick shower, packed an overnight bag, and drove to Roy's house in Alexandria. When I arrived, Roy was whistling a cheerful tune while loading his car with an ice chest full of beer, a bag of munchies, and two lawn chairs.
"Well, you're in a good mood!"
"Hell yeah! Hop in, Matt. We're running late. We'll grab breakfast sandwiches on the way."
"Can we get coffee too?"
"Okay, now you're pissing me off!" Roy said, grinning.
Roy drove north on I-95 out of the Washington area to his friend Josh's house in Baltimore. We transferred our gear to Josh's car and drove to Pimlico on 695 at nearly 100 miles per hour.
"Josh likes to drive fast," Roy said.
"No kidding, where's the fire?"
We arrived at Pimlico in one piece, unloaded our gear from Josh's car, and hiked to a grassy area near the race track. Others were doing the same. We found a spot large enough to spread out a tarp for our ice chest and chairs, claiming party territory for the three of us and two others, who would later be joining us. Before noon, hundreds of small groups had begun setting up camp around us until the individual parties morphed into one colossal soiree.
The two missing members of our group arrived: John and his wife, Sara. Sara taught English at a Baltimore high school, and John was a photojournalist for a well-known equestrian magazine that sent him to Baltimore to film and document the 1988 Preakness.
Roy handled the introductions, while I grabbed a round of beers for everyone. John's primary focus was on the horse race, but he was intrigued by the scale of the parking-lot party. While longtime friends Sara, Josh, and Roy were catching up on times past, I took an interest in John's equipment—the tools of his trade — and began bombarding him with questions about his cameras, lenses, tripods, and numerous accessories, all stored in two large black leather bags.
"Matt," John said, "I can't cover the horse race and the party. I have an extra camera. Why don't you carry it around the grounds and shoot pictures?"
"Pictures of what?"
"Anything and anybody. You'll be surprised at how many people want their picture taken, especially when they find out you work for a magazine."
"John, you picked the ideal man for the job," Roy said, hoisting his beer.
"I don't know about that," I said modestly.
"Are you kidding?" Roy said, as if I had lost my mind.
"Roy is right, Matt. You'll do great. 90% of what you need is the gift of gab. You already have that. I'll teach you the other 10%."
"Okay," I said, "I'll do my best."
"Just relax and be yourself, Matt. I'm excited to see your work. In the photography world, everyone's eye is unique."
John gave me a crash course in camera operation. Then handed me four rolls of film and guided me through installing the first one to give me hands-on experience. Next, he gave me a white windbreaker with a magazine logo sewn on the front and back, and a matching cap. I put on the jacket and hat, slung the camera strap over my shoulder, and stashed the extra film in one of the pockets.
"How do I look?" I asked.
"Like a crackerjack photographer," Roy said.
"I guess that means I'm ready?"
"You are," John said.
"Have fun, Matt!" Roy said. "Just don't forget your friends back here at camp!"
It was a sunny, warm Saturday afternoon in Baltimore, Maryland, and excitement was in the air. People traveled from all over the world to witness the 113th Preakness Stakes, and the festivities were ubiquitous. I felt like the luckiest man in the world. I would never have had the opportunity to shoot the party as a carpenter; however, John liked my enthusiasm and interest in his trade, and he needed help, so he took a chance and dubbed me his magazine's newest photojournalist. And in the eyes of the inebriated crowd at Pimlico, I wouldn't be mistaken for anything less. Payment for my services, however, would manifest in the form of free beer from hundreds of people who dreamed of an opportunity to appear on the cover of our revered magazine.
As a magazine photographer, I received a warm reception upon entering the heart of the festivities. The party was in full swing, and it was still three hours before the race. I took pictures of everything: the sky, the crowd, families, friends, groups of men, groups of women, office workers, horses, groundskeepers, food vendors, grandma and grandpa, a dragonfly, punk rockers, beer buddies, painted faces, costumes, and lots of beautiful cowgirls who were willing to show more skin than their jealous boyfriends cared for, but I always managed to dissolve tensions before a malevolent squint evolved into a full-blown altercation, like: Hey buddy, why don't you get into the picture with your sweetheart?
Throughout the day, I trudged through the crowd, trying to walk on the grass between blankets whenever possible, to reach the far side of the grounds. While loading my last roll of film, a young man approached me.
"You have the best job in the world."
"Thanks, dude," I replied.
"How did you become a magazine photographer?" he asked.
"You wouldn't believe it if I told you."
"Maybe I would. Try me?"
"I am really a carpenter."
"Yeah, right," the young fellow said.
"Yes, I am a carpenter by trade. Yesterday, I was framing a house in Northern Virginia, and today I am in Baltimore shooting a horse race for an equine magazine. You never know what opportunities life will present if you get yourself out there," I said, thinking about how close I was to telling Roy, that very morning, to go to the Preakness without me.
"Well," he said, "whoever you are, you seem to know your stuff. It was good talking to you, sir, but I have to go. The race is about to start."
"Oh yeah, the race! What time is it?" I asked.
"Almost 5 o'clock!"
"Oh no, I've got to go, too," I said. "Good luck, buddy."
In a panic, I began meandering back through the partiers toward the opposite side of the grassy lot. There were no paths to follow; I could only dead-reckon my way through the celebrants to what I perceived to be the direction to our camp, where Roy and company were likely worried about my whereabouts. It was easy to get twisted around. At one point, I thought I was going the wrong direction, then doubled back into the mob. Nothing looked familiar. I had been having such a good time mingling and shooting pictures that I neglected to take bearings and found myself suddenly lost in an immense corral of drunken humanoids.
'And they're off!' the announcer bellowed as the horse race began. Everyone stopped in their tracks to hear the blow-by-blow race in progress, and in one minute and fifty-six seconds, it was over, when the announcer hollered, 'Risen Star wins the Preakness by a length!'
The festivities ended as abruptly as the horse race. People hastened to pack up their gear and head to the parking lot, looking to beat the heavy traffic out of Pimlico. I decided to flow with the crowd, trusting the mob would somehow waft me back to discernible territory. On the way, I took the remaining pictures on my last roll of film and continued to drift easterly with the surge. Before long, I began to recognize the area around me. Then, suddenly, a familiar voice.
"Hey, Matt!"
I turned around.
"Over here, Matt!" Roy hollered.
There they were, I thought, relieved: Roy, Josh, Lisa, and John; they were all packed up, waiting for me.
"I was beginning to wonder if I would see you all again," I said. "I was trapped in a sea of party animals."
"Well, however you did it, we're glad you found your way back," John said. "Did you shoot all four rolls?"
"Yes, I hope I didn't waste your film," I said.
"I'm sure your photos will be fantastic, Matt. Thanks for your help."
"The pleasure was all mine, John. Posing as a magazine photographer at the Preakness was a life experience I will never forget."